My crush on Stephen Merchant

Well it's week two in London and in my new job at a large media corporation. I am staying at a flat in Queens Park which is possibly the most multicultural I have ever lived in - two Australians, a Kiwi, two Frenchies and a mysterious Chinese girl who I have never met but allegedly lives in the room next door to me. I swore I'd never live in a house that in any way resembled The Young Ones, but it has happened, and to my dismay I'm actually the oldest person in the house. I'm sure Irina is smirking at that back in Stockholm (both of which I'm missing terribly - Irina and Sthlm).

My tiny room (with the comforting Swedish presence of IKEA furniture) is a constant mess, and I have not yet mastered the art of British bathrooms (anyone who read my blogs from Korea or saw my photos from Japan will know that I have a thing with bathrooms and their varying national idiosyncracies. Bathrooms are just so important to get right. I'm tempted to wander over to Ben and Erin's for some bathing, and of course, a chance to find out Erin's top-secret guacamole recipe which I, deposed Mexican Food Queen, must get my hands on to regain the throne!)

But, as usual, I digress. Exciting moment for the week: my brushes with the stars continue, although this one from a little further afar than Neil Finn. This week it was my mission to report on an interview at a company event, featuring Stephen Merchant, the 2-metre tall co-creator of The Office (aka Oggy, friend of nerd Gareth).

Merchant revealed his sources of inspiration: Ricky Gervais - joking that 'he comes up with the ideas, I just put my name on the credits'; Clint Eastwood's Bridges Over Madison County - a film I'm sorry to say is a contender for Missy M's Worst Film of All Time and is only narrowly beaten out by 'Batman and Robin' and 'Streetfighter' (sorry Kyles) for sheer formulaicness, and of course anything with David Caruso in it for cringe-worthiness; lavatories (Ah! we had something in common!) and social awkwardness. He gave a very interesting insight into the difference between laughing at social awkwardness and shallow political correctness rather than the vehicles of that awkwardness, such as disabilities.

I also liked his interpretation of his role on 24, when he was cast as a computer geek - total screen time 4 seconds. 'I don't know much about computers, so I just imagined myself doing some light admin. You know, typing up some expenses for people, maybe making a MySpace page for Jack Bauer'.

After complaining that women weren't exactly throwing themselves at him (I am guessing this is probably because most of us are half his height and I for one am sick of risking my ankles wearing Kylie-esque heels to work in an attempt not to get lost on the Tube), he was asked if it was true that men enjoyed the 'thrill of the chase' when it came to finding the perfect girl. 'That's just something girls say so they don't have to do any of the work, it's a complete myth!' he scoffed. 'If a girl came up and asked me to meet them in the toilets in 5 minutes, I'm not going to say no.' Hmmm. The toilets again. Feeling charmed despite the constant lavatory references, I shuffled my copious and disorganised notes and went off in search of an internet connection to file my report. As I headed to the green room, who should I see but Mr Merchant himself chatting outside the green room door - tantalisingly close to the roomy disabled toilets.

For one split second I considered doing what my journalistic mentor Sara Holden would call 'taking one for the team' and taking Mr Merchant up on his offer, just to see what he would say. Was it a sackable offence to fraternise with the talent? Or was it my duty to go where no rookie web-journalist had gone before (as far as I knew - possible exception for those stationed on Greenpeace ships). Then again, Australians have such a reputation in London for dancing on tables and taking their kit off, an image I really didn't want to contribute to no matter how indirectly or for how good a cause.

In the end, my modest and moral nature won out over curiousity and awe at comic genius, and I headed for the business lounge to fire up the laptop. But I am dying to know what he would have said.

Things I Miss About Sweden: The Sounds

My new(ish) musical obsession, The Sounds. I missed seeing them in London and now I'm going to miss seeing them in Sweden. Reminds me of dancing around the living room on Drakenbergsgatan with Irina at 5am. I also miss the daily songs my Swedish friend Ludvig used to send me via Skype. Tragically, Skype is banned at my new job - something that has inspired me to revolution and prompted certain Greenpeacers to predict that in 40 years from now, staff at this company will be wearing Che Guevara tshirts except it will be my face...now there's a design challenge, my graphically inclined friends!

Talking about the weather with...Neil Finn

Well, here I am in London and I must apologise for my vague writings today but it has been rather tiring. Day 1 was pretty surreal. Irina and I were no doubt still drunk (and tear-stained) as we made our way to the airport, and so I arrived in a kind of fog with vague memories of "ballroom" dancing with my friends and singing to Dolly Parton -- the whole of Stockholm seemingly succumbed to Dolly Parton fever as a result of her tour -- a mere few hours earlier. My old friends Ben and Erin organised a veritable welcoming party of two, and JonJon picked us up from the tube station in a large silver Vectra with the most annoying navigation system voiceover in the world (I have dubbed her Morag, which I feel is a suitable blend of sternness and obedience and conjures up the right size of hair: big). Morag is impossible to silence.

Anyway, astute blog readers may have noticed that my blog is named after a Crowded House song. Upon arriving here, my lovely friend JonJon whisked me off to Peter Gabriel's studios, Real World, out near Bath, for a webcast gig with the reincarnated Crowded House, their first in ten years. In a bizarre moment, we arrived in Jonathan's rented flashy Vectra and despite my adjustment to Scandinavian weather I realised how cold it is here. Shivering, I opened the first available door to find Neil Finn (Crowded House singer, for the uninitiated) sitting in front of me tuning a guitar. "Come in, " he said, "it's freezing out there". JonJon had failed to inform me how well he knew the band, and immediately introduced me much to my surprise. Neil then kindly offered me a glass of wine. "Thanks," I said. "I moved here from Sweden today and can't believe how bloody cold it is!" Neil looked sympathetic. "It's just a cold snap," he said. "It's even supposed to snow on Monday". More people shuffled in and I wandered off with some new friends to get some wine. Suddenly it hit me...I had just talked about the weather with Neil Finn. Of all people. I rolled my eyes at myself. Thank God I didn't ask him if he'd brought the weather with with him.

Tom (new friend who is strangely and purely coincidentally the brother of an old friend) and I headed off to the toilet, an experience we found quite hilarious considering its famous owner. ("I just sprayed Air-Wick in Peter Gabriel's toilet!" became our gleefully whispered catch-phrase of the evening).

Ushered into the studio, we were offered a bass guitar case to sit on. "Shouldn't we go upstairs?" I asked someone official-looking. "God no, that's for the plebs," he said dryly. Quite surprised at my new non-pleb status, I gladly took my seat behind the bass amp. (In another potentially fate-revealing coincidence, bassist Nick had worked with my aforementioned friend Ben. I said hello to Nick and also informed him that thanks to his dubious fashion advice, I was now subjected to walking around London with Ben bedecked in the most horrible pair of brown tortoiseshell 1980s Ray Bans ever. He seemed unrepentant about inflicting this on me. So does Ben.).

The gig itself was fantastic, although knowing that thousands of people were watching you was a little disconcerting every time the camera swung near, and I lived in fear of tripping over a wire and spilling red wine over the drumkit and ruining JonJon's career. Luckily, someone else did the wine spilling for me (well, smashed a glass all over the floor. I'm not sure yet whether a slow-mo replay is available courtesy of the webcast, we have to try and obtain a DVD of it). JonJon's career is however happily intact.

It was truly magical to sit in a room with people who so clearly loved what they were doing. Not to mention realising that I was sitting with good friends - new and old - and that it felt perfectly ok to be here in London. The fact that Crowded House is Antipodean (I'm being diplomatic, Kiwi readers) was particularly comforting.

But I am still "home"sick for Sweden. Today Jonathan and I took the flashy Vectra shopping, attempting to impersonate an affluent London couple although probably failing after our completely unconventional parking methods at IKEA (the Vectra was 20% in the parking space, 80% in the flower bed). IKEA made me ridiculously sentimental. Enthusiastically I raced into the supermarket section searching in vain for my beloved risgrynsgröt. They had none, but they DID have nypon and blueberry soppa, snaps, kanelbullar, bilar sweets ("cars"- the packet proclaims they are the "most bought car in Sweden", and no doubt easier to park than large flashy Morag-mobiles) and various other delicacies which I eagerly purchased. The cashier took one look at my odd collection of food and decided I had to be Swedish. She started speaking away at me and to my amazement, quite a lot of Swedish came out of my mouth. The poor girl had only been in London for 2 months but was homesick. I sympathised and then perhaps rather cruelly pulled out my very Swedish credit card. She nearly cried. By this stage Jonathan was very bored so I applied the Swedish solution of 10 miniature bottles of snaps, which hopefully has gone some way towards repaying him for a perfect start to my London adventures.

But back to the weather - the forecast for tomorrow has been downgraded to "hail showers". As my new flatmate, Alex, remarked, obviously hail here does not mean the golf-ball size chunks we get back home in Brisvegas. Still, "shower" is not a word I would use to describe hail. As Mr Finn would say, it's like four seasons in one day.

I Love Tax Forms

No, I haven't gone crazy. I am considering starting up a business in Sweden (ok, that bit might be crazy). Swedish friends kindly sent me the approximately several hundred required documents to peruse, translated into the kind of sensible, friendly, almost philosophical English that first so impressed me with Swedish government information. (My friend Calle thinks that I am a product of the Swedish government designed to encourage people to think that Sweden is great. No comment, Calle. ...Besides, they probably would have designed me to speak Swedish then, no?)

This is my favourite Swedish government quote, and single-handedly convinced me that I'd moved to the perfect country for me:

"Every immigrant is simultaneously an emigrant, depending on your perspective. When Vilhelm Moberg wrote his famous novels about Karl Oskar and Kristina from Duvemåla, who settled in the US, he called the first two books The Emigrants and The Immigrants although he was describing the same people." (For more inspiring literature, check out the Migrationsverket's homepage).

That's opposed to the Australian government pages which are very reticent about your chances of gaining citizenship. They actually state:

"Australian citizenship is not a right, it's a privilege".

For a country that is continuing to encourage women to have babies by offering them cash bonuses (although not paid maternity leave or free education, note, which has interesting social implications and a conspiracy theorist might predict the creation of an uneducated underclass that can easily be manipulated by the monolithic Australian media) I think it's a pretty hypocritical policy. For example if I marry someone or have kids here in Sweden, they won't automatically be Australian. I would have to go and jump through a few hoops (and probably pay off my huge educational debt, which apparently is also not a right but a privilege). Although the marriage bit is probably smart, because I'm sure that otherwise the expat male population of Australia would double overnight as every female bartender in London suddenly got themselves married to extend their visa.

Anyway, yet again I digress. While going through all those forms, this one took the cake:

"We at the Swedish Tax Agency and Swedish Enforcement Service wish you every success. Ask us if you have any queries. "

Isn't that nice? It sounds like you drop in for a cup of tea with Karl Svensson or Eva Lundquist and have a balanced, reasonable chat about your impending prison sentence for tax-evasion.

Bear in mind that was at the end of a document explaining the implications of not paying the correct tax. In Australia, the closing paragraph would no doubt have read:

"Taxes are not a privilege, they're our right. You can run but you can't hide. Pay up, bastards."


P.S. Calle also remarked that I seem obsessed with marriage lately (he can talk, he's the one who's been teasing me about that psychic lady's prediction that I will have four kids. Here's what he thinks they will look like.)

Don't worry mum, it's only because I had a very unpleasant run-in with authorities at the Spanish Embassy, where they threatened not to renew my citizenship...until I said I was single. "Oooh, are you a millionaire?" the guy asked me. Smiling mysteriously, I just filled in the forms as fast as possible (my "translator" for the day, Patrik, was very excited that we managed to "charm" the Spaniards into even giving us the forms). I guess I wasn't very convincing as a millionaire, because it's four weeks later and I still don't have an answer from the Spaniards (but considering they usually lose the first three sets of documents you give them I guess that's not surprising). But I'm getting a bit scared about my EU residency, I wonder if a cup of tea with the very reasonable people at Migrationsverket would grant me refugee status?

Scary Puppets

There are not many things I hate about Sweden, but these puppets really scare me. There is a general obsession with puppets or 3D characters in Swedish advertising, including a particularly scary one where you see an innocent woman lying in bed and then she rolls over... and a horrible 3D man is snoozing peacefully between her and her husband, looking suspiciously like he wants to spoon with the unsuspecting couple. It's the stuff of nightmares.

Anyway, the picture above is my personal horror. That woman is utterly creepy. The animated commercial is part of a series (which always seem to involve champagne - it's kind of creepy in itself, this little parental couple that seem a bit stuck in the 70s prancing around their house like Mrs Robinson from The Graduate bestowing champagne on their innocent -- and much younger -- visitors...but I digress). The second ad in the series had the "woman" above, who I see now is apparently called Gunilla, proclaiming the miraculous effect that Com Hem broadband had on her life. "We get everything off the internet!" she cries, "That chair, even Ziggy!" she points to her son-in-law, also a creepy puppet of course. And then, she breaks into a laugh that is so utterly horrifying in an inexplicable way that even David Lynch would be scared. "HO HO HO" she says, holding her belly, looking at her family's inexpressive plastic faces. (Irina has dared to impersonate that laugh in the kitchen and nearly got a bowl of pasta thrown at her head for her troubles).

To add insult to injury, Com Hem has managed to get my name out of a database somewhere. The other day, as if they knew that I cowered under a blanket every time that ad is on TV, they dared to send me an envelope featuring a LIFE SIZED photo of one of those puppets' befreckled faces (not Gunilla at least, but her deranged looking son). The thought that those puppets could have a head as big as mine, and bodies to match, makes me cringe.

I stuck the picture to Irina's bedroom door. It's still there. Which might be scarier than the puppet itself.

UPDATE:
Once again the lovely Ludvig has come to my assistance. He also hates the "in bed" guy mentioned above. Ludvig tells me the scary character's name is Robert. Ludvig has a theory that Robert is the true subject of the Avalanches hit "Frontier Psychiatrist" -- the bit where they say I'm afraid that Dexter is criminally insane. ("They keep saying Dexter, but I'm sure they mean Robert," says Ludvig). I have found the mysterious Robert, screenshotted him from his elusive background, and pasted him here for easy identification. Now tell me, would YOU sleep with this...man??



P.S. The ad is menacingly called Robert in your whole house. By their own admission, even your kids aren't safe. We warned you.

SECOND UPDATE:

I forgot to say that my allergy to Swedish advertising-puppets has one strange exception that defies medical logic.

It's these guys. I think they're cute, the way they scrunch up their little noses. Oh no, they've finally beaten down my defences and got to me haven't they?

Linus the Penis

As I prepare to say "vi ses snart" (see you soon) to Sweden, I am going to document as many of the things I love (or love-hate) about it as much as I can, in no particular order. This guy is one that's not necessarily top of the list, but sure is unique. (He goes in the love-hate pile). Now he is actually called "Linus the Line" or something, but I have to say that I'm not the only one (I hope) who thought he kind of resembled something else. He's a strange animation that pops up on publicly-funded television and encounters various um...obstacles revolving around ...ugh...a line, making noises reminiscent of cold-war era Eastern European claymation series that we used to get on ABC television in Australia in between episodes of "Astro Boy" and "Inspector Gadget". You can see my problems fitting him into some kind of theoretical socio-economic point in animation's evolution. That's all I can say really. You have to see him for yourself!

BREAKING NEWS: My friend Ludvig tells me that Linus is actually Italian. ...Explains a lot. However, he has been on Swedish TV since the 70s. Also explains just that little bit more.

Schlager!

Firstly, it's been a long time between drinks, as a certain old friend who is now a famous rock star would say. I guess I have been living in denial that I have to leave Sweden so didn't want to write about it. So today, to make up for it, I will pay tribute to an aspect of European culture that so fascinates (or repulses) Australians: Europop, and it's ultimate incarnation as SCHLAGERfest. Full disclosure: I have to admit at this point that I have a nostalgic love of such Scandinavian delights as A-Ha, although I hate the ilk of Britney Spears.

According to Wikipedia, Schlager (from the German, natch) means "something that hits" or, more loosely translated, "a hit", and is "a style of popular music that is prevalent in northern Europe". In Australia, it's known by it's common name, Eurotrash, and conjures up images of spandex-clad blonde men, although we obviously forget that we have given the world such craptacular auditory stimulation as Savage Garden (known in their hometown as Average Garden), Gina G, and the long-forgotten Collette (of "You Can Ring My Bell" fame).

Schlagerfest (or officially in Sweden, melodifestivalen) is the Pop Idol style competition that leads up to the selection for who will compete at the Eurovision Song Contest. I hate Pop Idol, but I have become strangely fascinated with Schlager.

The Swedes at least take the whole thing with tongue planted firmly in cheek. Their host is a sarcastic comedian who has actually appeared in a skimpy purple number impersonating the loser of the competition the year before. Last night, someone asked him if you could vote for two songs at once. His reply on national television? "Well, you could, but then you'd be f*cking stupid." And my personal favourite event this year was Swedish band The Ark (the lead singer of which proudly boasts he has never written a bad song) decided that the music on Schlager was crap (an opinion no doubt supported by everyone who has ever watched it) and have mounted a stunningly witty challenge including a giant winged costume, fireworks, and a bit of axe-wielding guitar choreography at the end.

Weirdly, a schoolteacher has also entered her sad little ballad. I think people voted for her because they felt sorry for her - a testament to the kind heartedness of the Swedes, because she would probably get slaughtered in competition. I base my analysis of this on the fact she reduced Irina to tears. But there must be no mercy in Schlager -- probably why the Brits are reportedly entering Morrissey to depress us all to death.

Anyway, last night I sat down to watch Schlager with my friend Stina. We were so bored after 5 minutes that we had to go and get a DVD. I am considering asking if Australia can join the EU, this way my visa issues will be solved without marrying a random Swede; the Australian socio-political situation would be forced to become more aligned with international diplomacy, we could develop balanced welfare and immigration policies and have less US-style swagger, and more importantly, we could sure shake up Schlagerfest.