I admit it, I fucking hate the F1 weekend in Montreal. With a passion. With every bone in my body, those that are screwed or wired together and those that are still intact.Every year, it’s the same: the downtown core is filled with overweight, middle-aged, middle-class white men, their pudendous bellies rolling over their leatherette belts and stretching against their WalMart/Kmart polyester-blend t-shirts, proudly strutting around with knockoff Ferrari or Benetton baseball caps shoved firmly upon their male-pattern-balding heads. Of course, those who have spent the next month’s beer money on VIP seats will also have their passes slung proudly around their necks.They hang around Crescent street (evil, but good enough for the tourons), they hang around the subway, they hang around the Old Port, all engaged in one activity: ogling, stalking, and trying to pick up anything that walks and has a pair of breasts. Because, hey, we all know that Montreal girls are easy, right? The younger the better. My ex-“sister-in-law,” 15 at the time, was cruised more than Cathy Lee Gifford on a Royal Princess liner a few years ago.This lasts a whole fucking week, culminating in a ridiculous spectacle of waste on a Sunday, where all us good Québécois bemoan the fact that our favourite son of the moment, that little piss-ant whiner Villeneuve, crashed his billion-dollar car on the third turn, only to jump into his private helicopter and get his bony ass outta Cheyenne.Afterward, if you have the misfortune of being on the Décarie, you will undoubtedly be practically forced off the road by some testosterone-filled troglodyte in his souped-up Honda Civic racing his yo-yo-bro in his souped-up Civic-with-tinted-windows, both emulating their heroes from the Formula One.Nothing but bread and circuses.Well, that’s my rant.