Run for your life.

I’m going to be a pacemaker in a 5,000-metre race at the Diamond League. The plan is for me to set the pace that will help the guys break a new world record. I’m neither fit enough nor technically skilled for the job, but it’s been a childhood dream of mine to take part in a major athletic competition. The Diamond League management turned out to have a relationship with bribes that’s as unproblematic as FIFA’s. When I promised them a little social media stardust in return, they gave me the green light.

Weltklasse in Zurich is the magnificent stadium where I walk in, side by side with the world’s elite, greeted by the cheers of 25,000 spectators. The runners have been warming up on a side arena, where they’ve stretched, had massages, and practised mental exercises. I, on the other hand, have been warming up in a car with the seat heater on full blast, eating an extra-large meal of ultra-processed junk food. Inside the stadium, I wander around with chips and mayonnaise, trying to make small talk with the runners. It doesn’t go well – they’re as nervous as racehorses and completely focused on the event. They stretch, bounce lightly on their feet, or stare blankly into the distance. A steward asks us to line up at the starting line. I throw my food onto the grass and take my place on the line with the others. The scent of adrenaline is tangible in the air as the murmur of the crowd quietens. The starting gun is raised just as I calmly take out my phone.

Suddenly, the gun fires, and the race begins. The crowd roars, and the runners take off at full speed. I remain standing and watch the race on the big screen. The small TV camera on rails running along the track follows the runners closely. What no one knows is that the night before, I installed a small but powerful speaker on the camera, audible only to the runners. I now activate it from my phone. A distorted collage of sounds blares out: a rabid pack of growling wolves, which then transitions into Trump’s imbecilic ramblings mixed with the sound of screaming pigs on their way to slaughter. The effect on the runners is immediate – they pick up the pace. Then comes a hellish screeching noise of a train braking and the rattle of machine-gun fire. Hitler’s yelling voice is heard screaming “Ausländer raus!” The runners glance nervously behind them and shift into an even higher gear. Then Trump’s voice returns, panting exaggeratedly, giving the impression he’s getting closer and closer. “Grab ’em by the pussy, grab ’em by the pussy, grab ’em by the pussy!!” The runners sprint desperately at full throttle as the soundscape shifts to detonating landmines, whistling rubber bullets, and the snapping jaws of wolves.

Afterwards, I have a meeting with the head of the Diamond League. He’s conflicted about my performance as a pacemaker.

-How can you be, after a new world record? I ask, confused.

-It’s not the result I dislike; it’s the method. The food sponsors also thought it was distasteful that everyone vomited after the finish.

-You got the highest minimum performance in a race ever – every runner outdid themselves. What more could you want?

-I just think there must be other ways.

-This is modern, I reply irritably. In the past, you could motivate people with positive things. A dream, a vision, or a role model. Today, that path is completely closed. There’s nothing positive left that motivates people anymore. All that remains is fear and the flight impulse. I made them run for their lives, as if there were no tomorrow. Which is both effective and true.

-So what you’re saying is I no longer need to offer a million pounds in prize money? he says, suddenly looking far less sceptical.

-What about the other events? he continues, intrigued.

-I haven’t thought it all through yet, but I believe, for instance, you could link the high jump bar to a bomb that detonates at home with their loved ones if they knock it down.

-This feels really good, he says. I look forward to a long partnership with you.

-Likewise, I reply, noting that he has an erection.

The Working Class.

As election season approaches, all politicians suddenly pretend to understand how "ordinary people" live. People they’ve at best seen in a Mike Leigh film, but whom they now claim to be best friends with. I don’t think they realise how ridiculous they look, tilting their heads in feigned empathy while earning £6,000 a month. They claim to have met 43-year-old Sara from Salisbury. A single mother of five who’s worn herself out after 20 years in the care sector. With the current government’s policies, she’s promised an extra £25 a month to afford that jar of kimchi that brightens her day. The opposition claims to have met Arnie, who’s been laying floors for 30 years and now needs a double knee replacement while his wife is on long-term sick leave. He’ll get an extra £27 a month if there’s a change of government, which might just cover a sack of firewood for the family to gather around.

I don’t think they’re fooling anyone, but it’s still annoying that they never talk about me. I’m both a potential voter and a hard-working individual. When will I see a party leader look into the camera with those puppy-dog eyes and grovel for my vote?

- I met Anders, who’s spent his entire life chained to a keyboard and has developed repetitive strain injury. First, he had surgery on his left arm, and now he’s got the same problem in his right, forcing him to wear a restrictive support glove. But Anders soldiers on, even though his arm has turned purple and smells a bit off. He now types with a pen in his mouth, poking at the keyboard. Sadly, his eyes have also deteriorated from all the screen time, making every letter both a physical and artistic struggle. And since Anders also has to navigate between film consultants, directors, actors, producers, and co-financiers, he needs medication for his escalating schizophrenia. With our policies, Anders will get… erm…

It’s regrettably clear that no party has anything to offer me. Neither ideologically nor financially. I’ll drown my sorrows with a bottle of Absolute Nothing after the election. The only comfort is that I will not be alone. You and the rest of the working-class nation will be right there beside me.

Spread the Joy.

At Christmas, all sense of good taste is thrown under the bus. Homes are transformed into kitschy nightmares, and we’re forced to spend time with people we, at best, share a genetic pool with – and that’s about it. To cope, we numb ourselves with alcohol, sweets, and hopeless food. Then we give presents to children who lose interest in them the moment the wrapping paper is torn off. The TV volume is turned up as Donald Duck and his friends wish us a Merry Christmas – a rerun reminding us that the only sensible place in the world is the past.

It’s therefore refreshing that a large group of friends and I have, for years, booked a table at a restaurant in town. A tradition we’ve created ourselves, allowing us to socialise in a Christmas-free environment like proper adults. But in recent years, even this arrangement has become problematic for me.

-I know, let’s order lots of different dishes to share, one of my friends says, immediately receiving the group’s approval. I grit my teeth. This has been going on for years, and I’ve gone along with it to avoid ruining the good atmosphere. Breaking bread has been portrayed as something wonderful and communal since biblical times. So how do I tell them I hate it? That I want to make an active choice from the menu, pick something I actually fancy, and then eat it all without the risk of stray forks laying claim to my food? I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, but for the past twenty years, I’ve promised myself to stand up for myself more and stop being so agreeable. So I decide this is a good time to start.

-Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want your urine in my mouth.

Everyone laughs, but when they see the look on my face, they quickly fall silent.

-I’m not naming names, but I’ve seen how some of you are a bit lax with handwashing in the men’s toilet, I explain. The very thought of sharing dishes with those hands makes me feel sick.

The women around the table glance searchingly at their husbands, who shrug apologetically.

-What’s he on about?

-I understand this is a bit sensitive. But just as I wouldn’t take pick-and-mix sweets from a bowl in a dementia care home or shake hands with a leper, I won’t share faecal bacteria with my best friends.

-Faecal? I thought you said urine? one of the women blurts out.

-Poor hand hygiene is a slippery slope, don’t you think? I reply, a touch diplomatically.

-If you’re so bloody worried about our dirty hands, snaps the man who suggested sharing the food, why don’t you just order your own dish?

I nod gravely, masking the fact that he’s played straight into my hands.

-Yes, exactly! Isn’t it great that we’ve cleared this up? I wouldn’t want you lot sitting there worrying that I’m silently judging you throughout the entire evening – no one benefits from that.

I may have lost all my friends that night, but I gained self-respect and thoroughly enjoyed a delicious charred halibut.

Say my name.

My youngest daughter sends me a picture of a pregnancy test.

-Is that a rectal thermometer? I reply.

She doesn’t answer, so I call her immediately.

-Sorry, darling, that’s amazing news. How far along are you?

-Ten weeks, she says, sounding euphoric.

-Is this the family’s first boy then?

-Hmm, who knows, she says.

-Have you talked about names if it’s a boy?

-A little bit.

-Have you considered Anders?

She lets out a laugh.

-Not really.

-Why not? Maybe it’s not so much about the name itself, but the provenance?

-The what?

-The origin, the history behind the name, the reason it’s something magnificent, I explain humbly.

-Doesn’t it mean ’different’ in German?

-I’m thinking more about the fact that your own father is called that. It’s not uncommon to name your child after a beloved relative.

-Maybe, but it could be a girl too.

-Is your generation really that conservative? The child might not even identify as a girl, in which case Anders works perfectly regardless.

-We’re not going to give a daughter a boy’s name, not right off the bat, she replies curtly.

-Back in the day, it wasn’t unusual to name boys Åsa-Nisse, Maj-Björn, Janne-Lisa and…

-But no one does that today.

-No, today every kid has to be named Moonbeam, Tequila, Summer Rain or Delafina.

-Now you’re being ridiculous.

-After everything I’ve done for you, you’re not even willing to let my memory live on through your child?

-No.

-What do you mean, no? You could at least suggest my name as a middle name?

-We’re not having middle names.

-Perhaps the baby doesn’t need a grandfather either?

-Stop being so dramatic.

-I’m just suggesting a name, and you’re going completely on the defensive.

-For God’s sake, Dad, no sane person today names their child Anders, surely you realise that? It wasn’t even a good name in the ’60s when half the population was called that. Your parents must have been completely unimaginative to settle on Lena, Anders and Eva. Or maybe they just fell back on those because they couldn’t agree on decent names?

-I’d like to point out that it’s partly my genes you’re passing on, so I should have a say.

-Jesus Christ…

-Don’t tell me that’s your name suggestion??

Low-hanging fruit.

During the summer holiday in Italy, we rented an Airbnb owned by a Russian. Had I known that from the start, I wouldn’t have rented it—yes, that’s how principled I am. The lack of air conditioning was already stated in the listing, but that didn’t stop me from airing all my opinions about Russians. The windows were wide open, fitted with mosquito nets, while we lay wrapped up like mummies in our sweaty sheets. That’s when I heard the sound of footsteps outside.

-What was that? I asked, my eyes wide open. My wife looked back at me, puzzled.

-Is it the Russians? I whispered.

-Oh, stop being ridiculous.

-What? I’ve been badmouthing them for the past 20 minutes, I said, alarmed, as suddenly another pair of brisk footsteps echoed outside.

-Did you hear that? They’re barefoot! I hissed anxiously.

-What would they be doing out there?

-Well, not drinking vodka, that’s for sure, I replied, managing to untangle myself from the sheets.

I crept toward the kitchen area in the house’s single room. A bread knife might not be much of a weapon, but in my capable hands, I could surely saw off an arm or a thigh bone if necessary. I approached the terrace door and opened it slowly. Once again, I heard footsteps and instinctively raised the knife. My wife had sat up in bed, the moonlight illuminating her now terrified face.

-Maybe it’s an animal? Are there bears here? she asked, listening intently.

-I don’t think so.

-There are owls, apparently, she added hesitantly.

-Well, then it’s one hell of a massive owl with human feet, I hissed irritably and took a determined step out onto the moonlit terrace.

-Dedushkiny chasy! I shouted in my most authoritative voice. ”Grandfather’s clock” might not be the ideal phrase for the situation, but after a sinus infection at age 12 with Swedish public service TV as my sole companion, it’s the only Russian one I know.

Suddenly, I heard another heavy footstep right beside me. And that’s when I saw where the sounds were coming from. The ground was covered in ripe figs that had fallen to the ground. I gathered myself quickly and performed an audio-based pantomime of a violent fight. As a finishing touch, I smeared the blood-red remains of figs across the knife and my face before returning to my terrified wife with a heroic expression.

-It was the Russians; they won’t bother us anymore, I concluded.

Choking small talk.

It’s the first dinner at our friends’ place since they moved into their new flat. The obligatory house tour takes place and the twelve guests are herded around, hearing the story of how dreadful everything looked before the renovation and the accompanying conflicts with the builders. I’m feeling a bit low, as I always do this time of the year, but mostly because I can’t let go of an article that has deeply unsettled me.

-We love the kitchen now, says the hostess. Just being able to stand here and cook while staying connected with the guests at the dining table.

I drum impatiently on the marble worktop as one guest remarks that the kitchen is the most important part of the home, causing everyone to nod in agreement as if something profoundly wise has been said. We are led into the living room and the social spaces.

-The whole family loves hanging out here too, the host exclaims. I want to change the subject and don’t believe him for a second. It looks like an exhibition at a furniture fair, with white corduroy sofas, a glass table that could break a shin if you hit it hard enough, and a woven wool rug as uneven as a forest trail, ready to trip anyone after a few glasses of wine. Especially if they’ve had a run-in with the glass table beforehand.

When the hosts open the door to their bedroom, everyone politely peers in through the doorway and nods approvingly, as though it’s a sacred space no one dares enter. I step inside and linger for a while, which creates a certain nervousness. I rest my gaze on the arrangement of the cushions, run my hand over the perfection of the bedspread and nod in approval at what I see. This is exactly the transition I need.

-Did you read about how common erotic asphyxiation has become these days?

The hosts and guests look deeply uncomfortable.

-I believe the starter is being served, says the host, walking off towards the dining room.

-It’s unbelievable, I continue loudly, following the group. A guy was apparently convicted of causing grievous bodily harm when his girlfriend ended up with permanent brain damage.

-We’ve made place cards, the hostess interjects, touching her throat lightly.

I find my seat and stand beside my dinner companion. I pull out her chair while continuing my thoughts.

-But I never understood who was supposed to get the most out of this sex game. Was it her or was it him enjoying strangling his girlfriend

No one answers, which I take as either discomfort or that they think the answer to my question is obvious.

-Surely it shouldn’t be legal to experiment like that. Or would that be an infringement on people’s freedom? I mean, at best it was mutual. Like when a sadist and masochist meet. Though in this case, I imagine neither of them were satisfied with the outcome.

-A bit like having you as a guest, says the hostess, smiling icily at me.

-Yes, exactly, I reply, realising I might have talked a bit too much.

The starter is served. It’s a tuna carpaccio. Oxygen depletion in the oceans is also something that deeply concerns me, though bringing it up at dinner might be a bit of a downer.

The Orphans.

There are children whose parents don’t even exist. I can’t explain it any other way. All you hear about are youth homes, sentencing guidelines, social exclusion, society’s failures – but not a word about parenthood. Despite being under 18, they’re no longer even described as children, but as a societal problem expected to be locked away and dealt with by anyone other than the ones who brought them into the world.

I’m not trying to place blame on parents who’ve lost control of their children. It’s not their fault that their child has committed horrific crimes, but they are still parents. Surely, they should play the leading role when it comes to getting their child back on the right track?