Unexpected (first) life

That's Blix there in the picture. She's my alterego in Second Life, which, due to the fact my first life is so boring yet confusing at the same time, I've become quite addicted to (Ludvig will you please sign in for once!!). Blix, whose hair I am extremely jealous of, has even applied for a job at the Swedish Embassy (that's where she is in the postcard). But then today some very weird things happened, some good some bad, that reminded me that life can take some unexpected turns.

First the bad news... I heard on the grapevine that my ex-boyfriend is pregnant. Well not him personally of course, but most likely that girl who was bringing over IKEA furniture in Oslo. Looks like she had a backup plan. For some reason, this has quite upset me, and I was sneaking down to the Tesco's to get a very illicit packet of cigarettes which I have not touched since Sweden, when I saw a familiar face in the foyer from the misty depths of yesteryear (no Jonathan, it was NOT Stephen Merchant. Dammit. It was a girl for starters.).

I stared at her. She smiled politely at me. I kept staring. A look of recognition dawned on her face slowly. We both felt like we were in some kind of surreal reality tv show. Sally, my flatmate from nearly ten years ago on the other side of the planet, is working in the same building as me. In fact, directly above me in the department where I was loitering yesterday and yet we still managed to be completely oblivious to each other's existence.

I've known Sally since my days as an actress when I was an innocent young sixteen year old constantly subjected to curfews who would attempt to hide at Sally's parent-less house and hang out with the thespian Goths who frequented the local arty venues.

Who knows what this random meeting will bring, but hopefully it's a little signpost that London doesn't have to be quite so empty from now on.

Jake Gyllenhaal movie tally: 2

Insulting Jimmy Nesbitt

Another misguided foray into the world of celebrity. I was feeling a little worse for wear this morning after attending the press screening of new BBC drama Jekyll at the incredibly swanky Mayfair Hotel last night - and the inevitable free wine and canapes that accompanied it.

I'm no tv critic, but I made the mistake of freely offering my production advice over canapes (incidentally, they were mini packages of chips whose fat content probably made this morning far more bearable for many of us than it otherwise would be). I boldly commented to my new journalist friends that the main change I would make to the program would be not to show the 'Hyde' character's vampiric teeth - even going so far as to say 'it's a bit tacky'. Heresy! And they'd given us free wine and everything! Unfortunately, this came back to bite me in the... well let's just say I regretted it.

At the end of the night after probably one too many glasses of said wine my new friends from a certain women's magazine and I went to chat to the cast. As the journalist introduced me to the star James Nesbitt (who Irina and I used to watch in an Irish detective show all the time), the journo's mind went blank (she told me later). 'She doesn't like your teeth,' she blurted to him. He took it hard. 'My teeth?' he said, looking extremely crestfallen. I protested that I had meant Hyde's teeth, not Nesbitt's personally, but he was having no excuses. 'I have to text my wife now,' he said and the conversation was clearly over. I was hoping he was one of the group that a little birdie tells me was drinking at Soho House until 3.30am, so he won't remember - or will at least have drowned his sorrows. But alas the birdie has updated me and told me he left shortly after we did. Oh dear. Well he was a bit wobbly, perhaps he won't remember anyway. I am officially the worst celebrity liasion person ever. Thank God I never got that interview with Stephen Merchant.

The real star of the night was veteran executive producer Beryl Vertue - my new hero. She was what I believe can only be called The Consummate Professional - even chatting and introducing herself to nobodies like me. She worked the room with the assistance of a much-coveted Chanel handbag (judging by much younger women's envious glances...not mine though, those handbags always remind me of bed linen) and you felt you could ask her pretty much anything and get a straight answer.

I was too shy to ask her advice on how to break into the industry (my current job doesn't count). But at least I wasn't stupid enough to share my toothy opinions with her.

Alex Lloyd, fat. b*stard.

A few weeks ago, on my way to the shops in Queens Park, I saw a familiar face. A guy who looked uncannily like Australian singer-songwriter Alex Lloyd was talking loudly to a builder about the renovations on his house. I stopped and stared - could it be Alex Lloyd? Could he have followed me from Sydney where last I heard (from a glossy Sydney Morning Herald magazine) he was happily ensconced in an expensive house with a wife and kids? There *are* an unprecedented amount of Australians in Queens Park, comprising of about 97.3% of the clientele of the war-zone Sainsburys but this was getting ridiculous.

A long time ago in a university household far away I used to know a lot of bands, and manage a lovely singer. I was at a gig once where Alex Lloyd was playing, and my very English friend Andrew was commenting on the lineup. The first in his sights was a techno band called Sonic Animation. He scoffed at the musical talent on offer. 'Sonic Animation - knob twiddlers, Alex Lloyd - fat. Bastard' is how he summed up the entire show. Someone in front of Andrew turned around. 'What did you say?' he asked - it was Alex Lloyd, reducing us to fits of giggles and meaning that no-one could ever call him anything other than Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard from then on. My only other encounter with him was when my friend's band was supporting him and Mr Lloyd was singularly unconcerned with whether or not I could find said friend after the gig, looking at me as if I was a groupie. So he only earned a more persistent use of the ALFB nickname.

Anyway, this Lloyd-a-like was wearing a horrendously British tracksuit - you know, matching blue polyester Adidas a la Del Boy in 'Only Fools and Horses'. I rang Erin. 'Erin, I think I just saw Alex Lloyd in Queens Park,' I said. 'But he was wearing this horrendous polyester tracksuit... could it be him?' 'It's weird you say that,' Erin replied. Apparently she had started singing an Alex Lloyd song to herself for no reason while walking down Salusbury Road and realised now it was because she'd seen a Lloyd-a-like too.

We forgot about this, but yesterday I was at local jazz joint Hugo's having a vino or two with an Australian friend Mia and, like some kind of scary clone, the Lloyd-a-like complete with blue tracksuit walked out of Hugo's with a cold beer - despite the fact he didn't seem to have walked in at at any point - and besides, who* goes to a restaurant to get a cold beer when they sell it at the corner shop, I ask you! Smacks of rockstar lifestyle. This time I had a witness. After paying our bill we set off around the corner to see if we could gather more evidence, but like the Terminator, Lloyd had melted into the urban landscape. 'He moves pretty fast for a fat bastard,' remarked Mia.

So we repaired to Ben and Erin's where we did a bit of google stalking. The headline on his personal site was 'Look out London'. Yes, it turns out - Alex Lloyd has moved to London. It seems you can run but you can't hide, Sydney is following me around the world.

BoBAR

Bored. Beyond All Recognition. Why haven't I written for weeks, oh demanding readers? Because I have absolutely nothing to report. Nothing. And I'm not one of those people that says nothing and in reality just means 'nothing that is scandalous enough to make Heat magazine'. I MEAN nothing. I'm starting to doubt the whole meaning of my existence.

I have not been this bored since the International Whaling Commission meeting at 11pm on a Friday night last year, where I had to sit in the office (or rather, outside the door smoking and looking melancholy in the hope that Mr Unrequited would take pity and stay - he didn't, but he did give me a cigarette to while away the next three hours) waiting until some godforsaken hour so I could post the results on the Greenpeace website. I remember that night looking ahead to the same empty calendar, seemingly for the next twenty years. Funnily enough, that was pretty much exactly a year ago - hopefully it's cyclical.

I miss my heady days of flitting off to Tokyo on a romantic whim or booking trips to New York to see horrendous cheap daytime tv filmed (oh yes and attend the MoMA of course), or even getting bundled off to a toxic waste dump in Korea. I miss Stockholm summers with a variety of friends to call on for brunch, impromptu wine, or an inevitable thousand beers, usually starting in the sun after work and ending in the sun in the early hours of the next morning, probably with a midnight swim on the way. I miss having my life socially engineered by Team Sweden. Irina was right - how long do you want to be on the way to somewhere else? she asked. Good bloody question.

But since leaving Sweden, and despite the best efforts of Team London (I rather suspect that Team London's stamina is not quite up to Team Sweden's especially after a rather unfortunate evening of drunkenness and debauchery involving a bank holiday weekend, kebabs and 'shenanigans,' as Jonathan would say), I have struggled to do anything more exciting than eat, work and sleep (in my tiny tiny room). Too much of my own company is actually starting to drive me a little bit crazy - I'm afraid I'm going to start muttering to myself on the tube and hanging out at the local Sainsburys (the one that makes you feel like you're in a war zone...more about that later) yelling at the kids.

Sure - I could go to the all-night Alien-fest at the British Film Institute, I could go to see Swedish band The Concretes or The Sounds next week, or I could even go get yelled at by celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay at his new gastropub - but... I would have to do all those things alone.

This is the worst thing about moving cities/countries, and even worse when you know you left something good behind and just can't see how to build it again. I have a feeling I'm going to be watching a lot of Jake Gyllenhaal movies and single-handedly keeping the manufacturers of Green & Black's vanilla bourbon ice-cream racking up a healthy profit for quite a while yet.

Scientologists and sushi

It's been a strange week. It started with a YouTube war between Scientology and the BBC. On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I came out of the tube thinking that some benevolent FM radio station had decided to bestow the humble media workers of West London with free breakfast. Smiling girls in shiny black bomber jackets were standing the length of the street. Feeling quite peckish, I eagerly approached them, only to find that they were handing out DVDs called 'Panorama: Exposed' (Panorama is the name of the BBC documentary that so offended the Church of Scientology). I handed it back faster that a hot potato, especially when I noticed the logo on the bomber jackets was not for a radio station but for one FREEDOM TV, which is actually owned by the Church of Scientology. Weirdly, the girl didn't flinch when I handed back the DVD, but merely continued to smile vacuously at me as if she was handing out something pleasant like free Glastonbury tickets. I've already seen Panorama: Exposed and it is complete propaganda. (As I write this, I worry that somewhere a little alarm is going off and two Tom-Cruise lookalikes in sunglasses and menacing black suits are being dispatched to my door to reprimand me). Anyway, I was telling a journalist this on Tuesday night and ended up making The Guardian - my first small taste of UK fame (rather pathetic I know).

The rest of the week wasn't quite as exciting as on one evening I discovered that however nice people are, there are some people who may like to fill their diaries with visits to the theatre, buy memberships to the National Portrait Gallery, and have invaluable tickets to the latest hot rock act, but really can only talk about shoes, Excel spreadsheets and financial takeovers. Maybe my old friend Demis was right - there are two types of people in the world. These people, well-meaning though they were, were not mine. To top it off, I ended the evening - which did at least provide an authentic Japanese meal and brought back memories of Tokyo - with a nasty bout of food poisoning. It was enough to induce a rather stupid shopping spree today in an attempt to revamp my wardrobe into something more Kirsten Dunst-like. (Unfortunately I forget that I don't have her credit rating.)

And the dubious week was rounded out by the people who organise the BAFTA Television Awards denying me a press pass (to add insult to injury, it took about ten phone calls and an email to get that denial. Don't they know I was in The Guardian?). Weirdly, they did offer me a red carpet pass, but I couldn't bear the thought of getting all dressed up, fighting a scrum of professional journalists for the chance to yell something incoherent at Stephen Merchant, and then have to go back on the tube in my fancy dress and high heels while everyone else got to go inside. I declined, and plan to instead write a scathing blog about how unprofessional their publicists are.

No longer Swedish

Last night I got a letter from the Skatteverket - Swedish tax office - you know, those guys with the super friendly forms. It's like a door has been slammed in my face. Against Team Sweden's advice I told the tax office that I would not be living in Sweden for at least a year. I figured it would be kind of like temporarily suspending my membership in the H&M Shopping Club or something. (Considering that every institution in Holland seems to still be under the illusion that I live there, I figured that extracting yourself from European society is quite difficult. I forgot about the firm and friendly efficiency of the Swedes). I opened the letter, which basically said 'Fine then, we've removed you from the register'. I was heartbroken - it's kind of weird, it was like the final proof that I've left, the final proof of the blindingly obvious fact I don't live there any more. I feel so terrible about it I almost want to ring them up and beg them to keep me on the list 'just in case'. There goes Calle's theory that I secretly work for the Swedish government as a propoganda machine.

Well Sweden, you may have rejected me, but I am still going to vote for The Ark on tonight's Eurovision contest and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

An evening with Queen Victoria

I've just got back, exhausted and slightly hungover, from a two day training course. Unfortunately, my primary memory from the whole experience is an encounter with a woman who I at first thought reminded me of Queen Victoria (our whole conversation dominated by my mental images of a huge head with a tiny bitter face in the middle, as if she was peering at me through a monocle from above a ski-slope of a nose with her lips pursed disdainfully at me...which wasn't too far from the truth). However upon reflection I think she also reminded me of the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland (the Disney version) - a kind of deranged pompous Britishness that left me flabbgergasted and wondering if Kafka had taken over my life as a scriptwriter.

This woman was the most snobby, colonial-minded person I think I have ever met. I don't even want to repeat some of the things she said but basically all of you Australians (and indeed, anyone who doesn't live in England) is completely worthless. Oh and by the way Australians - you are also singlehandedly responsible for all of the colonial acts of horror perpetrated by Australians who had been in the country for five minutes (and were, in fact, English, but that fact is a little too inconvenient for our royal friend). When I tried to point out that I had in fact lived in Australia (and I'm not the most patriotic person, since I now refuse to live there) as well as Sweden and the Netherlands and in fact I don't think England has higher living standards or a better approach to multiculturalism than any of those countries, she looked at me sympathetically and said in her most patronising voice 'You know, you're kind of annoying. I'm going to go and talk to someone else'. I sat there gaping like a fish, which those who know me will realise is rather unlike me especially in the face of gross injustice. Luckily a friendly Northern Irish guy sitting next to Queen Vic, who'd had a growing look of puzzlement on his face, chose this moment to rescue me.

I really am surprised that this empire-mindedness still exists, especially when Channel 4 is currently producing a show called the Seven Sins of England about the violence, hooliganism, xenophobia, binge-drinking and, I quote, 'slaggishness' that have always been present in English culture.

I'm not saying England is all bad, but I do think that Queen Victoria could do with a bit of Clockwork Orange-style exposure to other cultures before looking down her nose at us mere colonials. Hopefully, however, I'll never have to see her again. I'm off with Ben and Erin to enjoy some nice sides of English culture that may or may not invoke the sin of binge drinking or at least a nice Pimms with fruit.

Bomb Scare

Typical. After a hectic week of travel, and withdrawal symptoms from Sweden, I decided to cheer myself up by having a sneaky manicure on my way home from work. The househunting (I'm staying put until a room at Ben and Erin's comes up, but the stress of looking as well as living in a student house where the oven explodes is not helping), the uncertainty about my career and the utter singleness have been weighing on me. Recently I also confided to Ben that I thought there might be something wrong with me, since everything I eat seems so tasteless these days. He replied, 'That's just British food'. So today, apart from shoes, a manicure was the next best thing.

As I approached the store I noticed that one entrance was taped off, but determinedly found another one. Just as I sat down and put my hands on the counter, a woman approached and asked me to move about two seats down. 'It's because the store front is made of glass,' she said, somewhat cryptically. Suddenly I realised that there was potentially a bomb outside and the woman was implying that an extra 30 centimetres would give me that much-needed distance from shards of glass flying at supersonic speed. Of course I shouldn't interrupt my consumption habits just for a bit of life-threatening terrorism!

The manicurist tried to comfort me. 'We had a fire here last week and they evacuated us, so I'm sure this can't be serious,' she said.

I was having none of it, and left for the slightly inferior but infinitely safer home manicure option. I am wondering if London is becoming like it was (apparently) during the days of constant IRA bombings - half jumpy, and half almost-unreasonably serene.

I guess I'll get used to this but after the peace of Stockholm it's a shock. Even in Sydney I would probably be sceptical of a bomb threat, but in London right now I am not keen on taking chances, no matter how scruffy my nails are.

Return to Sweden

It's been four days of adventure in Sweden, with Ben, Erin and I going on an all-shopping, all-drinking, all-pagan-festival rampage through Stockholm with the able assistance of our Viking friends. As soon as the plane touched down I realised how much I miss my adopted home (not least because the air is breathable and the water not caustic), and vowed to return more often -- and eventually, for good.

The pain was helped by a 'spontanfest' on Day 1, with Drakenbergsgatan once again the scene of much instant 'welcome home' partying and our guests subjected to the very selective and reptitive playlist of Irina and I, who apparently held the party at our mercy and forced everyone to listen to The Sounds and Sahara Hotnights as we reminisced over our traditional 5am dancing sessions. (Neither of us were surprised to hear this. There is also an embarrassing video to prove it but so far it has not surfaced on YouTube).

On Valborg we attempted to see Ludvig's girlfriend Emma sing in the firelight before enjoying a nice bonfire. Unfortunately, due to an over-eager consumption of tapas, we were too late to hear anything but one song (I tried to take the blame so that Ludvig didn't get slaughtered but Emma was far too smart for that) and there was no bonfire, only a series of large candles. So once again we resorted to the spontanfest, where at least 10 people showed up with various delights, including a bottle of mysterious Thai whiskey called Hong Thong (see Anders and Ludvig's enthusiastic reaction above). Mysterious but not distinctive - when the Hong Thong ran out, Carl (of Sailor Party and Cocktail Party fame) and I replaced it with cheap brandy and yet still the fervour continued.

The other great hit of the evening was Kaisa, a dog who strangely and suspiciously resembled Carl's previous dog although the former had only one eye and three legs...I will leave that mystery unsolved...

By the time we reached the airport, Ben, Erin and I were seriously considering throwing our boarding passes in the bin, faking our own deaths and starting a new life as humble Swedish cafe-owners. But we had to make do with a large bowl of noodles upon arrival in London, and the promise of many more Scandinavian adventures - with or without Hong Thong.

Pong

Well, Ping Pong seems to be a recurring theme in my life lately. That kind of feeling of being hit from one perspective to another. This happened rather more literally than desired when I organised my first important meeting at the Large Media Corporation. Trying to foster a post-Greenpeace, relaxed feel, instead of booking a meeting room I opted for a set of couches on the top floor near the deck, to give everybody a view of the real world outside (and provide close proximity to the cafeteria for impromptu cappucinos). Unfortunately I failed to notice that the couches were also rather close to a ping pong table and an X-Box (thankfully disabled, which is more than I can say for the ping pong table). The meeting went okay for the first ten minutes. And then the ping pong players showed up. As the noise got louder and the flying balls closer to my boss's head, I wanted to shrink behind my ill-chosen couches. Charmingly, everyone resolutely and determinedly ignored the increasing racket going on behind us, until we were interrupted by one of the sheepish players asking if he could just retrieve his missing ping pong ball from between my boss's feet. I resolved to book a meeting room next time, preferably with retina-scanning and high security measures to keep rogue ping pong players at a safe distance. That is assuming, of course, that I can navigate the no-doubt mountain of paperwork required to book such a meeting room without giving four weeks notice and promising my first born - which, if my current dating situation has anything to do with, will not be a problem.

(Ben, who the corporation refers to only as Central Coder 01 due to his temporary position, comforted me by pointing out that according to Yes Minister, the British invented bureaucracy and I shouldn't let it get me down. Which is a good thing because this week I face the twin hurdles of getting a National Insurance Number and a UK drivers license.)

The week was downhill from there, and I'm feeling pretty unsure about my housing situation and whether my job is right for me, but I swing in a ping-pong like state from 'I'll stick them both out and they will get better' to 'Initiate emergency flat-hunting sequence and prepare escape pod for Sweden'.

On the plus side, apart from the fact that for the first time in several years I don't feel poor and can afford to have a decadent weekend on the beach with Ben and Erin, I have just spent a lovely weekend getting sunburnt in Brighton, going to a friend's gig and being woken up by a 3-year-old Batman impersonator (no that really is on the plus side, he was adorable). Considering that the weekend also involved a song that we believe is AC/DC doing drum and bass, sponge cake in a spaghetti machine (don't ask...or if you do, ask Andy), and a year's worth of saturated fat intake, life is okay from this side of the ping pong table.

Tips on British culture

Following on from the largely successful (ahem) series of Swedish cultural and culinary observations featured in this blog, I suppose it's only proper to throw in a few British ones (despite the fact that a certain Scottish ex-boyfriend of mine alleges that England has in fact no culture, at all. An assertion which I believe Angus and I have already disproved. Or maybe not). The first observation I must make is obvious and hardly original, but must be noted for posterity: British after-work drinks are the most dangerous in the world.

Telltale signs you are at after-work drinks in the UK:

(a) Your suspected colleagues are ordering bottles of wine - as opposed to glasses
(b) The drinking session has occurred on a random, hitherto innocent weekday
(c) Your dinner consists of a packet of salt and vinegar 'crisps'
(d) You have an inexplicable craving for mushy peas
(e) Your flatmates/loved ones refer to you as 'The Elusive Missy M' and are openly shocked if they find you at home before 9pm quietly watching The Simpsons.

Now, I am no stranger to after-work drinks. I did, after all, work for Greenpeace, an organisation where at least one office which shall remain anonymous has considered installing a fireman's pole for easier access to the bar below - only half in jest.

I have sampled the after-work drinks in Amsterdam, Sydney, Stockholm and Tokyo - all of which have none too shabby drinking habits (not to mention all-you-can-drink karaoke nights). I have even done a bit of guest after-work drinking in Oslo. They try, bless them, but the expense is far more painful than any potential hangover.

However, the UK is by far the worst of the lot. By worst, I mean most likely to induce at best a constant feeling of queasiness and weight gain from fry-up breakfasts, and at worst severe liver damage and a vague memory of going to the Walkabout (an Australian chain of pubs I have vowed to avoid for fear it will induce an irrational desire to dance on a table and remove items of clothing). The scariest thing about the after-work drinks here is that they kind of sneak up on you, no matter how hard you intend to go home and watch the series finale of Life on Mars or do something sensible like go to bed early.

The sudden increase in drinking may explain why I have forgotten both my PIN number and phone-unlock code, but also why I seem to be fitting in ok at my new workplace. I just hope I actually survive it.

Oh my God, shoes.

I don't know why I find this extremely stupid video utterly addictive (maybe I really am a nerd...there is a follow-up called Text Message Breakup), but I think my sister is gonna love it. Considering that I seriously heard a song on Swedish public radio yesterday called 'My boobs are okay', which sank lower than even Britney Spears ever dared, I think this is far more worthy of my time.






Thanks to the lovely Ben for the tip. And remember - those shoes are mine, betch.

Bonus Stephen Merchant update:

For those following the saga (that's you Lols): Mr Merchant has today again failed to be aware, however vaguely, of my existence. Maybe I need to get a more realistic workplace crush. Barry from Eastenders, perhaps?

Silly Milly Doesn't Like My Blog

Despite evidence of my near lapse of professionalism being (lovingly) documented in my work newspaper, Stephen Merchant failed to mention me on the radio yesterday, and is also noticeably reticent in turning up at my office with Nobu reservations and/or noticing my existence.

Onwards and upwards however, and last night, soaking up the first feeble rays of spring, we (me, Ben, Erin and Jonathan) trekked across London for a proper Aussie barbecue, although, as the host remarked, it was more of a "conceptual barbecue than an actual one" since they had to do the cooking inside due to the sub-optimal barbecue facilities (it's technical, this stuff). We did consider using the barbecue as a light-generator and spider-repellant, but there was far too much beer to be drunk and grilled haloumi pasta with sausages, chicken avocado and three-bean salad, and a lot of chocolate to be consumed - yes, this was a barbecue with style. I guess we have to overcompensate for the lack of warmth and mosquitoes, but by the time we got there I would have been happy with bread and tomato sauce. Jonathan insisted that the journey was '20 minutes from Charing Cross', but three tubes, a train and a long walk at 'Race Around the World' speed later he was probably glad that Erin and I were too engrossed in the bars of chocolate we had bought to notice the complete over-optimisim of this statement.

I was pretty much the only person at the party who wasn't a professional musician, so while what Jonathan described as 'cello porn' was going on in the front room, I again had to resort to the chocolate. It has been quite a boozy weekend with a Good Friday lunch going for a good 12 hours (for me, Jonathan to his horror discovered a day later that he was out for more like 14).

The barbecue also introduced me to the delights of a game called Silly Milly - I use the term "delights" loosely since poor Erin was nearly driven to tears of frustration and lost herself in a quagmire of pop culture references and socio-political implications, which probably actually just shows that she is a lot more intelligent than the rest of us. Well actually, the game had been introduced at the Crowded House gig a few weeks back. (Apparently, the band's guitar tech has been touring with them for four years and still doesn't get the rules.) You basically need to work out what "Silly Milly" likes and doesn't, based on smug examples from -- in this case -- Jonathan, and then give a correct example to prove you're in on the joke. Thanks to years of annnoying games that my sister and father played every time we got in the car, it didn't take me too long to work out. But the pain of pondering the whims of Silly Milly seriously went on for hours.

Let's just say that Silly Milly quite likes Neil Finn, but she certainly doesn't like this blog.

Dap dippin' with Shazza

I think jazz music has been a little tainted by those horrible house bands on American talkshows. You know, here's Jay Leno ... but first, here's a generic horn section playing "something our commercial network believes is palatable and even considered funky by those of a certain age and disposition". Makes me shudder. (And when I say jazz, by the way, I'm not talking Kenny G. I don't think he has a genre exactly, other than "filed under B for Bin".)

But last Sunday any such lingering doubts were blown away by Sharon Jones (aka Shazza Jonesy, as Ben and I have christened her so as to be more recognisable to our Australian palates). I first heard Sharon in a shop in London about two years ago, and immediately bought her album. Last weekend at a drunken dinner party, Ben (of Ben & Erin fame, as well as He Of The Tortoiseshell RayBans) remarked to me how he liked Sharon too, which is kind of odd since she's not exactly a household name. And then, in one of those magic London moments, a quick riffle through the TimeOut and we discovered she was playing at Camden Jazz Cafe on Sunday.

Apart from the fact that the Jazz Cafe is one of the worst venues I've been in (I was longing for good old-fashioned cigarette smoke to cover up the toilet-like smell, not to mention a stage that was high enough for someone of my stature to see without Tom- Cruise-platform-shoes), the gig was fantastic. And the best was the bass player - any guy who can look cool in a handlebar moustache, dark sunglasses and a permanent deadpan expression for over two hours has to be pretty special. And Sharon - she's 51 and LOOK at her for goodness sake. If I'm dancing like that at 51 I won't be complaining (actually, I can't even dance like that now).

In any case Shazza and the Dap Kings certainly brightened up a slightly cold grey London weekend and a lot of CSI, LOST and Ett Herrans Liv withdrawal symptoms. My tv viewing addictions have had to be sacrificed to the whims of my five flatmates, and while we can reach a temporary truce on The Simpsons or Futurama, there is way too much football and Top Gear in the weekly schedule for my liking. Luckily, Ludvig and Emma kindly gave me Six Feet Under Series 5 when I left
Sweden, with a note 'Some temporary friends until you get back' on it. So I'm going to go hang out with my digital friends now, since tonight's living room feature is some Jennifer Lopez movie (maybe Bridges Of Madison County will finally get knocked out of the top spot on Missy M's Worst Film Of All Time list).

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.