My Lagom Life

Getting Started

2006-05-04T15:38:00.000+02:00

This blog serves two main purposes, Firstly it's place I come to rant, rave and moan about living in Sweden - a sort of a mental sauna where I can let off steam.

Secondly, it's to remind myself that Sweden actually has a lot of wonderful qualities, infectiously friendly people, great food (if you like herrings) and stunning natural scenery. OK, so it snows for five months of the year and gets so cold your skin actually freezes, but then you can't have everything can you?

So if you're a Swede (or like me married to one), then please don't take anything I write too seriously.

If you do take offence remember that I live in Norrland, so the chances of finding me are extremely remote.

I always love to get your feedback, so remember to send in your comments!

A law unto Myself

2006-04-28T14:46:00.000+02:00

Excerpt taken from The Local - a Swedish 'English Language' newspaper.

Sweden's largest Muslim organisation has demanded that Sweden introduce separate laws for Muslims, according to Swedish television.

Sweden's equality minister Jens Orback called the proposals "completely unacceptable".

The Swedish Muslim Association, which represents around 70,000 Muslims in Sweden, has sent a letter to all Sweden's main political parties suggesting a number of reforms, SVT's Rapport programme reported.

The proposals include allowing imams into state (public) schools to give Muslim children separate lessons in Islam and their parents' native languages. The letter also said that boys and girls should have separate swimming lessons and that divorces between Muslims should be approved by an imam.

The letter provoked an instant, and damning, response from integration and equality minister Jens Orback."We will not have separate laws in Sweden. In Sweden, we are all equal before the law. In Sweden, we have fought for a long time to achieve gender-neutral laws, and to propose that certain groups should not be treated like others is completely unacceptable."

Orback said he had spoken to representatives of the Swedish Muslim Council, and they did not support the association's position."We have freedom of speech, we have the right to opinions and we have the right to make proposals - but if a law is going to be changed, it must be the same for everyone."

Asked whether the proposal plays into the hands of racists, Orback said that it did.

Actually I think Mr Orback is being a bit difficult, don't you?

For several years I too have been giving serious thought to writing a letter to the Swedish government calling for a few new laws to be passed to make my expat life here in Sweden a little bit more like home.

In it I’ve outlined my plans for a new law that makes it possible for all English people to drink in pubs any day of the week for just £2.50 a pint (I've obviously suggested the abolition of the Swedish Kronor and the introduction of British currency to achieve this), as well as another law that ensures SKY Sports is installed free of charge in the homes of all Englishmen (and spouses) so we can watch Premiership football at the weekends.

In addition I've called for the traffic to be switched back to the left-hand side of the road and for all the Swedish pizza restaurants to be immediately replaced with Indian ones.

I’ve also demanded the following:

All School children up to the age of 16 must wear school uniform and call their teachers Sir or Miss.
St George’s Day (the national day of England) should be made a public Bank holiday in Sweden.
Father Christmas should be forced to hand out presents on Christmas Day and not Christmas Eve, as is currently the tradition in Sweden.
Any attempt to put fermenting herrings into a tin should result in immediate arrest and long-term imprisonment.
Moms (VAT) should be lowered in line with the UK from 25% to 17.5% - but just for the English.

I’m very hopeful for a positive response from those nice people in the Swedish Government. After all, it only seems reasonable now that I live here, don’t you think?

Dreaming of Spring

2006-04-06T09:10:00.000+02:00

I think I knew something was different before I even opened my eyes this morning.

Pulling myself wearily out of bed I shuffled over to the window, pulled the blinds and gazed outside. Warm rays of early morning sunlight forced me to screw up my eyes and warmed my face – in that instant I knew Spring had finally arrived.

I love April. As unpredictable as a pregnant wife, it signals the end of the winter and the start of longer, warmer days ahead.

April is nature’s way of wiping the slate clean, giving you the chance to forget all about the cold and the snow and start again. For me it’s the first real month of the year – a time for optimism, a time to make plans and dream dreams.

Like a bear from a cave, you can finally emerge from your house after the long, dark winter months and reclaim the great outdoors. There’s nothing like a crisp spring morning to rejuvenate the soul, taking long walks through the fields, frozen dew softly crackling under your feet as day by day the watery April sun rises ever higher over the horizon.

Or being caught out in an April shower, getting soaked to the bone while dodging for shelter in shop doorways. But you don't get angry - rather just invigorated.

I love April for the daisies – the true April flower – which stubbornly push their way through the green grass and spatter the lawns and fields with Easter colour as birds sit in the thickening hedgerows singing courtship songs to each other.

In just a few days we’ll be able to hear the first call of the cuckoo, followed by Swallow day on April 15th, when the chimney swallows make their spectacular return from their winter retreat.

In April everything just seems a little easier – a little more alive. People have a spring in their step and smiles on their faces. You can’t help feeling somehow reborn, as if swept up in nature’s enthusiasm to show what it can really do.

As I looked out of the window this morning I knew something was different. The light in my eyes was stronger now – almost blinding.

“Wake up Daddy”, said Tom, as he pointed the torch right into my face.

Pulling myself wearily out of bed I shuffled over to the window, pulled the blinds and gazed outside.

“Bollocks” I thought to myself. “I forgot. I live in Norrland”.

Explosive Fish Grounded

2006-04-05T11:19:00.001+02:00

I read with delight on the BBC news website that several major airlines have now banned surströmming from being allowed on board and classified it alongside dangerous weapons like shoe bombs and firearms.

Couldn't agree more. Fish left to rot in a can for over six months is without a doubt a potentially explosive substance - particularly after it's been eaten.

By banning it British Airways and Air France (who for once are in complete agreement on something) are doing a great service to the rest of Europe by stopping the export of this disgusting delicacy.

Of course the chairman of the Swedish Rotten Herring Society doesn't quite see it that way.

According to the Beeb, he thinks the airlines should ban explosive bottles of champagne and smelly French cheese ahead of his beloved Baltic herrings.

In response I think the airlines should ban him from ever getting onboard one of their planes again. Gathering by the amount of surstömming he eats throughout the year he's probably both smelly and explosive enough to be considered a real danger to fellow flyers.

Not quite there

2006-03-24T18:50:00.000+01:00

When you live abroad, or anywhere that isn't home, there are sometime days when you just feel out of place - as though you're here, but not quite there.

Today is one of those days for me.

So this evening I've written some song lyrics about it. Here are the first four verses, but I'm still working on a chorus.

Not quite there

Here I am to stay, yet many miles away
Are people that care
Same trees, same stars, same sky
Yet still I don’t know why
even though I’m here
I’m not quite there

There’s people all around, mouths move but there’s no sound
I don’t understand
Why everything tastes so wrong,
and that I don’t belong
even though I’m here,
I’m not quite there

I try and get things right, brave face, put up a fight
But it feels so unfair
It’s a little part of me,
I don’t let others see,
Even though I’m here,
I’m not quite there

When I’m all alone, my thoughts drift off back home
It’s as though I was there
But this is my life now,
I’ll make it work somehow
Even though I’m here,
It doesn’t really matter where,

I’m not quite there……..

(ps: next post will be funnier)

As Rolf Harris Would Say........

2006-03-21T12:48:00.000+01:00

Can you guess what it is yet............?

It’s Official – France Makes You Fat

2006-03-16T18:48:00.000+01:00

Mon Dieu. I’ve become fat.

Of course I blame the French. Not content with banning our beef, ‘re-locating’ all their illegal immigrants across the channel tunnel and bleeding the EU dry so they can pay their farmers to sit on their fat subsidised arses they’ve somehow made it impossible for me to button up my jeans.

By way of explanation I should mention that I’ve just returned from a week’s holiday visiting family in the tiny village of Fonroque some 20 kilometres south of Bergerac. Stepping on the bathroom scales this morning I saw to my absolute horror the needle nudging the 80 KG mark for the very first time in my life.

That’s twelve and a half stone in real money.

I put it down to the rain. We had the misfortune to arrive at the start of the wettest March in the Bergerac region in living memory.

To escape the miserable weather we retreated into bars and restaurants, where we spent hours gorging ourselves on French food, from foie gras, delicately smoked ham, roasted quails, oysters from the Bay of Arcachon to rough country pates and saucisson-sec.

And then, sacre bleu, there was the cheese.

If there’s animal walking on God’s earth that produces milk, the French can turn it into cheese. And we ate it. All of it. Every last delicious bit of it.

Of course, the French custom of eating a white baguette with every single meal didn’t exactly help my rapidly expanding waistline either.

And have I mentioned the wine? Each day we started off around 12 noon with a chilled bottle or three of sweet Bergerac Rose (to refine our palate after the five glasses of Grimbergen Belgium beer we’d been drinking since 10.30am). We then progressed to uncomplicated reds (often the very drinkable local ‘table’ wine that you can buy by the litre if you bring your own empty plastic bottle for just 1.90 Euro) before popping the cork of a red with a bolder tannic structure to ensure we felt suitable shitty the next morning.

Six days of total culinary abuse that would make a Roman emperor proud have resulted in happy memories and two additional kilos of fat.

So now I’ve embarked on a one-month detox regime, surviving on a strict diet of water and low GI foods, avoiding pasta, rice, bread, butter and practically everything else I like. I’ve also been to the gym every day this week. Next week I’m even planning on going inside it.

Before you know it I’ll look like a condom full of walnuts. Until then, my mind keeps drifting back to those long, smoky evenings leaning against the bar of Le Pub, drinking wine and playing darts with rich French farmers………

Seriously Sporty Swedes

2006-02-22T20:26:00.000+01:00

Swedish Prime Minister Göran Persson summed it up rather nicely.

“Sweden may not be a big country, but we are a big sporting nation”.

For a country with just nine million inhabitants, Gorän’s right on the money. Sweden consistently produces elite sportsmen and women in seemingly every sport ever invented (except cricket – although if someone managed to explain the rules to them I’m sure they’d be world champions at that too).

If you wonder why such a small country can churn out such big sporting stars then you really need look no further than Stockholm’s Arlanda airport.

Yesterday I was travelling back up to Umeå when I walked through the airport’s Sky City area to find it has been has been transformed into a Winter Olympic ‘village’ complete with huge screen TV, ski simulation machines, a digital rock climbing wall and dozens of other sports-related activities for people of all ages.

There’s even a fully-stocked bar for would-be athletes like myself in need of some rigorous après ski training.

The place was overflowing with Swedes glued to the screen, cheering on their alpine sporting heroes and clapping each other on the back. It’s all hugely impressive and clearly underlines why this country is such a competitive colossal – Swedes take sport seriously.

Tonight, when the Swedish men’s ice hockey team played the Olympic quarter finals they delayed the daily children’s programmes until the match had finished. Over on the other channel they stayed on air to watch Anja Pärson slalom her way to a much deserved Olympic gold – not hesitating to push the nightly news back half an hour.

Planes have crashed into skyscrapers, tidal waves have swept through Asia, cartoons have been published in Denmark and never once has the news been moved from its sacred 6pm slot. Until a big-hearted chunk of a girl from Tärnaby took gold in Turin that is.

It just goes to show what sport really means to Swedes. They’re good at it because they take it seriously. In my book they deserve every medal, every award and every title they get.

If you’re reading this Tony Blair, you might want to put some of your Olympic Committee chums on the next flight out to Stockholm. They may learn just learn a thing or two.

Sick of English

2006-02-19T22:58:00.000+01:00

Varecilla-Zoster. Have you ever heard of it?

Well in plain English it’s called Chickenpox, and my son Tom’s got it. He looks like a bottle of tomato ketchup has just exploded all over him and his little sister keeps running after him with a pen trying to join up all the dots.

While reading up on this virus I discovered the following bit of cheerful news on netdoctoruk – “if exposed to an infected family member, about 80% to 90% of those in a household who haven't had chickenpox will get it”.

Therefore the odds my daughter Elli will avoid catching this highly contagious form of the herpes virus are about as slim as the Algerian downhill skier Christelle Laura Douibi’s chances of a podium finish at this year’s Winter Olympics.

Incidently, have you ever wondered why Chickenpox got its name? Thankfully it has nothing to do with the H5N1 bird flu virus, but it also has nothing to do with chickens either. It is believed the name derived from the rather odd observation that the red spots look like chickpeas on the skin.

This is not something that immediately springs to my mind when I look at my son.

In fact they look far more like small water-filled boils. Which is why the Swedish term for Chicken Pox – Vattkoppor (watery boils) - is considerably more descriptively accurate.

Indeed Swedes don’t muck about when it comes to describing medical conditions. They tell it like it is, rather than us English, who prefer to give things rather more complicated and convoluted titles.

Take urinvägsinfektion (urinal ‘way’ infection) for example. We call that Cystitus, which is more reminiscent of a Roman Emperor than an excruciatingly painful bladder complaint.

What about the remarkably straight forward Swedish lunginflammation (lung inflammation), known in English as the impossible-to-spell pneumonia.

Can anyone guess what hjärnblödning (brain bleeding) describes? Why yes, it’s a stroke – an English word that makes this sometimes fatal medical condition sound almost rather pleasant.

It all goes to prove you feel much better if you’re sick in Swedish. At least you know what’s wrong with you.

20 Minutes Ago

2006-02-13T08:53:00.000+01:00

Sometimes it does me good just to shut up and take a look around.

This was the view outside my house taken 20 minutes ago. It's minus 8 degrees, the sun is just breaking over the treetops and during the night there's been the most spectacular 'rimfrost' (less poetically known in English as a hoare frost).

Umeå - it will probably never host the Winter Olympics, but it can be breathtakingly beautiful sometimes.

What the Puck? Part 2

2006-02-07T09:51:00.000+01:00

Monday, January 6th

7.45pm: Looking out of the window it’s minus 6 degrees, snowing heavily, with a 24km/h wind lashing the tree tops. There’s fifteen minutes until I’m supposed to play my weekly outdoor game of hockey with enormous Swedish men. Surely they won’t play in this sort of weather?

7.50pm: The children are refusing to go to bed, so I grab my skates and walk up to the ice-rink to avoid having to read Harry Potter. I’m confident there’ll be no play tonight.

7.55pm: Arrive at the ice-rink to find seven guys frantically skating from side to side with snow shovels to clear the rink. In England we’d have called the National Guard out in weather conditions like this. The absolute last thing we’d have contemplated is playing ice-hockey in it.

8pm: Bollocks. Nothing to do but lace up and get out there. Game starts well when I attempt to tackle Johan (a local hairdresser confidently dressed in a Björklöven jersey and a pair of expensive looking sports glasses) but somehow miss and perform a triple salko (in the pike position) before crashing down on the ice. Not good hockey, but rather spectacular in its own way, even if I do say so myself.

9pm: Been playing an hour now and my eyebrows are frozen. I’ve got a strange taste in my mouth like I’m sucking a battery and I can no longer feel my toes. The snow’s so deep now that the puck travels under it, making following it somewhat difficult. We collectively decide to call it a night, although I secretly suspect the enormous Swedish men would have happily played on until the snow reached up over their knees.

9.15pm: Arrive back home. Discover that the heat from my profusely sweating head has melted the snow on my woollen hat and then been re-frozen several times. This means I’ve been playing ice-hockey for the last hour with what looks like a giant glass bowl on my head.

9.20pm: Sit down (very carefully) and defrost in front of the TV with a nice cup of tea and swear I’ll never play ice hockey again. Until next Monday that is.

What the Puck? Part 1

2006-01-31T11:06:00.000+01:00

I scored last night.

No, not that sort of goal-mouth action. After all, I’m married with two kids. And it was a Monday.

I mean to say that last night I played my first ever game of ice hockey, and, against considerable odds, managed to fire three pucks into the back of the net! Ok, so one of them was into my own net, but hey, it’s still a goal in my book.

When a group of dads from Dagis (nursery) recently suggested getting together for a regular Monday night ice hockey game, I thought why not. After all, there must be three or four outdoor ice rinks within a 500m radius of my house. Seemed a pity to waste them.

First order of the day was to buy some equipment, so I visited the city’s second-hand sports store and splashed out a couple of hundred kronor on some Jofa hockey skates, a rather fetching Jofa helmet (from 1974) and a Koho Profeel hockey club. Is it just me, or are all ice hockey equipment manufacturers named after characters in the Star Wars films?

After that, I did what I always do when I’m unsure about any subject – I Googled ice hockey. Now you may think learning to skate by internet is about as useful as a lonely one-legged man applying for a distance course in ballroom dancing - but you’d be wrong.

I discovered a wealth of really helpful information out there.

For example, if you want to skate backwards, you should “practise sculling with both feet to sculling with one at a time. This may lead more naturally to the Hockey wide-track "C-cut" backward stride, where you roll/slide the foot back instead of picking it up, but that's more for quick manoeuvring, not speed/distance skating”.

Uh-huh. Alrighty then.

And what about this well-intentioned piece of advice….

“Because of your momentum, falling down on ice isn’t always painful, as your forward motion will mean you often land at an angle and glide to a halt.”

After last night I can categorically state this is a load of bollocks. Falling down on ice is always painful. Ice is frozen water. Frozen solid that it. It’s the reason we don’t make beds out of ice, or that gymnasts don’t perform their floor routines on the stuff.

Next post: in Part 2 I take to the ice with six really large Swedish guys who hurl themselves at me with great speed on very thin, sharp bits of metal.

A Bloke's Guide to Surviving Children

2006-01-27T21:21:00.000+01:00

When those lovely people at Britishmums.com asked me (of all people) to start up a new blog aimed at British fathers bringing up children abroad, I initially thought they must be suffering from some form of collective post-natal stress disorder.

If you've ever had the energy to read through some of my archived articles you'll know that I don't hold with the conventional views of fatherhood as preached according to the gospel of Vi Föräldrar, but rather more agree with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, who once famously said:

"To be a successful father there's one absolute rule: when you have a kid, don't look at it for the first two years".

But the more I started thinking about it, the more the concept of a blog for Dads appealed to me.

Because you see men think very differently from women when it comes children.

We try not to show it of course, throwing ourselves obediently and enthusiastically into everything from naughty zones to baby massage classes.

However, it's only when blokes get together, far away from the ears and eyes of their wives and partners, that the real truth comes out and we all start reminiscing about the good old days when they used to put children up chimneys to earn a bit of money.

So I’ve created a blog for all you Dads (and would-be Dads) to come and shoot the breeze, exchange ideas and stories about fatherhood and most of all, have a bit of a laugh.

It's going to be a place where Dads can express themselves openly and honestly, and maybe find some comfort in discovering that they’re not the only man on the planet who, no matter how hard he tries, can never ever dress his child to the complete satisfaction of his wife or partner.

Dads can find it here. Mothers should stay away and look here!

A Day in the UK

2006-01-14T12:44:00.000+01:00

I'm back home in England and so thought I'd share with you what I plan to do today.

Saturday, January 14th, 2006

9am: Turn on the telly and watch all three Sky Sports channels while drinking unlimited amounts of tea. Follow this up with a full English breakfast consisting of two cumberland sausages, two rashers of bacons, two eggs and a slice of toast. Oh, and a glass of orange juice as this makes it all healthy.

10.30am: Go straight to Coop and buy any six pack of beer (get two free) that's over 3.5% abv. Because I can.

10.35am: Go to the Coach and Horse pub in Whitstable High Street. There I'll meet a guy called Jeff sitting at the bar and we'll have a conversation that goes exactly like this:

Jeff: (in a chirpy cheerful voice) Hullo Darren! Haven't seen you for ages!

Me: That's because I've lived in Sweden for the past five years Jeff.

Jeff: Well bugger me sideways. Still, the weather must be quite cold up there I should think.

Me: You're quite right Jeff. It's bloody cold, and will stay that way until May.

Jeff: Ruddy hell. Rather you than me old boy. Still, I suppose the fact that there must be lots of blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish girls with big tits running around asking you for sex all the time more than makes up for a bit of cold weather, what!

Me: Actually Jeff, that's something of a stereotypical myth. The reality is that not all Swedish women are blonde and big busted, and very few of them have ever asked me for sex. In fact, even if they were to ask me I'd turn them down immediately, as I'm very happily married to my beautiful wife who occassionally reads this blog.

Jeff: This What?

Me: Nothing Jeff. Would you like some pork scratchings?

3pm: Go back home and watch Match of the Day with an extremely cheap wine box.

7.30pm: Pop into the East Kent pub on Whitstable High Street for a quick pint.

11.30pm: Stagger out of the East Kent after several quick pints and head to the Donar Grill Kebab shop for a sweaty lamb handbag.

11.45pm: Drop into the 24 hour Tesco supermarket on the way home to buy another six-pack of beer over 3.5%. Because I can.

12.15am: Lie on sofa and wash down a couple of elephant-strength paracetemol with three pints of water.

12.17am: Turn on the telly and start watching re-runs of the A-team on the Bravo channel. Fall asleep with my head at an alarming angle.

6 Things you Never Knew About Sweden

2006-01-12T15:14:00.000+01:00

Every January the Swedish Statistiska centralbyrån (SCB) publishes a wonderful book crammed with facts and figures about the Sweden country and its people.

If you can endure ploughing through the 800 pages of charts, spreadheets and lists you'll discover some illuminating facts about this amazing country that you probably never knew.

Below are 6 Swedish stats for you to use to amaze your friends with, get that all important promotion at work or use to finally win a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Warning: I've made two of these facts up. Can you guess which ones? Answers in a couple of days.....

1. The average Swedish marriage lasts 10.4 years. This means I should be filing my divorce papers some time in November this year.

2. The average life expectancy for a Swedish man is 77.79 years, and 82,26 years for a women. This clearly illustrates my long-held belief that women always get the last bloody word in.

3. There are 17,472 registered plumbers in Sweden. Not one of them was able to help me fix my bathroom on time.

4. The hottest day in Sweden ever was recorded in Målilla in Småland, which roasted in 38 degrees, while Vuoggatjålme in Lappland shivered in -52 degrees. This also confirms my long-held belief that you should never live in a place you can't pronounce.

5. 1.8 million Swedes went fishing in 2004. This is a funny enough fact without me attempting to try and add to it.

6. The top 15 most popular family names in Sweden end with son. Like Johansson, Erikson, and so on.

Sex Inspectors

2006-01-11T09:12:00.000+01:00

Last night we saw the Swedish TV premiere of a new British sex education series called 'Sex Inspectors'.

It was, of course, hilarious.

Not only because I can't think of a more inappropriate nation than the British to be handing out advice on having sex, but because the whole programme was shot according to the ultra-conservative British rules regarding TV sex and men and women’s wobbly bits.

As a result, despite the pre-show hype that this was a groundbreaking peek at real-life lovers (as opposed to dead ones) who had bravely invited cameras into their bedrooms to film them bonking, what you actually saw was a blanket moving rapidly up and down and someone's head (I couldn't make out if it was his or hers) occasionally popping out for some air.

It was like watching sex in the Big Brother house, only it lacked the drunken parties and lengthy washing-up scenes.

The Sex Inspectors in question were Tracey Cox (boy did this job ever have her name written all over it) and Michael Alvear, who with his pedicured appearance, softly lisping voice and tight shirts looked like he would have been far more comfortable giving the bloke a hand.

To avoid any possibility that we sensitive viewers might actually see any, well, sex, the producers of this British sex education programme hit upon the cunning idea to film the copulating couple using a heat sensitive camera.

This has the unintentional effect of making them look like a military target in imminent danger of getting an air to ground missile launched right up their arses.

So after all the hype in the end we were treated to the sight of a throbbing red and orange blob which, if you stared at it long enough, you could just make out as two human beings. Or a dog chasing a rabbit down a hole, depending on how many glasses of wine you'd had with your evening meal.

All that being said, this is funny stuff and essential viewing. Can't wait till next week's episode........

New Year's Resolutions to Myself

2006-01-08T17:01:00.000+01:00

1. Be better at time management (you should have posted this last week)
2. Learn to appreciate something good in every day however small it may be, like the sparkle of evening sunlight on fresh snow, the sound of a child laughing or a packet of freshly opened cheese doodles.
3. Go to the gym (and I really mean it this year buddy. Buying a card that's valid for a year and going five times doesn't cut it).
4. Learn French. All of it.
5. Send the synopsis of your snappy behind-the-scenes look at living in Sweden book, My Lagom Life, to some actual real-life publishers in the vain hope that they might front you a few thousand kronor to finish it off so you can realise your childhood dream of getting a book into print.
6. Stop sending the synopsis of your snappy behind-the-scenes look at living in Sweden book, My Lagom Life, to your mother (who has already said she likes it) because you can't stand the thought of being rejected by every publisher in Sweden.
7. Be more tolerant towards your children. Try to understand that their constant protestations, temper tantrums and uncanny abilities to remain awake until after the News at 10 (UK time) should be seen as a perfectly natural part of their childhood development, and in no way a co-ordinated and deliberate attempt to give you a stomach ulcer.
8. Remember your wife's birthday this year. While you're at it you should also remember your childrens birthdays as well as your own.
9. Make this the year you finally memorize your childrens' Swedish personal numbers.
10. Never make lists.

Fed Up with Swedish Christmas Food

2006-01-03T14:46:00.001+01:00

If anyone offers me another slice of ham, meatballs, some ribs, or any variation of pickled herring then as God is my witness I'm going to fucking swing for them.

The fact is I'm both metaphorically and literally fed up with Swedish Christmas food.

It doesn't seem that long ago when I first smelt the Christmas Ham as it was taken lightly sizzingly out of the oven. I remember feeling almost faint with the excitement of taking my first mouth-watering bite.

Now when I see ham I just feel faint and my mouth waters for all the wrong reasons.

Don't get me wrong - on the whole I love Swedish food. It's a well documented fact that I've always admired the Swedes for the number of ways they can pickle a herring.

I have nothing but the most profound respect for any nation that can come up with so many ways to pickle a fish. Such dedication and determination to a seemingly worthless cause would have come in very handy during the war.

Pickled highlights this festive season were curried pickled herrings and pickled herrings swimming in a sea of cream and caviar sauce. These were of course in addition to the 5 'standard' pickled herring dishes pushed under my nose at every meal since December 23rd.

And that includes breakfasts.

But now enough is enough. Give me roasted goats bollocks smothered in larks vomit, shallow-fried frogs feet with a sweet chilli dressing, sauted platypus on a bed of basil and blowfly lavae.

I'll gladly eat anything but don't dare thrust another ounce of Swedish Christmas food near my face for at least the next 11 months.

Oh, and Happy New Year everyone!!

Dear Santa

2005-12-22T20:45:00.000+01:00

Perhaps you remember me?

I was the skinny five-year-old boy with Roy Orbison glasses that queued for two hours to sit on your knee at the Chequers Shopping Centre in Maidstone in 1974.

I recall asking you for an Evil Kenevil Stunt bike, and that I was somewhat disappointed when I open my parcels that Christmas to discover you'd sent me a Six Million Dollar Man (with roll back skin and circuit boards plus moving eyes) instead.

Still, I understand you're a busy man and God knows we all make mistakes - even you Santa.

Like the first year I came to Sweden and you came round to my sister-in-law's house to hand out presents to her three small children. I knew something was wrong when you almost set the house on fire by dropping the lantern as you fell through the front door. You were so drunk you couldn't read the labels on any of the presents and I ended up opening a My Little Pony by mistake.

So you more than anyone will understand that nobody's perfect. which is why I'm hoping you'll be a little lenient on me this Christmas time because, quite frankly, I've been a really bad blogger this year.

Things started off so well. I posted practically every day and emails zipped back and forth with people from all over the world (including lots from people from several African nations whose fathers had all mysteriously died simultaneously in a failed military coup and wanted me to help them collect $50 million from a hidden war chest).

Then, as quickly as it started, it suddenly stopped. I somehow couldn't find the time to blog anymore, which I concede is a lame excuse that ranks alongside "I thought you said you were on the pill".

What makes it even worse is that so many people have taken the time to write to me to say they liked my blog and that even though their comments made me feel great and I fully intended to reply and say thanks, I didn’t.

So as you can see I've been bad - very bad, and I really don't expect very much this Christmas other than the odd pair of socks, aftershave lotion endorsed by some has-been sports star and maybe that nasal hair trimmer I've never wanted.

But I promise things are soon going to change. I'm turning over a new leaf Santa, you mark my words. From the New Year I'm going to make time for my blog and answer my emails. I’m also going to start going to the gym, floss my teeth regularly and stop locking myself in the toilet with a good book to escape the children.

So Merry Chrístmas to you Santa. I may be a bit too big to sit on your knee these days, but I always look forward to you coming round. Just promise to slow down a bit on the brandy this year, OK?

Darren

Climbing Kebnekaise - Donate Here

2005-10-03T22:13:00.000+02:00

I've managed to set up a donation page where you can send money online through a secure server directly to the Breast Cancer Care charity.

The page can be found at http://www.justgiving.com/lagomlife

I figure that if I am going to freeze my nuts off at 2000m above sea level, the least you can all do is dig into your pockets and send in a little money for this fantastic cause.

Seriously, I'd be very grateful.

** Now almost £500 raised! With promised donations from the UK the final figure looks like being close to £1,000!! It's still not too late to donate, so please, anything you can spare would be fantastic **

Marcus, Karen, Gavin, Shazzer, Mum and Neal, Natasha, Gina, Deb, Polly, Lucy, Dad and Glyn, Baz,Vi, the lovely Julia and Mark M - Thanks for your donations. If I could kiss you all I surely would!

(and special thanks to mtmoore for helping me set this link up)

Toilet humour

2005-09-30T09:41:00.000+02:00

I cleaned the toilet yesterday.

Now that I’m working from home this is not an uncommon occurrence. I have taken on an increasing amount of the housework while my wife is out doing her proper job.

I don’t mention this in search of praise or tributes – in Sweden’s equalitarian society it’s considered only right the man does his fair share of the household chores.

Which is why I’m really looking forward to my wife cleaning the car for the first time in ten years.

Anyway that’s another story, so let’s get back to the toilet.

The wife asked me to clean it as part of her on-going and as yet completely ineffective campaign to get me to sit down while I pee.

Well, a job worth doing is worth doing well, so I also decided to clean the entire bathroom while I was at it, putting all the bottles of children’s shampoos, inflatable bath toys etc neatly away in the draws under the sink.

I thought nothing more of it until this morning, when I heard a high pitched scream from the bathroom.

Apparently the wife had just got out of the bath and decided to moisturise her legs. Turns out I had removed the bottle of body moisturiser from its usual drawer and replaced it with a deceptively similar looking bottle of Bamse children’s shampoo (med honung).

I thought she smelt rather nice, but for some reason she didn’t see it my way.

I think I’ll go out and clean the car when she comes home tonight…..

Regrets, I've had a few

2005-09-16T09:13:00.000+02:00

Have you ever promised yourself never to do something again - and then done it anyway?

You know exactly what I’m talking about. Stuffing down that extra piece of chocolate cake when you know it will ruin the diet, tearing into a unnecessary kebab at 2am on a belly full of beer, splashing out that little bit extra on an irresistible two-for-one deal, when deep down you know you’ll never need the other one.

Well last night it was my turn - again. I ate surströmming.

For those unfamiliar with this Swedish delicacy, it’s raw fermented Baltic herring. For fermented, you can also read rotten.

I couldn’t help it – I’m weak-willed and easily led. Everyone else at the dinner table was eating it, and I so desperately wanted to be a part of the crowd, one of the lads. If you live in Norrland eating rotten herring is tantamount to a test of manhood, so last night’s dinner became a very public display of how well I’ve assimilated into Swedish society.

Of course, this morning I’m full of remorse. I feel like one of those hapless characters in some childrens' film that drank out of a bottle of potion with ‘Don’t Drink Me’ clearly written on it.

My stomach is making the sort of gurgling sounds you hear when you let the water out of the bath and despite getting through half a tube of toothpaste I’ve still got breath that can melt glass.

So I’m writing this to remind myself to never, ever, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die eat rotten herring again.

The next time I’m at a dinner party and feel the need to prove I’m a pseudo-Swede I’ll demonstrate it some other way – like by drinking all the schnapps and passing out under the table.

How to Speak Swedish - listen,repeat and piss yourself laughing

2005-09-15T14:27:00.000+02:00

I've just thrown my second pair of underpants in the washing machine after listening to this hilarious 'How To' guide on speaking Swedish from Slay Radio.

I've nicked this link from the brilliant Mark Wants a Porsche blog. Click here to listen to lesson one.

If you can stand anymore, then go to Mark's blog for lessons two to four.

Darren Ohmygoshicantski

2005-09-15T10:52:00.000+02:00

With Kebnekaise now firmly under my belt, I’ve been contemplating daft new ways to earn a bit of cash for breast cancer research.

I initially thought about climbing another mountain, preferably in Holland, but feel as though I got away with it once, so why tempt fate again.

I want the challenge to be uniquely Swedish, as it’s important I get to experience everything my adopted homeland can throw at me.

After much deliberation I think I may have stumbled upon the perfect solution – Vasaloppet.

Vasaloppet is the oldest, the longest, and the biggest cross-country ski race in the world, where over 14,000 participants take on a gruelling 90 km course from Sälen to Mora in central Sweden.

Sounds fun doesn’t it?

There’s just one drawback.

I can’t ski.

But I consider this a minor inconvenience, a mere bump in the road. The first snow is due here in Umeå in a couple of months and there’s a 10km cross-country track just five minutes from my front door.

This means I’ve got approximately four months to prepare, to hone my cross-country skiing techniques (as I understand my traditional downhill snow plough technique is not permitted) and eat plenty of pasta and bananas.

I’ve already bought a pair of brightly coloured second-hand boots and matching cross-country skis with red ‘go faster’ stripes on them. They look alarmingly narrow, so I assume it will be a bit like trying to ski on very long chopsticks.

The wheels have been put in motion. I’ve already registered for the race. I’m just sitting here now waiting for the snow….

Whatever

2005-09-13T14:33:00.000+02:00

Thought I'd indulge in a bit of freestyle writing - an exercise in which you start writing with no predetermined idea of subject matter, style or length, and simply spurt out whatever pops into your head. It's supposed to be mentally cleansing, and as I definitely could do with a touch of that, here goes:

Cabbages. Can't stand them personally, although Mr Wilbur, my childhood pet rabbit, was very partial to them until he died. Pity no one told me he was dead before I opened his hutch and stroked him. I just thought he was a bit stiff from sitting in a draft.

My Dad once sent me a poem entitled This Be the Verse, written by Philip Larkin. It struck a chord:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

And Philip's right - they do fuck you up. My Dad started collecting pottery in his 50s. The house became littered with 18th century plates, milk jugs and butter dishes. I took it as a sign my Dad was fast approaching his sell by date. But last week I went to an auction in Sweden. I bought a Stig Lindberg vase, and flogged it on E-bay for 1000 SEK profit. I'm hooked. I now spend excessive portions of the day looking at Swedish pottery websites. Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot. At least you were in your 50s. I'm fucked up at 36!

Swedish pensioners - does a ruder, more obnoxious generation of people exist? I doubt it, as if they did, it would be on CNN. Push-in, barge-past, never-smile, moan-about-money, better-in-my-time, Volvo-driving, Spanish-holidaying, over-privileged, pompous-and-arrogant, never-fought-in-a-war, shouldn't-still-be-driving, like-a-drink but never-admit-it bunch of idiots.

Ohhhhh, that feels a bit better. Your turn now. Whatever comes to mind first (and if it's cabbages, we need to talk)

Sven? Never Heard of Him.

2005-09-08T13:46:00.000+02:00

I hate it when England loses at football.

Not just because I'm old enough to remember when England were a decent European team and still hope one day they will be again, and not just because I expect better of a squad of pampered players whose combined worth tops £221 million.

It's because every time they play badly or lose, my phone rings off the hook from friends back in England asking me what the hell Sven thinks he's playing at, as football apparently isn't it.

I want everyone living in the UK to understand I don't know Sven personally just because I live here. I've got no more idea of what's going on under that horribly unfashionable slicked back patch of grey hair than anyone else.

I confess that at first I used to defend Sven - after all he seems a perfectly reasonable, if somewhat undynamic sort of chap.

But my tolerance level, particularly after last night's dismal performance against Northern Ireland is now at an all time low.

Watching Sven fielding questions from the blood-thirsty UK press after the debacle, I lost count of the number of times he said he was 'wery sorry'.

Well sorry doesn't cut it any more Sven. Granted your players let you down (and should have their Porsches confiscated with immediate effect), but as a manager you presided over a tactical blunder on a scale with the charge of the Light Brigade.

And while I'm on the subject of Sven, what's the story with his glasses? The man is worth millions, he's living with a self-proclaimed style guru, and yet he wears glasses that make him look like a very old Harry Potter.

Perhaps you need to change them Sven. And while you're at it put stronger lenses in. Then you might see a bit more clearly what a mess you're making of managing the English team.

How Not to Climb A Mountain - a Pictorial Guide

2005-09-07T17:06:00.000+02:00

Setting off - looking confident and relaxed (and somewhat stupid in a hat). Little did I know I'd be deep frozen only a few hours later

The strange sight of dozens of stone markers greeted us at the summit of Vierramvare, with the glacier dripping off the edge of Kebnekaise in the background

On the way down the weather improved and we caught our first glimpse of the valley below. Typical. Bloody typical.

The weather gods must have been chuckling to themselves, because the moment we arrived back at base camp it turned into bikini weather. Everyone smiled politely but no-one really believed us about the snow storms - but it did snow on August 18th, honest!

Climbing Kebnekaise

2005-09-05T14:40:00.000+02:00

The blisters have finally disappeared so I thought it was high time I posted an account on what it was like to climb Sweden's highest mountain.

This is the serious version, so I've removed all references to farting in tents, drinking 12 bottles of blueberry cider on the eve of a 20km hike (which I do NOT recommend), stepping in reindeer shit and other such mundane details.

However, I hope what's left is still interesting all the same.....

As I stood trying to stamp life into my frozen feet in the tiny wooden cabin perched 1890 metres up Sweden’s highest mountain, I found a tattered copy of the New Testament lying open on top of a rickety wooden table.

I’d never read the New Testament in Swedish before. Staring out of the frosted window at the swirling snow clouds engulfing the remaining 200 vertical metres to the summit of Kebnekaise, I figured this might be a good time to start.

To reach this precarious point my close friend and climbing partner Olly and I had spent six gruelling hours clambering almost 12 kilometres over treacherously slippery rocks while being buffeted by high winds and driving sleet and snow showers.

Things had seemed very different just a few hours before, when we had looked up over a campfire breakfast at the breathtaking Kebnekaise mountain range, which is situated deep within the artic circle in the far north of Sweden.

We had both felt in good shape and high spirits, despite having flown in to the mining city of Kiruna only two days before. Although neither of us had ever climbed a mountain before, we considered ourselves relatively fit thirty-somethings and were confident we could cope with the challenge ahead.

Our resolve was strengthen by the fact that we were attempting the climb to raise money for a UK breast cancer charity, after a mutual friend was diagnosed with the disease just a few months before.

The previous day we had taken a bus 60 kilometres from Kiruna to the old Sami settlement of Nikkaluokta. After a night under canvas we had set out on the 20-kilometre long hike along a stone-strewn trail towards Kebnekaise Fjällstation, the mountain base-camp, nestled 670 metres in the Kitteldalen valley directly beneath the mountain range.

This unspoilt wilderness, described as one of Europe’s last true wildernesses, was so captivating that Olly and I decided not to catch the regular boat service up the Laddjujavri lake, which would have shaved around six kilometres and an hour’s walk off the journey, opting instead to reach the base-camp on foot.

When we finally arrived five hours later we discovered the base-station was an oasis of unexpected luxury, where weary hikers can book into comfortable cabins, take a shower and a sauna and even eat a la carte from the well-stocked bar and restaurant.

For those who don’t want to walk the trail from Nikkaluokta, there is even a regular helicopter service that ferries people to and from the base-camp throughout the day.

But such comforts come at a price, with a bed in a double cabin costing 650 SEK per person per night. With limited funds, and a desire to have the total wilderness experience, we pitched our tent a few hundred metres from the camp, with the imposing Tuolpagorni mountain as a backdrop. However, we did pay the 80 SEK daily fee to use the facilities of the base-camp’s service house, which entitled us to use the shower, sauna, toilets, washing and drying facilities.

Before setting out for the summit the next morning, we had checked the weather forecast. Although the predicted rain and 3-5 degree daytime summit temperatures did not make for ideal climbing conditions, we were scheduled on a flight back home the day after, and therefore could not afford the luxury of waiting for the weather to improve.

The fact that there were pockets of snow covering the highest peaks was not unusual. Snow and ice are a constant feature of this artic mountain range, which boasts around 40 glacial formations. With good weather predicted in the next 12 hours, we felt conditions would surely improve. It was, after all, only the middle of August.

We set off at 7am off from the base-camp carrying only the minimum equipment and food required in order to travel light. We were travelling alone, as the western route we had chosen is the only path to the summit that locals recommend can be attempted without a guide.

Starting from the valley floor, the path quickly led up to the foot of the Kitteldalen, where we scrambled up the ravine and into the clouds above. Despite increasingly poor visibility, we managed to keep to the path, which was clearly marked with painted red stones every 10 metres.

Fording the icy streams that cut through the centre of the ravine, we headed up through the saddle between the peaks of Tuolpagorni and Vierramvare. At 1711 metres, Vierramvare gave us our first real taste of what the mountains had planned for us.

Staring up towards the summit we could barely make out the trail of red markers as they snaked up the steep slope and into the clouds that were funnelling up through the gulley.

Ahead of us we could only see rocks – even the hardiest of shrubs had given up trying to grow several hundred metres below us. The only thing that seemed to flourish up here were the mosses, which covered many of the stones, making them as slippery as glass.

The rain started three-quarters of the way up Vierramvare. Undeterred, we quickly changed into our wet weather gear, still optimistic that the clouds would part to reveal the spectacular peaks and valleys all around us.

As we approached the very top of Vierramvare we found dozens of small piles of stones that had been built by previous climbers to mark the mountain’s summit. Jutting up like broken teeth, they only added to the eerie atmosphere of this desolate place.

Crossing the peak we came to the part of the western trail that can easily break a climber’s resolve. Having already climbed 1711 metres, we now had to descend 300 metres into the Kaffedalen and then back up another 600 vertical metres to the summit itself.

Picking our way down the side of the mountain required less energy, but was considerably more dangerous, as a single slip could result in a long fall into the gorge below.

Traversing through the ankle-deep snow covering the floor of the Kaffedalen, we came to a stop at the base of Kebnekaise itself. We knew that only 600 vertical metres remained until we reached the summit. What we didn’t know was that the mountain wasn’t going to be beaten without a fight.

Around 200 metres into our ascent the chilly raindrops turned instantly into hail. Driven by strong winds they pelted our exposed faces until our skin felt raw. As we huddled behind a large rock for shelter, we discussed for the first time that day something we had both been brooding about over the past couple of hours – whether we had enough equipment to last a night on the mountain should the weather get any worse.

We both already knew the answer, so resolved to carry on to the mountain cabin, known as the toppstuga, where we could at least take temporary shelter and have some much-needed food.

Another 100 metres up and the ice turned into snow. Although it still clouded our visibility, the softer snow provided a welcome break from the pummelling the hail had given us.

While scanning the skyline for a break in the clouds, we suddenly caught a glimpse of the wooden hut perched on the side of Kebnekaise. Within seconds it was gone, swallowed up once again by the clouds.

But with a renewed sense of optimism we headed in the direction of the hut, and within minutes tramped wearily up the wooden steps and opened the door to Sweden’s highest building.

Built in 1983 to replace the crumbling cabin which still remains just 200 metres away, Kebnekaise’s toppstuga provides climbers with a bolthole from the changeable mountain weather and a place to gather energy before the final push to the summit.

A couple of simple wooden beds and thick woollen blankets are provided for those unlucky climbers who are forced to stay up the mountain for the night. Beside the beds stands the table, on top of which rests a copy of the New Testament and a travel chess set.

Olly and I had no intention of either sleeping here or playing chess. We both felt we had come too far to give up now. It is a bullish attitude typical of novice climbers who don’t know when to turn around and has almost certainly proved fatal in the past.

It was only when we arrived back exhausted but safe to the base-camp several hours later that we discovered several people following up the mountain after us had turned back at the toppstuga, and some of the guided tours had not even made it that far before returning to base-camp.

We changed our soaking wet clothes and boiled up some water to cook our freeze-dried food. Feeling much better we peered out of the cabin’s only window and waited for a change in the weather.

Inside the cabin the air was freezing. We knew we couldn’t afford to wait long if we wanted to keep our core body temperature stable.

A few minutes later the snow slowly dissipated. We took this as a signal to dash for the top. We practically skipped over the stones until we came up to the glacial top of Kebnekaise.

Rising up into the white clouds above it was difficult to see where this gigantic snow cone ended. We felt our way around to the western ridge, where we found a narrow trail barely wide enough to walk up leading upwards. The fresh snow that lined the trail gave us a little much-needed traction.

Cautiously we inched our way up, crawling much of the way on our hands and knees. At last the cone levelled out, and despite not being able to see a single landmark through the clouds we knew we’d finally made it to the top of Sweden’s highest mountain.

We didn’t jump for joy – just one metre to our left was a fatal drop into the Rabots glacier and one metre to our right a deadly slide 500 metres down into the Björlings glacier.

However, we did hug each other, now bonded by an experience that taught us that beauty and danger are never far behind you when you’re climbing mountains.

On Top of Sweden

2005-08-22T09:00:00.000+02:00

After two days and a 45km hike and climb through howling winds and snow storms, I finally made it to the top of Kebnekaise, Sweden's highest mountain!

A full report, including near-death experiences, sharing a tent with a flatulent Englishman, elk sausages and what it's like to drink in Kiruna's only pub to follow.

But right now I need a bath, some sleep and a doctor........

Grin and....

2005-08-17T12:44:00.000+02:00

Ok, so as if climbing the mountain wasn't dangerous enough, I've just come across the following on a Lappish nature website...

"The whole northern part of Sweden is a magnificent nature experience. Clean air, untouched nature and unexploited rivers. Here the word wildlife gets its true meaning.You have all the big animals represented; wolf, bear and lynx as well as nonpredators as reindeer and elk .

"Sweden's largest predator, the bear, can be seen in both the forests and the mountains. They can be 2 metres tall and weigh over 350 kg. Bears travel across large areas and live mostly alone. They go into hibernation when the first snow falls in the autumn and come out again in April or May. Bears live of plants, roots and berries. As with all predators, they avoid humans and are not dangerous unless they feel threatened. That's is why you should be careful if you see a mother bear with her cubs".

So let me get this straight. I'll be sleeping in a tent that's practically falling apart in the middle of nowhere where bears, wolves and lynx are 'represented'.

Great. Just great....

A bit 'Tent'ative

2005-08-16T11:41:00.000+02:00

My father-in-law has just dropped off the tent. I thought it would be wise to put it up before heading off up the mountain to ensure no vital parts are missing.

I discovered it's covered in patches of brown parcel tape, which I assume is not a good thing.

May God have mercy upon us.

A mountain to climb....

2005-08-15T21:38:00.000+02:00

I feel like a 'lifer' who has been unexpectedly granted parole.

Tomorrow, after two months of paternity leave with my two children, they finally return to dagis, where those saintly men and women will once again preside over the daily entertainment of my offspring.

I simply can't wait.

I know I shouldn't feel this way. But I do.

The last two months have taught me a lot of things. I am now on first name terms with all the Fimbles, know how to reduce bumps with the back of a cold spoon, understand the mystical anti-screaming power of ice-cream and realise that no matter what you do, you can never get fresh blueberry stains out of your children's most expensive clothes.

It's also taught me that children exhaust me. And I don't mean they just tire me out. I mean I barely have the energy left over to brush my teeth and climb the stairs to collapse into bed.

I now realise that looking after children is a full-time job. Which is why for the first time in my life I'm thoroughly looking forward to becoming unemployed - filling my day with far less taxing tasks, such as trying to earn some money.

But before I re-enter the rat race, there is the small matter of a mountain to climb. On Wednesday evening I'm flying up to Kiruna to meet up with my English mate Ollie, and then onwards to the base of Sweden's highest mountain, Kebnekaise.

I have to confess that with just two days to go I'm rather ill-prepared. My plans to train for the climb by undergoing a strict diet and exercise regime are still just that – plans.

The equipment I’ve managed to beg and borrow for this expedition is also rather lacking, consisting of:

A backpack (from my mother-in-law – so god forbid I get it wet/damage it/drop it in reindeer shit)
A sleeping bag
Some Tupperware boxes to keep supplies in (If I get round to buying supplies that is)
A map of Kebnekaise dated 1965 (I’m hoping things haven’t changed that much)
Some new walking boots I bought last Thursday (that I’ve even been wearing to bed in order to break them in)
A really cool magnesium fire lighter kit I couldn’t resist buying that emits sparks at 3,000 degrees Celsius (which was both incredibly expensive and completely meaningless as I also have matches)

And that’s about it. I’ve been promised a two-man tent – which is rather essential to any successful summit attempt – but it hasn’t turned up yet.

But with the ‘never mind, let’s have a nice cup of tea’ attitude the English are so good at we’re going to climb the bloody mountain anyway. According to our plans, we should reach the summit on Saturday lunchtime.

If I don’t post anything by next Tuesday, then please send out the search parties*.

Wish me luck!

Darren

*Helicopters only please - I'm allergic to St Bernards.

Lost Dad Comes Back From the Dead - "I've Seen Elvis"

2005-08-05T13:36:00.000+02:00

When my wife started receiving bereavement cards in the post and bunches of flowers started getting left on our doorstep I knew it was high time to set the record straight.

I'm not dead - at least not yet, although it’s fair to say during the past 6 weeks of paternity leave with my two children that I’ve come dangerously close to topping myself.

It’s just that our summerhouse doesn’t have internet access, hence my enforced 'cyber'-nation.

But I’ll be back next week, with my head crammed full of bits and blogs to post. And of course it’s only two weeks to go until I climb Sweden’s highest mountain. As of writing I still haven’t got any proper shoes, a tent, suitable clothes, a map of how to get there – in fact I haven’t even got a clue.

So see you all here, same time, same place, next week.

Enjoy the last of the summer!

Darren

Back to Basics

2005-07-12T14:04:00.000+02:00

I often ask myself why we bought a Swedish summerhouse.

Upon reflection we were asking for trouble. If you buy a place you never see for seven months of the year, pay hefty electricity bills to keep it (and the mice) warm during the winter months and spend most of the summer sweating and cursing while you’re painting/repairing/extending it, then maybe it is time you started questioning your own judgement.

But on the other hand our summerhouse is one of the most magical places I’ve ever been to on earth, because it gives my whole family a taste of ‘basic living’ – a feeling that we’ve somehow managed to wind back the clock 40 years to when everything seemed a little less stressful, the sky was a little bluer, the summers lasted a little longer and children had never heard of Playstations or Pokemon.

Before I go on perhaps I should offer up my definition of 'basic living', as in today’s fast-moving world 'basic living' for many might mean their kitchen doesn’t come complete with a microwave oven, they’re staring at plamsa when they really want LCD, or their four-wheel drive doesn’t come equipped with cup-holders.

When we bought our summerhouse just south of Umeå five years ago it had an outside toilet (which is stretching the truth slightly as it was really just a shed with a bucket in it), no running water in the winter (and water pumped up from a well during the summer that often emerged gurgling and spitting from the tap the same colour and consistency of chocolate milkshake) and no bath or shower to clean yourself in.

To my family, freshly arrived from the UK, having to boil water on the stove, wash ourselves and our children in the sea and take turns fending mosquitoes off each other’s bums while we took a leak in the woods was ‘basic’ living. And we loved every single minute of it.

Of course, things change, nothing ever stands still. Over time we plugged our house into the city’s water mains, installed a boiler for hot water on tap and built a shower room.

But we still have an outside toilet, which we have pledged to retain as a lasting symbol of those first few glorious years when everything seemed a little more inconvenient, and a little more fun because of it.

Rhubarb Rhubarb

2005-07-12T12:43:00.000+02:00

I discovered today that I can't say rhubarb in Swedish. It's simply impossible.

Whenever I attempt to say it I sound like a Arab with a cleft palette. You try it.

I also struggle with skönt, but that's another story....

Terror attacks in London.

2005-07-07T16:28:00.000+02:00

Today I've nothing to say about Sweden, but I do have something to say about Britain.

A few hours ago four bombs exploded in central London. As I write 45 people are dead and over 1000 people are injured. This figure will undoubtedly rise over the coming hours.

My political and religious opinions don't belong on this blog - but I feel compelled to say this.

The British people will deal with this attack quietly and with great dignity. Their resolve to return to "business as usual" will be a credit to the nation and a clear signal to those who perpetrate these sorts of cowardly attacks on innocent people that they will never succeed in changing policies though violence.

The British nation's quiet strength is not a characteristic I often talk about. But it is a characteristic I admire in ways that today I simply cannot find words to express.

It's just one of the many reasons why I'm so extremely proud to be able to say I'm British.

My thoughts are with all those at home affected by this terrible attack.

High Pressure moving in from Next Door

2005-07-04T22:57:00.000+02:00

I was lying on the beach this afternoon, turning the sort of fire-engine crackle-glazed shade of red that makes me look like a walking serving of chicken tikka masala, when my summerhouse neighbour, Eric, came up to me and kicked sand in my face.

Apparently he was a little aggrieved after reading my last post and rather insistent I write an apology on this blog correcting the impression I gave that summer weather in Norrland is about as reliable as a Swedish plumber with alzheimer's.

Well, as I live just twenty metres away from Eric, he’s bigger than me and he has one of the most impressively-stocked whisky cabinets in the whole of the northern hemisphere, sorry in this case doesn’t seem to be the hardest word.

The long-awaited heatwave did actually arrive, and for the past week I haven’t had to light the fire once as we’ve sweltered in Mediterranean temperatures.

Which has put me in something of a predicament, as right now I don’t have anything to moan about.

Ok, so there’s the ever-present problem of mosquitoes, swarms of which can quickly turn you into a human join-the-dots puzzle if you sit outside after 8pm. I’ve discovered the best way to avoid losing several pints of blood is to douse yourself with foul-smelling lotions, surround yourself with foul-smelling candles, or drink enough bottles of red wine that you simply don’t care if you get bitten.

And of course there’s the Baltic sea itself, which looks so deceptively inviting, until you actually wade out in it to discover it's as warm as liquid nitrogen and that you’ve suddenly lost all sense of feeling in your lower extremities.

But these are merely gripes, not complaints. This is turning into a summer to remember. With the newspapers proclaiming it will be 26 degrees tomorrow, it’s good to know that the only thing I’ll be lighting over the next few days will be the barbeque.

Foreign Thoughts From Abroad

2005-06-29T07:17:00.000+02:00

As I stare out of my summerhouse window at the cold rain lashing the birch trees, I crunch up another piece of old newspaper and contemplate lighting a fire.

While stacking the logs I allow my mind to drift away in search of somewhere warmer, and find myself walking barefoot through squeaking white sand, made so hot by the midday sun that I almost have to break into a run to reach the breaking waves of the Atlantic.

I can feel the fine spray on my face and taste the salty water. I smell hot pine and can hear the cones cracking in the heat in the trees high above.

I notice a restaurant by the shoreline, tables covered in crisp white paper weighed down by pebbles, already prepared for the long lunchtime ahead. People begin gathering there, drinking chilled glasses of Rose wine, taking their time, jabbing cracked green olives with wooden toothpicks, deep in passionate conversation, waving their arms wildly as though juggling invisible balls.

I see children searching for oyster shells on the beach, and stray dogs looking for scraps of food. I see the bar where I know Bernard will be sitting, a cigarette that never seems to go out screwed tightly into the corner of his mouth, shrugging, eyes rolling to the sky, a glass of chilled pastis firmly in his hand. And where I know I can buy a dusty bottle of decent Saint-Emilion for the price of a cinema ticket.

As I look around me I feel the sun’s warmth work its way through me, making me feel lighter, more alive. And I allow myself to smile, knowing that tomorrow and the days after that the sand will still be warm.

Warm. Oh that’s right. I read in the paper that a heat wave is on its way to Norrland tomorrow.

I strike a match and toss it into the fireplace.

An open letter to Bolibompa

2005-06-27T22:08:00.000+02:00

Dear Bolibompa,

My name is Darren. I’m 36 years-old and I live in Umeå in Sweden. When I grow up I want to be a plumber, as someone told me there’s a shortage of them in Norrland.

Now I appreciate I may be a little older than most of the people you receive letters from, but I felt I had to write and tell you what a wonderful job you’re doing of entertaining my two children, Tom (5) and Elli (3).

Since I started my pappaledighet almost two weeks ago, your programme has become the highlight of my day – an hour’s oasis of calm in an otherwise hectic day of pinching, name-calling, offensive bodily excretions (various) and tantrums, And that’s just the wife – the children have been a bit of a handful too, I can tell you!

Anyway, the calming effect your programme has on my children is nothing short of remarkable. I often catch myself staring at my watch at breakfast time, calculating the hours, minutes and seconds until 6.30pm when your cheery Bolibompa theme tune signals the start of my daily hour-long time-out.

The only problem is that I’ve discovered an hour really isn’t long enough. I barely have time to go to the toilet, make a cuppa and read the sports section of Expressen before the theme turn signals the end of the show and my children launch themselves at me asking if I can build some impossible architectural structure out of three pieces of Lego, some garden wire and a toilet roll.

So I’d like to make the following suggestion. Why not make Bolibompa a little longer, say five hours a day? Now I know this means that you’ll all have to work that bit harder, but I’m quite willing to increase my licence fee by a few kronor a month to compensate for the inconvenience.

I’ve spoken with lots of other mums and dads in my area and they all agree it’s a great idea.

Please give this suggestion some serious thought, along with ditching the bear from Björnes magasin, as the concept of a man-sized pantomime bear is particularly outdated in this computerised age and quite frankly gives both my children and me the creeps.

Have a fab summer!

Darren

Explanation: Bolibompa is a daily childrens programme broadcast on SVT1. If you've got young children and live in Sweden, it's probably the only time in the day you'll be able to behave like an adult - if you've got any energy left that is. I truly believe all the people involved in bringing Bolibompa into our homes every evening should have public holidays named after each and every last one of them.

I'm an idiot

2005-06-27T11:28:00.000+02:00

First I whine about you lot not posting any comments, and then I somehow manage to change the blog's settings so that only registered users can post comments.

Well, normal service has now been resumed, so anyone can now say anything.

I've also managed to get an internet connection into the summerhouse, so I'll be back blogging on a daily basis from tomorrow.

Until then.....

Midsommar madness

2005-06-24T10:28:00.000+02:00

Tonight I'm going to put seven different sorts of sill under my pillow and dream of the herring I'm going to marry.

Glad midsommar everyone

Darren

Pluck Off!

2005-06-21T12:40:00.000+02:00

This morning I was unintentionally yet cruelly reminded I am getting older.

I was sitting at the hairdressers getting trimmed by a very attractive young girl. As she was applying the final touches to my French crop (a style she assured me is all the rage and would make my face look thinner) she asked if she could trim my eyebrows, as they had grown somewhat wild.

Very thoughtful of you, I said, but I like my eyebrows just the way they are, thank you very much.

By then the damage to my street cred had already been done. She may as well have given me a pensioner's discount and offered to help me out through the door and over the road.

Next time I go to the hairdressers, she'll probably want to plait some excessively protruding nasal hair, or layer the hair growing out of my ears.

If she does I'll have to politefully tell her to pluck off.

Plutonium needed - Serious Cash Buyer

2005-06-20T01:19:00.000+02:00

If I've been a bit quiet recently, it's because I've discovered the concept of personal time implodes when you are pappaledigt - to the extent that you even have to leave the toilet door open in case one of your children manages to inflict life-threatening injuries on themselves/each other while you're sitting on the throne.

I've also just discovered that we've got ants back in our summerhouse. Not the annoying-but-basically-harmless sort of ants that eat the sugar if you leave it out, but hästmyra, the sort of ants that eat your house if you leave it out.

These little bastards are ants on steroids. Described as the termites of the north, they don’t actually eat wood like termites do, but chew it away to make their nests in it. For me, the proud owner of a timbered Västerbottens house, the difference is academic. If I don’t get rid of them, my house will fall down.

So I rang Anticimix – the Swedish equivalent of Rent-a-Kill. A bloke wearing a baseball cap and a fist-sized puck of snus (loose tobacco) under his top lip duly turned up and tutted when I pointed to the source of the scratching sound which indicated a hästmyra nest behind our living-room wall.

He proceeded to drill two tiny holes into the wall, into one of which he sprayed a can of Radar. This is a general all-purpose bug spray commonly used in Sweden. The only problem with it is that it doesn’t actually kill anything, but rather gives the ants something of a mild headache.

So I asked snus-guy if he’d got anything a little bit stronger in the back of his van, winking in a “if-you-know-what-I-mean” type of way.

Snus-guy robotically informed me that he couldn’t use anything stronger as it had to comply with Sweden’s stringent environmental regulations.

In other words he’s an exterminator incapable of killing anything.

I really wanted snus-guy to walk down my summerhouse path in a full radiation suit with a ‘smoking’ dry ice metal tube in each hand containing enough plutonium to eradicate the ant population of the village I live in for the next three hundred years.

And if that meant the fish in our river grew legs or our two children started glowing in the dark I’d live with it. At least I'd be free of those bloody ants.

DIY - Do Itch Yourself

2005-06-16T00:18:00.000+02:00

I had to write this snippet to justify the headline.

As you may know, I'm currently renovating my bathroom, with very little help from any Swedish tradesmen as they are either
a) impossible to get hold of
b) impossible to meet with at an agreed time on an agreed day
c) impossibly expensive
d) just bloody impossible.

This has meant I've had to get my hands dirty and do it myself. Not normally a problem, except for one very uncomfortable exception - Gullfiber.

Used in Sweden to insulate walls, floors and ceilings, Gullfiber comprises a billion miniscule shards of glass compressed into sheets of yellow candyfloss.

Whoever invented this stuff obviously had a sick sense of humour, as it’s practically impossible to work with without breaking into a rash.

To avoid skin contact you need to dress up like Dustin Hoffman in a scene from Outbreak. The problem is that the insulating effect of the Gullfiber increases the room temperature in which you’re working by several hundred degrees, resulting in a very high probability of LTD (Leaking To Death).

Anyway, I've been rolling around in the stuff for the past three days - coincidentally while Umeå has enjoyed something of a heat wave - and have now discovered itches in places only an experienced doctor with an electron microscope and a very vivid imagination would be able to find.

Must stop typing now. Got to scratch an itch……

Foam-at-the-mouth English Father Gets Two Months

2005-06-15T08:13:00.000+02:00

Tomorrow is a momentous day for me - for the first time in my life I'm going to go pappaledigt.

For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it means I'll be starting two whole months of paternity leave.

The prospect of doing this scares the shit out of me.

Now don't get me wrong. I love my five-year-old son and three-year-old daughter with a passion. However, spending eight weeks constantly in their company will undoubtedly test my personal boundaries of patience, sanity and sobriety (I'm off to the System Bolaget to stock up on supplies later today).

You see, I don't know if it's a boy/girl thing, a throwback to my English roots (when men, with no questions asked, drank in pubs and women looked after the children) or whether it's just me, but I can only take so much of my wonderful children before I turn into an emotional, foam-at-the-mouth wreck.

Their boundless energy often wears me down to the point I find myself mouthing a silent prayer on Friday evening for Monday morning to roll around so that those 'God-how-I-love-them-for-what-they-do-and-can-never-speak-highly-enough-of-them' fröknar at dagis (nursery) can take them off my hands again.

So the next two months is going to be interesting. Without work to worry about, I'm hoping the time I share with them will redefine my perspectives as a pappa, and ultimately make me a better one.*

Wish me luck. And pass the scotch. I think I'm going to need it.

* I included this sentence just in case the wife/other mothers read this article . Secretly I think I'll be on medication by midsommar.

Make waves - or a little ripple

2005-06-10T14:00:00.000+02:00

It's now been just over a month since I launched this blog. Since then I've written thousands of words, spent far too much time hunched over the keyboard and have managed to unintentionally insult, and be intentionally insulted by, dozens of Swedes.

All in all, something of a success then.

But upon reflection perhaps not. You see I've also learnt that writing a blog is a bit like throwing a stone down a deep well - the only way you know you've hit water is when you hear the splash.

Imagine therefore that this blog is a well and your comment is a stone. The only way I ever know you're around is if I hear the splash.

But that’s the problem. There’s hardly been a trickle, a plop or a drip.

Now I’m not in the blogging business for global fame (and I’m certainly not in it for the money, as my 89 cents Adsense income ruthlessly testifies) but it would just be more fun if Lagom Life got a little more ‘interactive’, a touch more two-way.

So come on people, start throwing stones. Make some waves – or at least a little ripple!

A New Job? Just the Ticket.

2005-06-09T08:43:00.000+02:00

When, as a child, people asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, I bet very few of you responded "I want to be a traffic warden".

It must be one of the most reviled jobs in the entire world, right up there with an autopsy lab cleaning attendant, anal wart researcher (Highly Contagious and Life-Threatening Diseases Department), a taxman or, heaven forbid, Lill Babs’ make-up artist.

So it came as a bit of a surprise flicking through regional newspaper Västerbottens Kuriren (VK) yesterday to discover that when Umeå's council-run parking company Upab (isn't that a place in Africa?) advertised for two new traffic wardens, an incredible 440 people applied.

The paper (which devoted a double-page spread to this hot news item) went on to report that many of the applicants had distinguished academic backgrounds, which I am sure would come in extremely useful in an exchange with an irate mother of five who is late picking up her children from dagis and has just been issued a 500 SEK parking ticket.

Mother: “I am so sorry I’m a bit late, there was hell of a queue at the Vårdcentralen and my post-natal check-up took a little longer than expected. I'm in a real rush to pick-up my kids. It won’t happen again”.

Traffic warden: "I'm sorry to hear that madam, but I've started writing the ticket and there's no way I can reverse the ticket issuing procedure now".

Mother: "Oh but surely you can do something. Five hundred kronor buys a lot of nappies you know. I really need the money as my husband ran out on me for some Charlotte Perrelli look-a-like and I'm struggling to bring up five small boys on my own".

Traffic Warden: "I empathise with your predicament madam, I really do, but to quote the words of Carl Jung “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent".

Mother: “I beg your pardon?”

Traffic Warden: “Or perhaps the words of Juvenal, who lived between 55-127 AD are more appropriate in this context. “Refrain from doing ill; for one all powerful reason, lest our children should copy our misdeeds; we are all too prone to imitate whatever is base and depraved”.

Mother: "Oh just fuck off and die"

Traffic Warden: “I studied classical literature you know”.

Mother: “Screw you”.

Anyway, the two lucky souls who landed the jobs were Marie Nyman and Niclas Nordgren, who both seem jolly nice, wholesome and enthusiastic, and whom I will be trying to avoid like the plague for the rest of my life in Umeå

7 Things I Love about living in Umeå

2005-06-08T13:24:00.000+02:00

***This is a work in progress***

1. While driving home just a few moments ago I saw of group of four 8-10-year-old boys playing around in a field picking flowers. Back in England I was more accustomed to seeing groups of young boys setting fire to sofas. Children stay innocent a little longer and discover matches a little later in Umeå. A good reason to love the place I think.

2. The modern roundabout was invented in Great Britain back in the mid-1920s. Since then the whole of Europe has broken out in a rash of them. By 1997 France reportedly had some 15,000 roundabouts, and as you can bet your sweet pippy there's some sort of EU Roundabout Subsidy, I'm sure that figure has tripled by now. So what's my point? Well, according to Ulf Olofsson from Umeå's Samhällsbyggnadskontoret the first roundabout in Umeå wasn't built until 1991, over 70 years after the rest of Europe started going round the bend. * Roundabouts? Non Merci. Another fine reason to love Umeå.

3. This is a picture looking out to sea near Umeå in winter. Here's the same view just two months later. Real seasons - another reason to love Umeå.

4. Do you suffer from Steering Wheel Stress? Then take at look at this picture. This is the E4, Umeå's busiest road - during rush hour. I've lived here five years and never been in a traffic jam. Not once. If you've ever felt like Michael Douglas or Mr Incredible (or even both) then you should consider moving here. You'd love Umeå!

5. It's coming
6. The fact that Lisa Miskovsky spends a lot of time in Umeå
7. Because she only lives 20 minutes from my front door!

Lisa, if you're reading this, I just want you to know I admire you enormously for your incredible musical talent and insightful song lyrics.

You're also a bit of a stunner.

So remember, if you ever want to drop in for a coffee, I'm just around the corner (half a mile from here).

* Umeås first roundabout is on the E4 at the junction with Road 364. I'll go and get my anorak then...

Sweden's National Day

2005-06-07T08:13:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was Sweden's National Day - the first time it's ever been marked with a public holiday.

The problem is that although a majority of Swedes liked the thought of having an extra day off work, very few got into the flag-waving, nationalistic spirit the government had hoped for.

It seems most Swedes are simply uncomfortable with such open displays of national pride. If you get too patriotic in public, people look at you strangely, as though you’ve just slapped a baby.

Peter Aronsson, who is professor for cultural inheritance and history usage at the University of Linköping, told local newspaper Östögta Correspondenten that the only thing that would make Swedes gather around a day to celebrate the nation is a war or other national drama.

A rather extreme way of making people wave flags, don't you think?

I asked some Swedish friends of mine why this should be and what’s holding the country back from collectively letting its hair down.

Interestingly a few of them said celebrating a national day is considered insensitive to the feelings of the country’s immigrant population. People like, well, like me I suppose.

Well if it makes any difference Sweden, in my opinion it’s about time you loosened up a little and made some noise!

Parade the King and Queen through the streets of Stockholm, broadcast a three-hour Allsång på Skansen special, drink litres of disgusting Falcon National Day Pilsner. Do whatever it takes to celebrate Sweden and being Swedish and do it with pride.

Our family did its bit by tucking into a traditional smorgasbord of freshly cooked ham, gravlax, meatballs, sill, home-baked tunnbröd and Västerbottens Ost.

We also payed homage to the mother country by singing (I hummed) a rousing rendition of Du Gamla, Du Fria.

* whisper* But to make sure we didn't cause offence we sang very quietly so that none of the neighbours would hear.

Climbing Kebnekaise - an update

2005-06-06T18:06:00.000+02:00

The date has been set.....I’ll be striking out for the summit of Sweden's highest mountain on Friday, August 19th - and I won't be alone.

I'll be accompanied by a good Swedish friend of mine, Johan, who I will be relying on to negotiate with the Sami people should we wander off course, and a crazy English mate of mine called Ollie who read my blog and immediately booked a return flight to Kiruna before ringing me up to inform me he was coming.

He's never climbed a mountain before either, so I won't be relying on him for anything.

The fact I won't be climbing Kebnekaise alone has come as a great relief for my wife and mother. Now at least if I perish at altitude, there'll be someone to bring my bits down again.

Here's the outline itinerary:

Thursday, August 18th - Drive seven hours from Umeå to Kiruna avoiding as many reindeer as possible. Kiruna was once the biggest city in the world so I shouldn't be able to miss it. Go out into Kiruna for some pre-mountain drinks.

Friday, August 19th - Spend the morning regretting the decision to go out for some pre-mountain drinks. Drive to Nikkaluokta, described by the tourist board as an old Sami settlement, but by everyone whose ever been there as a huge car park. This would be handy, as we'll be leaving the car here to begin the 19.5km trek to Kebnekaise Fjällstation, which is the starting point for most climbing routes.

Spend the night sleeping out under canvas with the stars and 15,000,000 mosquitoes for company.

Saturday, August 19th - Today's the day! Starting early, we'll be taking the west route up the mountain, which is some 25 km long, and normally takes around 7 hours to reach the summit. If all goes according to plan we should reach the summit at Sydtoppen early afternoon - some time before the end of August.

Weather permitting we'll camp on the mountain somewhere.

Sunday, August 20th - Climb down the mountain to base camp. Walk 19.5 km back to the car, when Ollie will inform us he left the keys up at Sydtoppen.

Monday, August 21st - Ollie will fly back to the UK and Johan and I will drive back to Umeå, tired but inwardly proud of our achievement.

To read why I'm climbing this mountain in the first place, click here

To date I've raised £333.33 ($608 or 4,500 SEK) towards Breast Cancer Care. If you can spare a pound, buck or kronor, please click here.

Stockholm's Perfect Top 10 Pubs

2005-06-03T21:33:00.000+02:00

Due to some technical difficulties I'm a couple of days late posting the list of my personal top ten pubs in Stockholm.

In fact, when last orders were called on my C-drive a couple of days ago I lost most of my notes on the pubs I had visited, so I've relied on Meowza, a fellow pint guzzler, to fill in the gaps.

So without further delay. here they are- my top 10 pubs in Stockholm. If you like great beer and good food (I'd like to add at a reasonable price - but I'd be lying) then you can't go wrong with any of these places.

In no particular order....

Mackinlay's Inn This place isn't great, and it is way overpriced, the only thing that saves it from obscurity is the selection of beers that you won't find elsewhere in town.
Akkurat From the outside it looks like a car park, and inside the atmosphere can be kind of boring. That's probably because everyone's too busy concentrating on what they're drinking, as this is THE beer pub in Sweden with the greatest selection of bottled and draft beer anywhere. If you like beer, you must visit Akkurat.
Black and Brown Inn Not the most exciting place, but they serve hot dogs for 10kr a piece until closing time, so that makes them a winner in my book
Oliver Twist Usually impossible to find a place to stand on the weekend, let alone sit down, OT has some of the best beers in Stockholm and the best cared for lines. They also vary their selection often, so there's plenty of reasons to keep coming back.
Bishops Arms (Bellmansgatan) Location-wise this place is perfect, it's in a quiet corner of Söder up on Bellmansgatan The beers are ok, but if you like whisky this is where to go. I think they still do live music on Sundays, and have outdoor seating. However, if you are lucky you'll get the small table by the extremely fake fireplace.
Soldaten Svejk Despite what people tell you, this place is not "The Czech Soldier", the name is from the Jaroslav Hasek book, "The Good Soldier Schweik", which is sort of a Catch-22 based in WWI. I think you have to be at the door when they open to get a seat, but it's worth it for the Czech beers, which are delicious.
Tudor Arms They could have pulled this pub down in England, bought it over on a boat and put it back up in the middle of Östermalm. Makes me feel homesick just walking through the door. Good beers, good staff, small, and awesome food.
Wirström's Wirströms lacks nothing except floor space. Located in the picturesque Gamla Stan, it's got bags of charm and character. Optimally you want to sit upstairs, but if that doesn't happen you'll end up in the maze of small nooks in the basement.
Bull and Bear located near Stureplan, this pub simply serves great beer. I've never had a bad pint in here, and the staff are as professional as they come. Food's a bit average, but the selection of beer (and whisky) more than compensates. Get there early though, as this long and narrow pub gets more crowded than the London underground after 10pm.
Man in the Moon A bugger to find in the backwaters of town, but once you see the range of beers on offer you'll probably agree the walk will have been worth it. A huge island bar dominates the place, but you can always escape to a quiet corner for a bite to eat. Last time I had dinner here the food was excellent - and very reasonably priced!

Not content with just 10 pubs, here's a couple more should you manage to get through all of the above:

Bagpiper's Inn - Here's a tip for you. Never, I repeat never, look up a scotsman's kilt.
The Dubliner Live music every night. They advertise for you to 'Come on over and be a wild Rover. Oh, alright then.

So enjoy, and remember to ring your bank manager before setting out into the city for a drink, because you'll be buying one of the most expensive hangovers in the world!

Doesn't compute...

2005-06-01T09:18:00.000+02:00

I thought I was being prudent and internet savvy by downloading the latest virus definitions from Norton.

I obediently agreed to reboot my computer to complete installation of the new updates, and that's when my blogging world came crashing down.

The computer rebooted alright, and then rebooted, and rebooted and rebooted......

So I did what I always do when something goes wrong with my computer. I kicked it. This apparently didn't work, so I took it round to a mate who "knows about these things".

And that's where it is now, in computer rehab, getting its C-drive reformatted, a new operating system installed, its CPU optimised and new little green men inserted.

Unfortunately it means I'll be a couple of days late posting my list of my favourite top 10 Stockholm pubs, but please bear with me.

Oh, and by the way, if anyone mentions the word back-up to me one more time I'll short-circuit their motherboard.

Problems with my Plumbing

2005-05-30T08:49:00.000+02:00

This is a picture of my bathroom, taken this morning.

As you can see, it needs a little work done on it, a few finishing touches here and there.

The problem is I'm still waiting for the f"#"king plumber who said he would come and lay the pipes three weeks ago to finish the job he's started.

Which brings me nicely on to the topic of Swedish tradesmen.

As a rule I can't stand them.

You've got more chance of Finland winning the Eurovision Song Contest * than of finding a plumber/builder/electrician in Norrland who'll give you a reliable, professional service.

Now I may sound particularly bitter, but in my personal experience over the past five years, during which time I've pratically rebuilt an entire summerhouse and half a town house, I've met more cowboys than Sitting Bull.

Missed appointments, having to listen to air being sucked through teeth, additional hidden extra costs on the final invoice - I've endured them all.

To compound my bathroom blues, my parents are coming over from England in two weeks, which means unless this mess is sorted out there'll be six people sharing a solitary shower and toilet.

I've got a good mind to find out where the plumbers live in Umeå and go round and crap in their toilets. If that doesn't bring them running back here with their monkey wrenches nothing will.....

* they never have

Mounting (sic) Preparations

2005-05-27T08:45:00.000+02:00

On my return from the UK at the weekend, I was walking aimlessly around Arlanda Airport when I spotted a book entitled Into Thin Air, which at a quick glance I thought was an adventure book about climbing Mount Everest.

As I'll be climbing Sweden's highest mountain in a couple of months and know bupkis about climbing, I thought this would make excellent 'research' and motivational material.

A few pages in it became apparent that this was not the motivational read I had hoped for. In fact Into Thin Air is a harrowing account of the perils of high-altitude climbing, graphically detailing an ill-fated attempt to reach Everest's summit in May 1996 which ultimately claimed 12 climbers' lives.

It's not that I hadn't realised that people die climbing mountains, it's just that I had conveniently overlooked the fact. Now the sheer scale of the task ahead is unravelling before me, I'm catching myself thinking about life assurance and wondering who'd kill the mice in the summerhouse in my absence.

So with ignorant bravardo I'm going out today to buy some crampons. I've got no idea what they are but they were mentioned repeatedly throughout Into Thin Air and so I'm sure they'll come in useful.

And if any of you know a Sherpa living in Umeå, please put him in touch.

Stockholm’s Perfect Pub Guide 2005

2005-05-26T10:35:00.000+02:00

I know what some of you are thinking. Writing a pub guide for a country that supposedly:

a) doesn't encourage drinking
b) has no indigenous pub culture (try saying that after you’ve been in one)
c) is full of people that don't drink out at all on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays

is a little like writing a guide about Finnish comedians. On the face of it there seems little point.

But that’s where you’d be wrong. Over the past few years several excellent Swedish pubs have been quietly fermenting away, and now offer selections of beer, whisky and wine that you’ll find hard to rival anywhere else in the world.

And how do I know all this? Well, for the past six years I have worked as an export manager for a British brewery, a job which has required me to travel round most of Europe (and nearly all of Stockholm) drinking in pubs.

As you can imagine, it’s been a tough assignment, but I’ve selflessly decided to lay my liver on the line so that you good people don’t have to.

I’m currently compiling a list of my personal top 10 pubs in Stockholm, which I’ll be posting here early next week.

However, I want this to be a group effort (and my liver can only take so much damage) which is why I need your help. Although I’ve ‘researched’ dozens of pubs in Stockholm, I have by no means seen them all. Therefore, if there are any pubs you feel should be in the top 10, then please post a comment with the pub’s name and your reasons why it should be included.

If you’ve got happy memories of a pub while on holiday in Stockholm, or if you want to try and get a free pint by telling your local pub landlord you’ve nominated him for this guide (good luck with that) then start posting your suggestions right away!

To get you going, here are a few personal definitions of a perfect pub:

A place where you DON’T have to pay to put your coat in!
A place that serves a good selection of beers/wines/whiskies.
A place where the staff know what they’re serving and give professional, friendly service.
A place that actively builds a sense of community.
A place to meet friends and make new ones.
Any place that sells pickled eggs in opened packets of Salt and Vinegar flavoured crisps (although I concede this is a rather personal definition).

You'll Never Walk Alone!

2005-05-26T09:36:00.000+02:00

Which is just as well, because after last night's amazing football match I needed help walking back home from the pub.

To be honest there have been very few times in my life when I've wished I had been born in Liverpool. Last night was one of them.

Liverpool's incredible comeback from three goals down against Milan to clinch the Champions League final on penalties was one of those rare sporting moments when the game became larger than the players taking part, greater even than the game itself.

It was pure, uncensored, unpasteurised, raw sport at its very best - a "do you remember where you were when...." night.

As a tribute to all my scouser brothers and sisters I'll be listening to the Beatles all day long up here in the North of Sweden, despite the fact I’m feeling as sick as a parrot after last night’s celebrations.

And to my brother, who has supported Manchester United for the past 30-something years I tell you this.

I will hunt you, I will track you down, I will find you no matter where you hide, and when I do I will rub this victory in your face for the next 30 years.

For once the bragging rights belong in Sweden!!!!

Out of the mouth of babes...

2005-05-23T13:36:00.000+02:00

Totally unrelated to living in Sweden, but thought you'd like this one anyway.

During the past two weeks we've taken the dummy (a pacifier to all my friends living stateside) away from our three-year-old daughter.

Despite some initial resistence, she's adapted remarkably well. As a reward, I told her the story of how when Tom, her older brother, was clever enough to throw away all his dummies, mummy and daddy bought him a special present.

"So it's only fair we get you a little something too", I explained to her, as she nodded fervently.

"You can have anything at all, as long as it's only a small thing. So what would you like us to buy you"?

My daughter looked at me with big eyes, pondered her options for a brief moment and then replied with an assured tone.

"A dummy daddy".

It appears, my darling daughter, you've already got one of those.

- - - Results Service- - -Results Service- - -

2005-05-23T11:25:00.000+02:00

Darren 3-0 Mice

Istanbul-shit

2005-05-19T08:48:00.000+02:00

Waiting for your luggage to plop onto the conveyor belt at London Heathrow is never fun.

It gets downright boring when, after an hour, you realise you're the only one still waiting and your suitcase is nowhere to be seen.

So off I go to stand in another queue at the SAS Arrival Services. I'm on first name terms with all the staff there as this is the seventh time SAS has conspired to lose my luggage.

I'm told they're having 'difficulty locating my suitcase at present' but they'll forward it on as soon as possible.

That was last night. This morning I'm just about to go into a European marketing meeting with a loads of corporate suits wearing a pair of jeans and a Pac-man T-shirt. Due to a complete lack of toiletries I smell like a prostitute's handbag and my hair has contorted itself into a style Vidal Sasson would marvel at

On the bright side SAS have rung to inform me they've now located my bag - in Istanbul. It will be arriving, via Frankfurt - later on today.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Flying Visit

2005-05-17T12:52:00.000+02:00

It's been a while since I sat on a bar stool at my local pub in England, caught up on some hometown gossip with the old lads (affectionately known as the 'coffin dodgers') and got my top lip curled around a pint of cask-conditioned Master Brew Bitter.

So I'm really looking forward to flying off to Blighty tomorrow morning for some much-needed bacon and eggs, Indian takeaways and Marmite on toast washed down with mugs of PG-tips tea.

In my excitement I've even checked Google's 10-day weather forecast to discover it's going to piss down non-stop the entire time I'm there.

Perfect!

Climbing Mountains

2005-05-16T17:03:00.000+02:00

Something happened to me over the weekend. For the first time in a while, I listened to myself.

I don’t want to sound overly melodramatic, but I’ve had this growing, gnawing thought that I’m not doing enough with my life, not testing my potential. The thought that I’m jogging when I could be running, settling for a low-calorie life when I could have a full-fat one.

Normally I’m great at ignoring this thought, well-practised at burying it away for a few more months.

But then I found out a very close friend of mine got breast cancer.

Just like that.

Well she’s going to be OK, they caught the cancer early, but it meant the thought came back, only this time it was louder than ever before, harder to ignore.

So this weekend I listened to the thought, and now I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do ever since I moved to Sweden.

I’m going to climb Kebnekaise, Sweden’s highest mountain.

Now at 2113 m it isn’t exactly K2 or Mount Everest. But it’s still a 60 km walk up and down. Considering I often have difficulty climbing out of bed, I think it’s a reasonable challenge.

The reason I’m telling you all this is that I’m worried if I keep this to myself the thought will start getting quieter and other thoughts will drown it out. So I’m posting this statement of intent to remind myself why climbing this mountain is so important to me.

I’m setting out in late August, and I’ll be blogging my way up the mountain with real-time picture and text updates from my mobile phone so those of you who are interested can stay in touch.

To my close friend, just look what you’ve made me do.

Thank you x

Help the fight against breast cancer by clicking here

2005-05-13T14:39:00.000+02:00

This is a message to all the mice that are currently living in my summerhouse.

I'm not sure whether you'll read this, but I thought it only fair to warn you that your days of crapping in my kitchen are coming to an end.

I reached breaking point this morning when I discovered the inexcusable mess you made of my wife's favourite oven glove.

I've paid to heat an empty summerhouse all winter so the water pipes wouldn't freeze, so I feel I've done my bit towards your continued survival. Now the snow has melted it's about time you all buggered off outside again.

The traps are going down this weekend and I'm baiting them with Västerbottens Ost, which you all know is the finest cheese in the whole of Sweden.

You have been warned!!!!!

2005-05-11T08:42:00.000+02:00

Since posting my last article Five things I'll never understand about Swedes (as long as I live here) I've taken the precaution of changing my identity.
And to all you raggare out there - I really dig the Dixie Chicks man *cough, cough*

Five things I'll never understand about Swedes (however long I live here)

2005-05-11T07:00:00.000+02:00

1. That in a country with one of the most active anti-alcohol movements in Europe, every Swede I've ever met knows at least five drinking songs word for word. I come from a country where we drink like fish and I only know one drinking song. It's called Roll out the Barrel, and I can only manage to get to the second verse before I start humming.

2. Swedes that are raggare - excuse me for pointing this out, but you live in the North of Europe, not Texas. Don't you think cruising through town in classic American cars with a boot (or should I say trunk) full of beer while dressed up in denim and cowboy boots seems, well, a little out of place? It's as though you missed the boat a hundred years ago. I'm sure if petrol was the equivalent of 10 SEK a litre in the States, all Americans would be driving Ford Focus combis anyway. So burn the Shania Twain CDs and buy some sensible Swedish music, like a Kramgoa Låter album.

3. Swedes who buy Kramgoa Låter albums - For a country with an enviable international reputation for producing some of today's most popular artists and hits, why do you continue to listen to music that died out in the 1950s? These compilations of wedding singer songs really are pretty awful. I'm very sorry, but I just don't understand you and I never will.

4. Swedes who pick berries - for fun. I don't know about the rest of Sweden, but up here people go berry-crazy in the autumn. Now if you're an unemployed Polish steel worker (where the average monthly wage is under 5,000 SEK) I can understand the motivation for seeking rich pickings. But for the rest of you, you can buy conveniently packaged frozen berries at ICA and avoid all the back-breaking work and mosquitoes flying up your nose. Berry pickers - I don't understand you.

5. Swedes who use rullskidor in the summer. Hello, the snow's melted. Just accept this fact and either a) move somewhere 4,000 metres or more above sea level, or b) find a less conspicuous way of excercising during the summer months that doesn't make you a traffic hazard.

Coming soon....I don't want people to get the impression I don't like anything about Sweden. so I'll be posting 7 Things I Love about Living in Umeå!

Three Swedish things I find difficult to swallow

2005-05-10T22:56:00.000+02:00

Now with a few more suggestions.....

1.Messmör – There’s a reason this stuff is left over in the cheese-making process. It’s practically inedible, however much sugar you add to it. OK, so theoretically it’s good for you. But then so is dog food, and you won’t catch me spreading that on my toast either.

2. Palt – Have heard this described as Swedish comfort food. I can’t think of anything comfortable about eating a cannonball-sized lump of paper mache with a disappointingly meagre amount of chopped pork (it is pork isn’t it?) hidden deep inside. As close to eating an elephant’s testicle as I imagine I’ll ever get.

3. Surströmming – I don’t care what anyone says, these baby Baltic herrings are rotting, not fermenting. The very idea of letting fish fester in a tin for over a year until it virtually explodes amazes me. And the smell, oh sweet lord the smell. Combine the stink of putrid water from the bottom of a plastic rubbish bag left out in the rain for a week with the waft of a portable toilet at the end of a two-day heavy metal rock festival and you’re close – but not quite there.

4. blodpudding - Ask the children if they want some pudding and watch their faces when you give them a plate of this. (It stays dark up here for a loooooong long time. I have to find some way to amuse myself...)

5. lutfisk - cod left to dry out for several weeks, then re-hydrated to achieve a delicious consistancy reminiscent of wallpaper paste . Another perfectly good reason why Christmas should only be celebrated once a year.

6. Saltlakrits - Couldn't agree more. They're supposed to be sweets for goodness sake. Salted tyre rubber more like.

Thanks to Shazzer, Stjude and heartofclarky for the tips

Got any more suggestions for the list? Let me know and I’ll include them!

Tommorrow – Five things I’ll never understand about Swedes (however long I live here)

2005-05-09T14:44:00.000+02:00

This is me with one of the best things I've ever discovered in Sweden - the cheese slicer. I've been sending these ingenious devices over to the UK as presents every Christmas since the new millennium.

Swedish Beer - A Survival Guide Part 2

2005-05-08T22:31:00.000+02:00

On the first day of induction into the EU in 1995 the Swedish Government was forced to abolish the law prohibiting the sale of any beer above 5.6%. At the same time the state monopoly on importing alcohol was withdrawn, allowing private companies free range to source beers from around the world.

This sudden exposure to new beer styles and flavours has had a dramatic effect on the modern Swedish beer industry.

Encouraged by a revitalised interest in beer, a new generation of micro-breweries have begun emerging, offering a real variety of styles and, at long last, taste.

The president of one such micro-brewery, Peter Emilson from the Nils Oscar Brewery is optimistic that the stor stark syndrome will finally be consigned to history.

“I believe Swedish people are more open to experimenting with beers than ever before” he said, adding that the success of wine and whisky in recent years was something the Swedish beer producers needed to try and emulate.

“In only a few years the public has become very knowledgeable about wine and whisky, but the general knowledge of beer has not yet reached that level. We need to learn from their successes”.

Nils Oscar is typical of the post-EU beer revival. Started in 1996 in Kungsholmen, Stockholm by six beer enthusiasts, it claims to be the only brewery in Sweden that helps grow its own barley and roasts its own malt.

The brewery’s best-selling God (‘Good’) Lager, a 5.3% abv straw yellow, hoppy lager with a big barley bouquet. But arguably the brewery’s finest beers deviate from the traditional pilsner style and demonstrate Nil Oscar’s brewery versatility.

Nils Ocar Imperial Stout is a wonderful example of a deliciously dark, richly roasted stout, which makes an ideal companion to oysters and other shellfish, as well as sweet deserts. The brewery’s Barley Wine won its category in the 2000 World Beer Cup in New York, which featured 1,100 different types of beer from 370 breweries from around the world.

Another of Sweden’s most respected micro-breweries is also one of its smallest. With a full-time staff of just four, Jämtland Brewery based in Pilgrimstad manages to produce an impressive range of ten bottle-conditioned beers.

Since starting up in 1996, Jämtlands Brewery has been busy collecting awards for its beers. During the past five years at the Stockholm Beer Festival, Scandinavia’s premier beer event, this tiny privately-run brewery has amassed a staggering 40 gold, 18 silver and 10 bronze medals for its unconventional beers.

And it’s not just the brewery’s beers that are unconventional. Head brewer David Jones is an Englishman who calls brewing beer “more of a passion than a profession”.

He is largely responsible for creating what has been called the new Swedish lager style with Hell, a 5.4% abv copper coloured lager with a strong hop finish and fruity aroma.

“Hell is a lager that has all the virtues of an English ale” says David.

If drinking Hell is considered too sinful, there is a more saintly alternative in Heaven, a somewhat darker beer with distinct chocolate and coffee tones. Mixed together they make a potent drink affectionately known as a ‘God Damn it’.

Another notable Jämtland beer is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a fruity English ale called Pilgrim, winner of seven gold medals and a testament to how Swedish drinkers are increasingly willing to embrace new styles from around the world.

David is also very positive about the future for Sweden’s micro-breweries. “The monopoly of the big Swedish brewing giants has actually opened the door for us to provide people searching for something completely different – craft beers with exciting tastes”.

Inspiration from a trip to the USA led to the opening in 1995 of another of Sweden’s emerging micro-breweries – Slottkällans Bryggeri in Uppsala.

Based around 50 kilometres north of Stockholm, the dedicated team at Slottkällens produce an impressive range of unpasteurised beers with names such as Dublin, London, Prag (Prague) and Wein that hint at their diverse styles.

It’s clear the Swedish micro-breweries are coming out fighting in their battle against bland beer. And it’s a fight they appear to be winning.

Swedish Beer - A Survival Guide Part 1

2005-05-06T20:37:00.000+02:00

I confess I may be somewhat absent-minded but at least I know the phrase "you couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery" can never be applied to me.

That's because for the past five years I have worked as the Export Manger for a large regional British brewery, spending most of my time taking bar owners and importers from Scandinavia on 'eduational tours' of the facilities in England (see above).

In many ways getting Swedes, Danes and Finns drunk has been an ideal job. It doesn't take long and the success rate is steady at 100%.

Over the years I have often been asked my opinion on Swedish beer. I've always thought it's like asking someone their opinion on China's human rights record. It isn't good.

But then, at last year's Stockholm Beer Festival, I began paying closer attention to the growing number of small Swedish micro-breweries emerging with an exciting range of beer styles and tastes.

Like Forest Gump I sometimes have occasional moments of clarity. During one of them I decided to write this rather sensible article about the current state of the Swedish beer scene, why it got as bad as it did, and what the future holds for Swedish beer drinkers.

It's rather long, so I've cut it in half and will post the rest if anyone is brave enough to trawl through it and wants to read more......

Are micro-breweries the cure for Sweden's Stor Stark Syndrome?

What comes from Sweden, is easy to assemble, mass-produced, pretty to look at but often lacking in substance? No, I'm not talking about furniture from IKEA. I'm talking about Swedish beer.

The effects of over a century of frenzied anti-alcohol politics, a devastating Government-backed 'rationalisation' of the Swedish brewing industry in the 60s and 70s and one of the highest levels of alcohol taxes in the world have all taken their toll on this once ambitious beer-producing nation.

In a recently published guide to the world's top 500 beers, Sweden gets a single solitary mention (even Namibia gets more). Ironically it is for Carnegie Porter, a rugged, tasty stout which until the 1950s could only be prescribed by a doctor, and which brand owner Pripps tried to scrap in the late 1970s until public protests bought it back to the shelves.

But perhaps the most telling measure of how low the expectations of Swedish beer drinkers have sunk for their own beer is by the way they order it - automatically asking for a 'stor stark' (quite literally 'big and strong').

Having given up years ago trying to differentiate their beers by taste, many Swedes simply do it by strength and price - the higher and cheaper the better.

It was a very different picture in Sweden in the early 1840s, when the introduction of bottom-fermenting beer by Fredrik Rosenqvist marked the beginning of a revival in beer consumption among a population of traditionally heavy spirit drinkers

Rosenqvist had spent time travelling through Germany, where he studied brewing methods. On his return home he rented a small brewery in Södermalm in Stockholm and put his new found knowledge to good use. In 1843 Sweden's first lager was launched.
Other breweries soon imitated Rosenqvist's beer and a distinct Swedish lageröl style quickly developed.

Lageröl was pale brown or dark amber in colour and relatively lightly hopped, with an alcohol content of around 5.5%. This style of beer, in the form of Bayerskt, is still popular in Sweden today.

Pils was introduced into Sweden in the 1870s. First, unsuccessfully, in 1876 by Alfred Sandwall in Borås. A year later, Franz Heiss, who had studied in Pilsen, started brewing a pilsener-bier in Stockholm. It was paler and much more bitter than the lageröl being produced, but the public quickly adapted to the new taste and it soon became the dominant beer style in Sweden.

The resulting upsurge in beer production reached a crescendo in the beginning of the 20th century, with 240 breweries in operation.

Since then, however, Swedish society has done practically everything it can to dismantle its brewing industry. And it very nearly succeeded.

First to attack was the temperance movement, formed in the early 1900s as a reaction to the increasingly widespread abuse of spirits.

The movement lobbied hard for total prohibition, and triggered a referendum in 1922 calling for the banning of all alcoholic drinks over 2.25%. An acrimonious campaign by pro and anti campaigners deeply divided the nation, creating social taboos surrounding the consumption of alcohol which are still very evident today.

The victory by those opposing prohibition, with the narrowest of margins - 51% to 49% against - was a hollow one. The real winner was the temperance movement, which although it didn't yet know it, had already delivered a near knock-out blow to Sweden's beer culture.

Wary of the rising influence of the anti-alcohol movement, the Swedish Government began moves to regulate the brewing industry. In the first half of the century the Svenska Bryggeriföreningen (the Swedish Brewers Society) strictly controlled competition by handing out local monopolies confining breweries to sell within a certain radius of their premises.

Prevented from trading beyond the boundaries of their local markets, the only way for breweries to expand was to buy other breweries. As a result, midway through the 20th century, the total number of breweries had fallen sharply to 115, of which 66 were owned by just 16 brewing groups.

This round of consolidation continued in 1955, when the local monopoly system was abolished and breweries were allowed to sell their beers anywhere in the country. For the smaller breweries, their protected local markets suddenly became vulnerable to the larger groups.

Two in particular, AB Stockholms Bryggerier and AB Pripps and Lyckholm, set about buying up and closing down breweries with remarkable speed. By 1963, they joined forces to create a brewing giant operating 35 plants that controlled two thirds of the Swedish beer market.

A decade later just a dozen brewing groups owned the 25 breweries left in Sweden. Fast forward to 1992 and seven companies owned the remaining 12 breweries. A once thriving beer industry was struggling against the ropes.

With so little brewing diversity the country was flooded with bland, heavily processed and excessively taxed Pilsner-style beers.

All hope seemed lost until an unlikely saviour came along to rescue Sweden's beer culture - the European Community.

Next post.....They may think Swedish strawberries are too small, but the Europrats in Brussels inadvertantly revive the Swedish Beer industry, and I tell you which of the country's micro-breweries and beers to look out for.

Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin - Stanislaw J. Lec (1909 - 1966)

2005-05-04T11:39:00.000+02:00

Ever since I was a teenager I've dreamed of writing a book about the trials and tribulations of living life in a foreign country. As France in my youth had been a source of great fascination to me I had envisaged entitling my book along the lines of "Lazy days in Languedoc", "Mad About Medoc" or perhaps even "An Englishman With Nothing Toulouse".

To be honest, I didn't really care what the book was called, as long as my trials and tribulations involved cycling to fetch warm baguettes from the bolangerie on crisp spring mornings, drinking endless dusty bottles of exceptional red wine and spending countless days wasting hours in tiny village cafes with the Pastis boys.

However, something happened that radically changed the title of my book.

I moved to Sweden.

And not just to the comfortable, metropolitan south of Sweden, but to a place called Umeå, which nestles just below the artic circle, where winters last five months, gun-totting middle-aged men in red baseball caps still hunt elks and the mosquitoes are so large they would be required to fly in a holding pattern over any major airport.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't initially disappointed with the direction my life had taken me. But then slowly, despite considerable reluctance on my part, the Swedish way of life began to grow on me. Soon I was singing Bellman drinking songs and hammering back snaps, dancing around penis-shaped maypoles under a midnight sun and even contemplating taking my swimming trunks off in a sauna.

I quickly became captivated by the hostile beauty of the region and the stark contrasts of the seasons, the friendly nature of the Swedish people and their iron-clad conviction that they live in the finest country in the world. The proliferation of cable porn channels were, I confess, something of a bonus.

So at long last here's some glimpses of my 'work in progress'. I've exchanged the red wine for aquavit and the baguettes for herrings but I hope you'll enjoy the journey all the same.

First impressions

2005-05-03T12:20:00.000+02:00

As I sat at 35,000 feet hurtling at great speed towards the north of Sweden I stared down at the raw lump of herring and wondered whether I was really supposed to eat it or call the stewardess and ask her to put a parachute on it and throw it back into the sea.

Eventually, my hunger and curiosity won over, and I ate what I later found out to be my first ever bit of sill. I recall making a mental note to myself that if all food tastes like this in Sweden, next time I visit I’ll bring sandwiches.

However, the next ten minutes sitting in the toilets situated at the front of the plane did give me time to reflect on the rather bizarre events of the past few months.

Until recently I had been happy running a small company managing corporate events and exhibitions throughout Europe. When an unexpected opportunity to sell the company came up, I took the money and spent the next couple of months doing nothing other than wondering how to spend it.

The answer came just a few days later, when a Swedish girl I’d briefly meet while working in Norway rang me out of the blue to tell me that she and her girlfriend were out Euro-railing, in England and that I should put the kettle on.

As I waited for them to arrive I frantically tried to piece together everything I knew about Sweden.

And that’s when the problems started. I quickly realised the only experience I’d ever had of Sweden was through the pages of my older brother’s rather extensive collection of pornographic magazines.

As I didn’t think this would be a particularly suitable opening topic of conversation, I struggled to think of something else I knew about the country.

Of course, I was convinced like everyone else in Britain that all Swedes spoke like the Chef off of the Muppet Show, that they drove very safe, if somewhat boring looking cars and that the greatest contributions Sweden had made to the modern world were dynamite, Anni-Frid, Agnetha, Benny and Björn.

As it later turned out, I was greatly misinformed. The Chef from the Muppet Show is clearly Norwegian and Volvos can be sexy. Just don’t park one next to a Porsche.

The bit about dynamite and Abba still holds true though.

Learning the språk

2005-05-02T12:24:00.000+02:00

It could have been the beer I suppose, but somehow I managed to talk my way into spending Christmas with my new found love in Sweden.

Eager to impress, I decided to try and master a few Swedish phrases before departing for the northern city of Umeå (which I pronounced you-me-a). However, a quick search of the high street book stores produced nothing.

If I had wanted to learn ‘Business Swahili for Beginners’, or perhaps get to grips with ‘Tibetan Tongue Twisters’ I’d have been in luck. Swedish, at least in the little corner of England I occupied, had apparently ceased to exist. I’d have to dig deeper.

At my local library I struck gold. Hidden among the shelves in the back of the building where people normally only went to look at the saucy pictures in biology books I found it – in mint pristine condition and rather optimistically entitled ‘Learn Swedish in Three Months’.

I figured as there were just six weeks to go before Christmas, I could at least learn half the language. That should impress her enough to lead me into the bedroom. If that didn’t work, I could always resort to my usual technique of begging.

I returned home with my book and spent the next few hours feverishly flipping through the pages. What I saw horrified me.

It quickly became obvious that the author of the book was either completely mad or Norwegian – I still have difficulty separating the two – and therefore had something of a head start.

I’ll confess I didn’t pay as much attention at school as I perhaps should have, but one thing that had been successfully drilled into me was that the alphabet consisted of 26 letters. The Romans had designed it this way, and if it was good enough for Caesar, then it was good enough for me.

But apparently not good enough for the Swedes, who had thrown in three more letters for good measure and decorated them with little dots and circles.

Not only that, but the number of vowels had suddenly increased from five to nine, all my favourite diphthongs had disappeared and there wasn’t a single word to be found (excusing names) that began with the letter W.

How, I thought, did a Swede ever manage to spend a wild weekend away, take 40 winks after a wearisome walk through the woods, or ever figure out which one is which. How, I wondered, could they ever wonder?

To achieve the correct pronunciation of these new found vowels required me to perform the oral gymnastics of a trumpet player with a mouthful of marbles. My face became painfully contorted, resembling that of a man trying to pass wind in a church or a young child that had just been told that Santa Claus was actually the insurance salesman who lived next door. It was not a pretty sight.

Only bad clothes

2005-05-01T12:27:00.000+02:00

When I was a young boy I went to a primary school where they enforced a strict rule that knee-high shorts had to be worn from June through to October – regardless of the weather.

During the summer this didn’t particularly matter, but by the middle of September, when the wind often turned and blew straight in from the North Sea, my matchstick legs had a habit of turning light blue and I found it increasingly difficult to compete in egg and spoon races.

I thought this miserable experience had taught me the true meaning of being cold. The second I stepped off the plane in Sweden, I knew I had a lot more to learn.

Now I’m no stranger to snow. I can clearly remember the bitter winters of 1984 and 1987, when the south east of England shivered in artic conditions. For five days a colossal 10cm of snow fell on top of us and temperatures plummeted to minus 5 degrees.

The snow had a dramatic and instant effect on our nation. Hysterical housewives rushed to the shops to stock up on tins of baked beans, sausages and loaves of bread in order to feed their families during the onslaught of the next ice age. Rationing, not seen since the end of WWII, was reintroduced to ensure everyone could have a decent breakfast.

The road and rail networks collapsed under the strain of it all. Snow on the rail lines meant the electricity required to power the trains fizzed, crackled and seeped uselessly into the surrounding countryside.

The police and the Automobile Association broadcast hourly bulletins to the nation, warning them not to attempt any journey unless it was absolutely necessary.

I remember my father asking me whether the fact it was 15 minutes till closing time at the local pub constituted an absolute emergency. We both agreed it did, and with a sense of great purpose set off in our Land Rover. As one of the few families with a four-wheel drive, we got further than most, crawling our way along country lanes littered with abandoned cars, whose owners had obviously given up all hope of achieving forward motion. We later found most of them sitting at the bar, where they spent the next three days until the weather improved.

Much to the delight of the nation’s youth, almost every school in the south east closed, as boilers broke and water pipes burst. Every morning for the next two weeks gleeful pupils would tune in to the radio to hear the latest School Report, hoping their school would be on the list of those who had an impromptu ice skating rink in the assembly hall.

I genuinely thought I had come to Sweden well prepared for whatever the weather could throw at me. My concerned mother had bought me a rather fetching Marks & Spencer matching two-piece thermal underwear set and some thick socks, and I had managed to borrow a skiing jacket off a friend who had been to the Alps and, against all expectations, had managed to return.

This jacket was a Jackson Pollock-inspired work of art, covered with patches of purple, lime green and orange. Rather than being lined with Gore-Tex™ , it was lined with Bangalore-Tex ™, a cheap Indian imitation which rather than seal in my body heat and let moisture out, sealed in all the moisture while allowing my body heat to dissipate rapidly into the artic air.

So fluorescent was this jacket that fisherman casting in their lines off the Finnish coast could clearly be seen waving to me across the Baltic Bay. I took cold comfort from the thought that although I would most probably freeze to death wearing it, the rescue services would inevitably find my body.

Coming soon... More than one hundred people have been cryopreserved since the procedure was first introduced in 1967. Although it currently costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to achieve this frozen state, I discover a cheaper way of attaining eternal life.