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.

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).