Canadians speak a different language

5:11pm Friday 8th June 2007

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THE Canadians stared at me in bewilderment as I rolled about laughing over a kebab van.

I tried to explain the joke to them, but although they technically speak the same English language as us, I need an interpreter whenever I am in North America.

I've been to Toronto almost 20 times now but I still look and sound an alien there.

We returned on Saturday after another two-week holiday visiting family in the city and the jet lag has yet to wear off. High Wycombe was recently described by a national newspaper as the town where "only the rats are happy", but somehow it feels quite comforting here.

Don't get me wrong: Canada is a great country. It's friendly, civilised and fun. But, well, it isn't England.

For a start, it's too nice. The people there don't growl and scowl at you like they do in the UK. They all ask "how are you" and engage you in polite small talk.

That's really difficult for a miserable blaggard such as me. I enjoy frowning and it sets me on edge when people are too friendly. Being in Canada is akin to being on the set of the Stepford Wives.

I always feel there's something sinister around the corner and I'm always proved right when I go shopping or eat out in a restaurant. The prices appear so reasonable, but when you go to pay, they suddenly zap you with a VAT-type tax that isn't included in the original price.

You need a calculator before you can buy anything over there.

But there's worse. Go into a supermarket, I dare you, and search for beer. You won't find it. I have yet to discover why, but they don't sell alcohol in normal shops. You have to trek to special liquor stores which are few and far between. There wasn't one for miles from where we were staying and it took a special bus expedition just to pick up a bottle of wine.

Contrast that to Wycombe last Saturday evening when I returned home and realised the house was dry. All I needed to do was pop out to the nearest corner shop two minutes away and, hey presto, there were shelves heaving with enough booze to service the whole of the Americas.

I sought solace in Toronto by searching out normal English food. Yes, I scoured the city for a curryhouse.

Eventually, I found one, but even that was different.

It's hard to describe, but the Indian food was strangely Canadian. I half expected to find maple syrup in the dall dish. It was all okay, I suppose, but it just didn't have the fuel-injected kick that you find here.

More disconcertingly, all the public transport runs on time and there's plenty of it. There's no excuse for anyone to enjoy a good old moan about the buses in Canada.

But finally, onto the kebabs. In a moment of homesickness, I went online and logged into the Bucks Free Press website. The top story told how journalists sent a kebab van to the annual county council meeting as a stunt. The van stood outside the meeting venue offering cheap doners while councillors enjoyed a special lunch inside, costing more than £1,000, at taxpayers' expense.

It was a classic piece of daft British journalism that sends up the establishment and gives us all a good giggle.

I held my sides as I rocked about laughing. But when I tried explaining the irony to my Canadian friends, I was met with perplexed looks.

They know what kebabs are - they are normally on skewers and are served in restaurants. But no one I spoke to had any experience of a van parked late night in a British High Street. They just couldn't understand the cultural significance of queuing for a doner at midnight after you've just sunk eight pints and gobbled six packs of jalapeno crisps.

Their culture is plainly in the dark ages and they have a lot to learn.

As I settled into my armchair in Wycombe this week, and as I watched housemates screeching over hair curlers in Big Brother, I counted my blessings and reflected on how lucky I was to be back in the land of Shakespeare, Dickens and Gordon Ramsay.