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.