Bad ad tropes

Ads are basically evil poetry. We put up with them because they are everywhere and we don’t have a choice, but we don’t ever really want them, do we? And that is particularly true for me.

There’s some ad tropes I hate extra much. Things that, if they appear, have the opposite effect than the one intended, making me want to fling the product into a lake of fire instead of buying it. And if you want to know what those things are, well, I have you covered. Let’s take them to the next level and show them to the person who matters most – you. Because you, my friend, are so very worth it.

Handmade: When something is described as handmade, it is usually trying to invoke the image of a jolly old lady, a grandma of some sort, possibly Italian, in a kitchen making traditional food. You see it, don’t you? The chickens pecking outside. The cat, probably. Then, when the dish is served, there will be laughter and fiddle music. It all makes me shiver. Because when I hear “handmade” in connection to food all I see is that Italian granny poking it with her sweaty hands, the ash tumbling from her cigg. There’s an ad for chocolate here in Sweden where we see the “artisan” in his chef’s hat pick up the chocolate to admire it, using his hands, the same hands that have just been scratching his knob, or picking his nose. Please, stop it with the handmade. I want my ultra-processed shit food prepared by nice, clean robots. “Made in a sterile and ethnic stereotype free environment”. Now that will get me to buy your product. Handmade … nah, not so much.

Most sold: You see this a lot here in Sweden. “The nordic’s most sold sexual lubricant!” is assumed to be something that shift units. I guess it’s the “A million rats can’t be wrong” school of logic. But, honestly, why should I care that something has been bought loads of times? Is it suddenly more appealing just because all those saps fell for your advertising? You show me a thing that’s “most sold” I will sniff at it and go elsewhere. I am, after all — or have been constantly told by ads that I am — an individual and a free-thinker who knows what he wants. So get your story straight.

“Sweden’s most sold single malt whiskey” as if that were a good thing.

Designed in Sweden: This bugs me immensely. What this means in reality is that a Swedish company, who used to push the “We are Swedish” angle, has moved their manufacturing to a cheap country but still want to harp on about their product’s quality. “Made in Slovenia!” doesn’t shift many units (except perhaps in Slovenia) so instead they tell us it was designed here, in Sweden, by clever proper people, you know, people like you, but better. People wearing beanies that don’t quite cover their ears. Because, clearly, those Swedish designers have a bigger affect on the quality of the product that the people who actually make the thing. Do fuck off. If it’s made in Sweden, tell us that. Otherwise, put a sock in it.

Cutting-edge science: What other kind of science would you use? Old science? Second-hand science? New-age science (bring me the crystals and the brass gong, Jasmine). Again, begone. It’s a non-claim, a phrase put in an ad just to have the s-word appear somewhere. And it annoys me.

Exclusive: People rarely seem to think about what this actually means. An exclusive product is one that only some people can have. That’s what it means, you see: to exclude some group. Generally, those without money. These days, though, we’re being lead to believe that it just means “good”. I’ve even seen “Exclusive and affordable” used in ads. Nope, sorry, it can’t be both. Pick one.

Ukulele music / whistling: Ever since I saw this hilarious video by Irish music youtuber tanatcrul I’ve been aware of these massively irritating audio tropes. Clapping also fits into this category. If your ad soundscape includes any of these, you can be sure I’ll promptly close my ear-holes.

You are unique: And here it is, the most cynical of all “Buy this!” tropes. Here you’re being told that nobody else is like you, therefore you should buy this thing (maybe it’s exclusive?) that everybody else has, because you are so special. Go on, love yourself! Marketers, I beg you, please stop doing this. It’s mind-numbingly dumb. And no, I don’t love myself. Only awful people do that.

So, to summarise, if you want me to buy your shit, try something else in your ads. Maybe something funny or weird. Or how about truthful? “We’re destroying the natural world to create this thing you don’t need, which will end up in a landfill, or wrapped around a turtle, but which makes your life a tad easier.” Or: “Fuck biodiversity, here’s a barely edible industrial product made from amazon rainforest beef and palm oil.” I mean, I probably won’t buy it, but it might make me love myself a bit more.

You know, like a psychopath.

/ Paddy

A burger too far

An article in this free Stockholm newspaper informs us that the gourmet burger, at least in Stockholm, is no longer trendy. Count me unsurprised. I mean, it was only a matter of time before we realised the emperor had no buns, lettuce or cheese. “But he’s just a piece of burnt meat!” the villagers all shouted, pointing and laughing, before they headed off for a poké bowl and a tasty spirulina shake.

This whole burgers-are-fancy thing kicked off about ten years ago in Stockholm, or at least that’s when I started noticing it. I assume some Swede had been to New York and got the idea there, since that’s where most Stockholm trends tend to come from (bonus points if it was stolen from a cool area like Brooklyn). One of Stockholm’s loudest gourmet burger chains (yes, we’re now using the words “gourmet” and “chain” in the same sentence) slammed open their doors in Stockholm in 2018. These people with the name “Bastard Burgers” – oh dear – had an extremely tiring “We’re no-nonsense proper men from the north of Sweden!” aesthetic. They’ve also used a slogan which said, in English, “Treat yo’self like a bastard” the stupidness of which still boggles my mind. 

Since then, more chains have followed, so many more, with different (but aggressively cool) names. If you ask me, all of them could have the same name: Overpriced Burger. Because that’s what they did – taking something that we’ve all agreed is cheap and trashy, then making it “gourmet” and charging twice as much for it is little more than a cynical marketing ploy, and is not going to last.

And, according to the article above, it hasn’t. Bastard Burgers and others are closing many of their Stockholm outlets. They’re all blaming the pandemic, inflation and changed food habits, but to me it’s pretty obvious the burger bubble has just burst. We’ve done this, we’re bored with it, we’re moving on.

I’m not that sorry to see it go. Besides being food for children, and horrendous for the environment at a time when keeping our gasping planet alive needs to be our primary focus, burgers just aren’t my thing. Not for any health reasons, I’ve just never liked them. Too much meat, too much grease, the whole eating-with-your-hands thing, all the slopping … I just find them kind of gross. And whenever I’ve convinced myself to have one, I always feel a bit ill and bloated afterwards. Added to this is the requirement to add fries so it feels somewhat like a meal, further caking my arteries. Hey, I’m old, I have to think about shit like this. Don’t worry, you’ll get there too, trust me.

If you like a burger, good for you, don’t let my whining put you off. Keep on doing your thing and be happy. In fact I’ve heard the Bastard people are quite approachable and friendly. Good for them. But for the rest of us, it can’t be denied that the gourmet burger is on the way out. We’ve all seen through the ruse — paying twice as much for impractical, slightly more cool and manly junk food — and we’re done with it. Or, more likely, we’re all just jaded and are moving on to Stockholm’s next food trend. And whatever that is, I can predict the following: it will be stolen from New York, it will be marketed to us in some embarrassing way, and it’ll be horribly destructive to the environment. I’m thinking rhino-horn flapjacks. Or amazon rainforest deep fried parrots. Or maybe New York pizza rat pizza, with extra whale liver and panda fries.

And trendsetters, if you need a sad slogan in English for your new Stockholm eating experience, do call me. I’m cheap* and very, very good at bullshit. 

/ Paddy

*Actually, I’m not that cheap…

Stockholm terror

Today an article turned up in a Swedish newspaper about a group of Christians taking confirmation (yes, that happens in Sweden) who normally went to Stockholm for their post-ritual celebration trip. But this year, because of the increased terror level in Stockholm, and very likely the increasing gang activity too, they decided to go abroad instead. To Oslo, a place where there famously is no violence at all and children never die in large numbers due to terror-related things. 

The terror level stuff, sure, that’s something to consider, I get it. But the thing about terror attacks is their unpredictability. Who would have guessed that a white Christian neo-nazi would slaughter dozens of kids in Oslo twelve years ago? Or that Swedish football fans would be murdered because of the jersey they were wearing in Belgium, of all places? Terrorism, by its nature, is extremely random. 

There’s also the current “violence wave” in Stockholm, which I’m sure came into their calculation. Yes, Stockholm has more murders, shootings and explosions that the confirmants’ little town, and the number’s been going up. That is undeniable. But it’s also a hundred, a thousand times bigger. The vast, vast majority of the people living here can go about their daily lives and never encounter any of it. Oh we HEAR about it, sure. If there’s one thing newspapers are good at, it’s spreading fear and worry. How about the million people who DIDN’T have the front door of their building taken out with a home-made explosive, or shots fired over their heads in a public place, eh? Nope, we never get a mention.

An AI’s view of gang war in Stockholm.

It reminds me of when I came to Sweden in the 90s. I was an English teacher at Berlitz, a private language school, and when I’d mention to students that I was from Ireland, they’d often go a little pale. “I would like to go,” they’d say, “but I am afraid of getting killed in the war.” I would stare at them. The war? What war? Oh right, they’re referring to Northern Ireland. A place, admittedly, where terror attacks occasionally happened, but also a place many hundred miles from where I grew up, that I basically never thought about in my day-to-day life (admittedly because I was too busy thinking of Strawberry Switchblade and Princess Leia in that gold bikini). That the fear of terrorists in Belfast would stop someone from going to, let’s say, Ballyhahill, I found really hard to grasp.

But just wait, because the current right-wing Swedish government got into power (with the support of a populist far-right party founded by and still containing neo-nazis) on the promise of “doing something about it”. And after one year in power, have they done something about it? Hahaha no. They’ve been far too busy cutting tax for the rich, slashing the budgets for culture and public education, making life harder for all immigrants, and burning to the ground Sweden’s progress in climate issues. They’ll need some time to get around to all the stuff they actually promised to do. Like, let’s say, another term or two. 

I’m not holding my breath.

So come to Stockholm, people. Yes. There’s crime, although hilariously less than other cities I’ve lived in. Criminals have guns, sure. There’s some terror, yes. But the chances of getting messily murdered are probably about equal to the current government caring about something apart from money and/or doing what they promised to do when getting people to elect them. Meaning, very low indeed.

/ Paddy

Swedish Fanny

The first name “Fanny” is very popular in Sweden among women from 20 to 35 or so. And, as an English speaker, I find “Fanny” as a first name quite hilarious. You might be thinking of the American usage, where fanny = arse. But no, we who hail from the Irish Isles have a different slant on that.

For us, fanny is the other side of the lady’s anatomy. Now you’re getting it. So seeing the word used here in Sweden as a name never fails to raise a chuckle and a titter. (Note that the first name Dick is also used here, to similar effect.) In bored moments, I like to go into birthday.se and browse the population database for funny uses of the F-name. So here, for your amusement, I have collected a few.

These are all real names of Swedish people. I apologise in advance if yours is among them. I’m not laughing at you, just at the inherent unfairness of the universe. I have also added my own definition for each name, in a Meaning-Of-Liff sort of way. Feel free to make up your own, it’s fannytastic.

Fanny Front = A pressure group for vaginal freedom of some sort.
Fanny Lager = The new beverage from Södermalms most hardcore brewers.
Fanny Wetter = Idris Elba.
Fanny Palm = Oh dear God why did I start this…
Fanny Wall = The hall of fame at the gynaecologist.
Fanny Plaza = Where instagrammers go posing on a Friday evening.
Fanny Fan = Discrete air conditioning for your underwear.
Fanny Strand = A popular lesbian beach.

Of course, we Irish can’t talk. In Ireland we have the quite common first name Enda and the quite common surname Horan. So the name Enda Horan exists. Which, in Swedish, means more or less “The only prostitute”. Leading to a great many Swedes having at laugh at this place:

I bet they’ve wondered for years why tall, tittering tourists gather outside to take photos…

/ Paddy

In Defence of Nothing

There’s a leaning — it’s too small to be called a movement — in Stockholm towards putting amateur art into places considered “ugly”. Common targets of this reverse vandalism are the structures holding up bridges, and those tunnels that pass under roads. Often it’ll be a gang of enthusiastic kids roped in from a local school, or a clutch of youngsters doing a summer work program, who are send out with buckets, paintbrushes and a naive but heartfelt desire to make the world a nicer place.

The articles in the local paper that inevitably cover this happening will enthuse about how some grey and boring (it’s important to use the word “boring” often) surface has now become colourful and exciting and will have art on it. Golly! And I find myself (and if you’ve followed me on any forum you’ll probably have seen this coming) in a pose of leaning back, arms crossed, bearing a surly middle-aged frown, saying, “hmm”. Because I do not agree. And I will now proceed to tell you why.

See, I don’t think the “art” made by clearly enthusiastic but not necessarily talented young people is better than a bare wall. A bare wall under a bridge has a sort of brutal majesty to it. It’s gritty and pure and serene, and it’s saying something: here is the city, here is how it works, warts and all. An underpass is the same. Even if the tiles are grimy, the lights flickering in a manner dangerous to epileptics, the piss pooling in stains on the ground, it’s still sort of beautiful. Grim and timeless.

What neither needs is badly daubed illustrations informing us of how awesome peace is, or how we are all the same inside, or how we should look after the Earth and all the cute pandas on it. Great messages, I agree, but also trite. Just because people want a thing to be “art” does not make it so.

This belief that something is always better than nothing is reflected in other ways in the flaming slow-motion train wreck of a civilisation we currently cling to. There is the issue of silence, for example. Once I was at the Stockholm Central Library to study. However, finding a silent place to do this proved difficult. I finally found a small room where several people sat, silently working. Beautiful, I thought, and joined them. I was not there long when a man and a women popped their heads in, saw how quiet it was, then came in and proceeded to have a meeting. They chose our room because it was quite, but did not consider that their chatting was now destroying that silence. And no amount of glowering or annoyed page turning on my part could get that message across. So I had to find another room.

(Sweden, incidentally, is a place where you don’t have to be silent in libraries. It probably come from their fear of conflict. In fact, a library I went to when I studied 20 years ago had a silent section. In a library. Where people would usually, but not always, keep it to a harsh yet deeply annoying whisper.)

You’ll see the same effect on the subway. I go on, find a seat where people are not nattering or looking at youtube without headphones (a curse upon then) or having a loud phone call on speakerphone. I sit there, relieved, and pull out my book. Making this the perfect quiet spot for the next idiot passing who wants to make a loud phone call. And he will sit there and he will do that. Because it can’t be that the people in those seats want silence, oh no. Silence is only ever a placeholder for noise.

This goes further. Cafés, bars and restaurants are huge culprits. If I go to one of these by myself, I will want to peer at my phone or read a book or just stare at the wall. If I go with other people, I will want to talk to these people. In neither of these two scenarios does music help me reach my goal. I really don’t know what it’s for. Unasked-for music distracts me hugely. If it’s there, I have to focus on it. In a nightclub, sure, it serves a function. But in a restaurant, where people are talking? Is it to mask the chewing? Or maybe to make us all feel like we’re in a film?

I select the café, bar or restaurant I want to be in based on how low (or lacking) the music is. Which leaves me with very few choices. I know about the thing where people apparently eat up and get the hell out faster if loud music is playing, like in McDonalds, but this can’t account for all of it. I think it just comes from the average person’s horrible fear of silence. It is why small-talk exists, after all. Silence to many means that something has gone wrong. Noise must exist, either pointless babble that the other person is not remotely interested in, or the background dirge of random, grating music.

(If someone knows an actual reason for this music in cafés etc, do let me know.)

I have, in fact, gotten into the habit of asking the staff to lower the music. They look at me oddly, but usually they will. One time, I was forced to do this when me and my partner went into a restaurant and sat in their empty basement room because it was silent, at which point they turned the music on there. Because of course two people eating dinner need noise blared at them.

So our society seems to have a deep-seated belief that something — no matter what it is — is always better than nothing. A doodle will always trump a grey wall. A noise will always improve on a silence. An activity is considered superior to a quiet night sitting at home. Which is why I’ve started to appreciate churches. You can sit there, in gorgeous echoing silence, and just drift off with your thoughts. Until, of course, the church staff come in to do some job and talk to each other at normal volume. Because, obviously, churches in Sweden aren’t quiet zones either.

Silence is golden, people. As is nothing. So let’s just leave them the fuck alone.

The House That Never Was

Gather round, children, to hear the tale of the house that never was.

Picture a Swedish summer house, a gorgeous little thing with two floors, built in the 1820s. It has no running water or indoor plumbing, like many Swedish summer houses. The owner bought it because it was located beside a parachute jumping course, and they did parachute jumping. So they used the house very occasionally to sleep in after jumping out of a plane. There was a well, which wasn’t working, a very basic outdoor toilet and no rubbish collection. But that didn’t bother them, as they performed all their bodily functions and collected water from the parachute club.

I’d heard about this house through the person who stayed there occasionally as a caretaker, cutting the grass and such. I visited her and kind of fell in love with the place. Quaint didn’t begin to describe it. There was also a nice little shed, a half-built chicken coop, an earth cellar (collapsed) and ten thousand square meters of prime land. Also, a wood next door. Lovely.

There was also a man living in a box in the yard, but we’ll get back to him later.

The caretaker told me the owner was sort of interested in selling. In fact, she’d occasionally show up with people to view the house, totally unannounced. She’d also freak out occasionally over nothing. The owner, it seemed, was a bit special, with quotes around the special.

Anyway, I told the caretaker I was interested in buying it. She told the owner, who gave a price of 700,000 Swedish crowns (go look it up yourself). A good price, especially for the amount of land. So, as one should do, I booked a surveyor to go through the house and invited the owner along on the same day, so we could all meet. The surveyor surveyed, the owner shook my hand and laughed and nodded and only mentioned parachuting about eighteen times.

A week later, the surveyor sent me his report. The house was old so there was plenty wrong with it. Roof tiles incorrectly attached. Holes in the facade. Some rot in the wood. Also no water, and since the non-functioning well hadn’t been used for years, it might not even be drinkable. Water is quite important for most carbon-based lifeforms, so that was a concern. Also, their toilet solution was illegal, consisting of an outside loo where you shat more or less directly on the ground, violating environmental regulations. But, besides all that, still a pretty decent price.

There was also the man living in a box in the yard, but we’ll get back to him later.

I pondered the report. I would need to do many repairs, but the major issues were the water, the toilet and the roof tiles. So I adjusted down the offered price, put a bit back on for the furniture in the house, which I knew they didn’t really want, and offered 685. A good price. Or so I thought.

The owner didn’t think so, and flipped out, fuming that I was trying to change what she considered a fair price. That, however, is not how a fair price works. Both people need to agree that the price is fair, and I wanted a symbolic reduction, just to feel I was getting a deal, and to cover the costs of the vital jobs that had to be done – toilet, water, roof over head.

And then there was the man living in a box in the yard, who we’ll get to now.

The man was a parachute jumper, who stayed some weekends in a container they’d put on the property and wired up to the house’s electrical system. Badly. Possibly illegally. He paid enough rent to cover the house’s bills, and the owner had informed me that he couldn’t be thrown out, even if the house were sold, until the parachuting season was over (because we all know when the parachuting season starts and ends). She didn’t see this as weird at all.

Anyway, when she’d calmed down after my scandalous attempt to cut two percent from the price, she called me. This is a woman who likes to talk on the phone. I am not a woman who likes to talk on the phone (or, for that matter, a woman) and prefer everything in text, so that people who are good at talking don’t manipulate me. So I listened as she tried to manipulate me.

The lack of water apparently wasn’t a problem, as she’d been there for years and had never needed it. So that didn’t deserve any reduction. The toilet wasn’t a problem either as yes she knew it was an illegal solution, but she didn’t think the regulations were fair or even relevant, so that did not require any reduction. The roof tiles weren’t a problem as the man who’d installed them told her so, and the professional and independent (and expensive) surveyor I’d paid was therefore wrong.

The man who lived in the box in the yard wasn’t a problem either, as he was lovely, and he’d only need to be there until the end of the season, regardless of whether the house was sold and when, and could not be thrown out. He was even, it was argued, an asset.

Then came her deal. Instead of paying the 700, as was her original price, or the 685 I’d suggested, she offered that I buy the house for 650 thousand officially and pay her 50 thousand in cash. This would mean she had, officially, made no profit on the house, and would therefore pay no tax on the sale. And it would mean that I would pay more tax when I sold it in the future. Ten thousand crowns more.

She also wanted me to pay half of her fees connected to the sale, while I would pay all of my own fees. Which meant her “deal” actually made the price of the house go UP from 700 to 715. Win-win, was how she put it. Or, as I put it afterward, win-get-shafted-up-the-arse.

I explained my attempt to improve the price as a thing that we do in Ireland. Every price, I said, gets argued over, it’s just how we are. She informed me that she’d been to Ireland years ago, and I was wrong about that too, it wasn’t at all how we did things in Ireland.

It took me a few hours after vaguely agreeing to her terms (I’m not good at taking discussions on the phone, see above) to grasp the extent to which she was trying to fuck me over. I realised, as much as I wanted the house, that I was not willing to get screwed for it, especially by a person whose idea of a good deal is one where she gets 100% of what she wants and the other person gets sweet fuck all. I texted her to say thank you but no. She sent a furious reply, which I didn’t read.

I’m still looking for a nice little summer house, but now I think I’ll go through a realtor. At least I know in which way they will try to screw me. If you have one (a house, not a realtor) let me know.

But at least I learned something: Don’t trust a parachutist, they’ll always let you down.

/ paddy

Not Keeping It Down

Every winter in Sweden people cower in terror as the vinterkräksjuka (calicivirus) sweeps across the land like a plague of angry ducks (or whatever image appeals to you). I’ve watched people for years as they scatter in terror, washing hands frantically, avoiding workplaces, avoiding breathing, to avoid picking it up. And I’ve wondered – bloody wimps, what’s wrong with them? Shure it’s only a bit of puking.

Thing is, I’m immune to the vinterkräksjuka. Or at least I thought I was.

Enter early Friday morning, when the contents of my stomach emerged from my mouth, going the wrong direction, and kept on doing that for a day. I lay on my couch, staring up and pitifully groaning, too ill to sleep or read or Netflick (that is the verb, I’m calling it). All I could do was dribble enough water into myself so that I could puke it all up again.

After a while, all I looked forward to was the vomiting itself, and the associated twenty minutes of feeling kind of okay that followed, before I descended into the valley again.

At one point, I really felt I needed to puke, but couldn’t face the old fingers down the throat. So I thought about bread. Just thought about it. And the floodgates dutifully opened wide.

Finally, a day later, it stopped. And some time after that, I felt I might try some food. Which I did – Knorr’s dried vegetable soup. It was like eating salty rainbows rolled in communion wafers. Marvellous.

Now, somewhat later, I am ready for the world again, wiser and a bit thinner. But I guess I learned my lesson – if you want to vomit, just think of bread. Mmm.

Interesting fact 1: People in Sweden pronounce the silent K in Knorr. It’s adorable.

Interesting fact 2: Pronouncing vinterkräksjuka is one of the required steps in becoming a Swedish citizen, along with inserting snus one-handed, forcing yourself to like dill, and incorrectly pouring a pint of Guinness. So get on it, would-be Swedes!

Interesting fact 3: Yes, I known it’s not Knorr, I can see it on the box, can’t I, but I needed that for Interesting fact 1 so just get off my back, will ya?

/ paddy

The Swedish Flag

This Friday there was an awful truck attack in Stockholm, where four people died. I wasn’t personally affected, even though it was just up the road from where I work, although I know several people who were scarily close to it. For the people who did lose somebody, it must be the worse thing in the world, and I can’t even grasp it.

A horrible situation, although on the day after I made damn sure to get into town and do the whole carry-on-as-normal thing. If life doesn’t go on, then we’ve lost.

The view from my office after the attack

A few positive things came from the attack, though. One was the immediate and professional response from the police and emergency services, closing down the city and catching the guy a few hours later. The police were getting hugs and flowers from people all weekend, which was great to see in usually-reserved Stockholm.

Another was on social media, where the hashtag #openstockholm took off. People were offering accommodation and help and car rides and company to people stuck in town as a result of the attack and subsequent shutdown. It brought a tear to the eye, this random kindness on a massive level. Stockholmers, it turns out, have a great ability to react to crises, and will throw their doors wide open when needed.

Then people started putting Swedish flags on their Facebook profile pics, as one does after something like this. That’s when it got a bit strange for the Swedes.

Here’s the thing. Swedes are often embarrassed to fly their flag. They are generally damn proud of their country, but they don’t show it much. My Swedish workmates are much happier flying an Irish flag on St. Patrick’s day than flying a Swedish flag on any day, ever. It’s part of their “no boasting” mentality, but also because the far right have mostly claimed the Swedish flag, and the average person doesn’t want to be seen as a neo-nazi. You might see the blue and yellow on a bus on Sweden’s national day, or at a sporting event, or fluttering over a summer house, but that’s it.

It’s something that immigrants like myself find very odd. But after this attack, maybe it will change. I do love my adopted country and I hate to see them squirm and not show that love too. You’re awesome, Sweden, so go get your flag back. Remove it from the grubby hands of nationalists and “patriots” and fly it high and proud.

/ paddy

Sunshine and Sneezes

You can’t beat a good sneeze. Especially now that the pollen season is upon us, which sees me doing it quite a bit. However, when it comes to sneezing, I have a superpower.

I am cursed / blessed with a photic sneeze reflex. Which means that when I emerge from an interior space to a brightly sunlit exterior space, I will sneeze. Violently. Usually twice. It also means that if I feel the tingle of a sneeze that doesn’t quite want to arrive, I can shove my face into a lamp and bring the sneeze on. Very handy.

For years I thought this applied to everybody and was quite surprised when I found out  it didn’t. Some mere mortals, apparently, only get to sneeze when the sneeze is good and ready. There are theories about why the photic sneeze reflex works, to do with nerves in the brain and such. Even Aristotle noticed it, when he wasn’t busy incorrectly counting women’s teeth. But work it does, and when it comes to sneezing, I’m no slouch.

I like my sneezing so much that I am amazed by the number of people who block their sneezes. They clamp their noses, sending the sneeze booming around the insides of their skull, in a way that sounds physically painful. I’ve always wondered – why on earth would anybody do that. Is it a fear of contaminating others? A terror of seeing snot and spittle? Or a religious conviction that sneezing is too much like sex? Fuck knows, but lots and lots of people do it, in my workplace as well as in the great wide world in general.

If anybody knows why people do this, please share it. Because I fully expect to one day be a witness to a head boinging off, or an eye popping out and dangling from its fleshy wire.

In Sweden, by the way, you say “Benny!” when someone in your vicinity sneezes. The proper response to that is to yell “Björn!” and then go put on spangly trousers.

/ paddy

Springtime For Sweden

The first signs of spring have come to Stockholm. There are snowdrops sprouting, there are drinkers sitting outside of Snaps in Medborgarplatsen, wrapped in blankets and grimly pretending to be having a good time. And there are people standing against sunlit walls in every corner of the city, with their eyes closed, basking in the rays like vertical seals.

Here we see a few, snapped by myself yesterday. In this shot we have two proper baskers, two semi-baskers, and a tanned guy who knows exactly what I’m up to.

This behavior will continue on into April, until that first hot day when it is agreed that Stockholm may now shed its black coat and don its skimpy summer things, even though it’s really a bit too cold for that yet, but fuck it.

And for the sake of disclosure – yes, my coat is black. It’s just the rules, okay?

/ paddy

The Arse Tobacco Anecdote

I was in a pub a few weeks back, attending a concert, when I felt a pressing need.

I entered the toilet space, and read the notice on the inside of the door, which warned about the dodgy lock. Check it several times! it yelled. I checked it several times, gave it an extra tug, checked it again. All seemed in order.

I removed the clothing around my crotchal area and sat down for the commencement of my business. Said business was underway when I noticed that somebody had left a little container of snus on a shelf just within reach.

Note: Snus is Swedish mouth tobacco that people shove up under their upper lips, giving them stained teeth, a slightly deformed face and, one supposes, good feelings. It is banned in the EU, except in Sweden, as they really REALLY wanted Sweden to join. So they got themselves a mouth tobacco exemption.

Anyway, there I was on the toilet, reaching for the snus that wasn’t my own, out of boredom. It was further than I thought so I had to raise my buttocks from the toilet to reach it. Grabbing the container, I idly opened it to check if anything was inside, hovering over the toilet seat as I did so. I had taken out a snus portion (basically a small teabag) and was sniffing at it curiously when the door suddenly opened.

The person who’d defeated the dodgy lock was a young woman. For a second she stared at the man who was leaning forward with a snus clamped between his fingers, looking for all the world like he was about to shove it up his arse.

The unfortunate lady gave a terrified squeal and bolted. After a portion of numb silence had passed, I scuttled forward, trousers around my legs, shutting the door with sweaty fingers.

When I left the bathroom and crept back to my friends, I spotted the lady in question across the room, holding onto a beer glass with a glassy expression. As if she’d looked upon the face of evil and knew that nothing, ever again, would be any good.

I hope she one day gets to tell her own anecdote. I suspect she might.

/ paddy

Orange Ladies And Beardy Boys

I came back to work last week and two things were immediately apparent.

First, all the orange ladies on the subway. This is a yearly phenomenon – the Swedes returning from their summer-houses, showing off their newly scorched skin. You notice it most on older ladies. Their skin is practically orange, wrinkled and leathery and disturbing. Some of them are so lined they look like fucking Yoda, but, you know, more orange.

While I understand that the Swedes grab whatever sun is going, I fail to see why they would want to damage their skin like this. They lounge around in the parks and beaches, in blazing sunshine and without sunblock, and then wonder why they get skin cancer. Deeply wrinkled, sun-blasted skin isn’t attractive, or healthy, and doesn’t even show status, as summer houses are seen almost as a human right over here.

So why do they do it? Beats me. But if you want to see one, now is the time.

Then there’s the beards. I’m now in the minority at work regarding facial hair. Most men in my office are bearded. It especially noticeable among men in the 25 to 32 age range. Two thirds of them now have beards. It’s like a bloody seventies folk concert.

This thing with huge beards on younger men has taken off to a ridiculous degree in Sweden. It was very noticeable when I went to Herräng dance camp for a week, and saw young men from lots of countries. They were all much less beardy than the young Swedes. It brought home again what a terribly conformist place Sweden can be.

Why is it like this? Because beards on young men is trendy, and Swedes go for trends in the same way that sharks go for icebergs made of spam. They claim to cherish their individuality, which they then express by striving to look exactly the same.

Not the same as each other, mind you. Just the same as whatever subculture they’ve decided they belong to. Be it punks, hipsters, slackers, whatever. You can be unique here as long as you are unique in a very clearly defined way.

Now I’m a big fan of facial hair, but this is all just a bit sad. If you like beards, then have one, regardless of what the rest of the world is doing. Just stop shaving, and presto.

I give it a couple of years. Once the football players start shaving, young Swedish men will shed their facial hair. Beards, after all, can be removed. But I can’t say the same for the swarms of young women with colorful and messy tattoos sleeves on their arms and shoulders. They might have a tad more trouble getting over this particular trend. And let’s see how those things look when they’re pushing 60.

As for the idiots with the discs in their earlobes … well, let’s not even go there.

/ paddy