Bullfighting.

Ursula Von der Leyen calls me late one evening while I’m sitting naked on the bathroom floor filing my feet.

-I’m losing my mind! she blurts out with a loud sigh.

-Well, hello to you too, I reply, eyeing the little pile on the floor. Like grated Parmesan, I have time to think before Ursula starts again.

-We have to unite as Europeans. Work together and pull in the same direction. Otherwise, what’s the point of the whole union?

-Peace? I suggest.

-And how well has that worked, do you think? she retorts sarcastically. We need to let go of our local nationalities and see ourselves as part of something bigger. We may speak different languages and live in different climates, but we are Europeans, and we are incredibly strong together.

-Look, I’m in an awkward position right now, I try, but she cuts me off again.

-I’ve booked you a flight to Barcelona tomorrow. There’s a meeting with heads of state from across the union.

-What am I supposed to do there? I ask, getting to my feet, now baby-smooth.

-You need to help me find the tone and arguments that will make everyone set aside their differences, Ursula says, sounding, for the first time, a little pleading.

Barcelona is sweltering as always, but I’m sitting in a cool limousine with Ursula, who’s poring over a stack of documents ahead of the meeting.

-Why Spain? I ask as we pass the Sagrada Familia.

-Because they’re a functioning member state, and I want you to be inspired by a good example, Ursula says sternly.

At the fancy hotel in the Gothic Quarter, I find myself seated next to the Spanish president at dinner. I’d hoped his name would be Javier, a name I’ve developed a bit of a tic for. I love saying it out loud and hearing how the J is just a soft hiss, like a cat. Turns out his name is Pedro, as original and melodious as Anders.

Pedro speaks rather poor English, with such a heavy lisp that I wonder if he’s just had a root canal. I try to steer the conversation towards a shared European mentality when he suddenly starts waxing lyrical about bullfighting. Ursula notices my ingratiating smile fading and shoots me a warning look from across the table. Pedro goes on, elaborating on the matadors’ incredible skill and the audience’s boundless enthusiasm for the spectacle, until something inside me snaps.

-I always root for the bull to spear the matador, I interrupt, freezing the entire table. Ursula waves her fork desperately from the other side of the table to get my attention, but it’s too late.

-It happens, Pedro replies curtly.

-But rarely, right? First, a bunch of amateur murderers with spears wound the bull so it gets tired and weak. Then the puffed-up twat in a cape and spandex comes in and finishes the job with a sword.

-You don’t understand. It’s part of Spain’s cultural heritage.

-I didn’t know animal cruelty could be classified as cultural heritage. But you’re right, I’ll never understand it.

Ursula raises her glass for a toast, but neither Pedro nor I touch ours.

-And just because you’ve been doing something stupid for a long time doesn’t make it culture or defensible. Like slavery and the Inquisition, for example – you’ve stopped those, haven’t you? I continue. Ursula laughs nervously, trying to get me to shut up.

-Your food culture, on the other hand, you’ve stuck with. It’s baffling that you can’t do better with all the ingredients you have at your disposal. No, just drown everything in oil and serve it with a red wine that tastes like an old barrel.

Pedro leaves the table, his face bright red, stomping briskly towards the exit on his short, stubby legs. (This is completely irrelevant, but I choose to mention it for comedic effect.) I look at Ursula, who has slumped in her chair with a defeated expression.

-I think I’ve found the tone now, I say cheerfully. We should embrace our differences – that’s what makes the union strong.

A Censored Party.

My wife and I receive a lengthy invitation to a grand party on an archipelago island. The reason for the party is briefly mentioned at the beginning of the invitation, which then shifts to more practical matters. We are asked to inform them if we are vegetarians and to list any allergies and intolerances we have. I want to reply with birch pollen and heroin, but my wife stops me.

They then mention that dogs are welcome, provided they are hypoallergenic, house-trained, and don't bite everything that moves. (That line ends with a smiley.) It continues like this:

We also think it would be great if we didn't talk about Trump, Putin, and all the other woes of the world this evening. Ailments and surgeries would be nice to avoid too, especially since Bettan recently had both hips replaced and John had one lung removed. We'll never get them to stop if they start talking about it.

Since Jimmy has gained about 30 kilos in a short time, we can skip discussions about diet and exercise. And absolutely not Ozempic, considering how slim Lena has suddenly become without changing her lifestyle one bit.

Some of us have children who have chosen to work in the cultural sector or are completely unsuccessful (perhaps the same thing?), so it would be desirable for the rest of us to refrain from boasting about our own children's enormous wealth and success. We also think substance abuse is a topic we should avoid. Most of us drink far too much and should join AA, but that conversation can easily become a bit of a downer during the evening. (Red, white, and dessert wine will be served during dinner, by the way.)

It would also be nice to avoid hearing about AI. No one wants to hear old men guessing which professions will become completely redundant in the future, especially not Jeanette, who works in translations, and Janne, who is an illustrator. The pros and cons of energy sources are certainly fascinating, but since Anna and Jarl have a place in Jämtland where a new wind farm has just been built, it's a no-go zone for the evening. Jarl tends to froth at the mouth when it's brought up. And yes, there are defibrillators on the island. Perhaps we can also avoid hearing about elderly parents. Many have recently lost parents, and it can create envy among those who wish their parents were gone.

There will be an open bar and dancing after dinner. Now let's party like it's 1999!

I look questioningly at my wife.

– So what’s left to talk about?

From Botox to Blockbuster.

I'm contacted by an influencer who wants to break into the film industry. Naturally, I have nothing useful to offer, but I think she might know things from which I could benefit. We meet for coffee in The Old Town. She's probably around 25 years old, but since she's had surgery and injected Botox and fillers everywhere, she looks like 45. I'm not judging; I'm just stating a fact.

-I want to start acting and directing and stuff, she declares with a look like a dead herring.

-It’s brave to reconsider your life choices and ask yourself what you want out of life.

-I know, she says, sipping coffee with lips that look like they might burst at any second.

-Have you checked out the Royal Swedish Academy of Fine Arts or The Dramatic  Institute?

-God, no! I don't need an education, I already have over 200,000 followers and get tons of offers.

-It took me 10 years to learn to write scripts properly, I say quietly.

-But you don't need that now, she says, looking at me as if I were a corpse.

She has a point. The film and TV climate in Sweden is so desperate that many imagine the solution is to throw in famous people with lots of followers. Everyone can write, act, and direct. How hard can it be?

-I already have a great idea, she adds. A super hot girl who is also an astronaut falls head over heels for a guy just days before she's going to Mars.

-Absolutely. Then it turns out she's pregnant and has to give birth in zero gravity without pain relief? I suggest constructively.

-No, that's disgusting.

-What happens during the years they're apart then?

-Are you always this negative? she asks and starts checking her phone.

-I’m having surgery in a week or so, I say suddenly.

She looks up and studies my face carefully.

-Yes, there are quite a few areas for improvement.

-No, I'm having a kidney transplant and have asked for an influencer to be my surgeon. She wrinkles her nose and bares her teeth. It's probably an attempt at a smile; otherwise, her face is completely blank.

-I think it will be fantastic live content. Someone clueless rummaging through my body and ends up cutting out my heart and then replacing it with a pig’s kidney attached with Gaffer Tape.

-What is Gaffer Tape? she finally asks.

-Learn that, and your drama career is secured.

Give us something to live for.

They’re reaching out from SVT News. In a time when the news makes everyone want to shoot themselves in front of the TV, a counterforce is desperately needed. They can’t control all the bad news, but for a while now, they’ve been trying to squeeze in some good stories to end their broadcasts on a positive note. Nothing seems to work.

The entire editorial team is gathered, and the atmosphere is grim.

-Public service should enlighten people, not scare them away or drive them into depression and suicidal thoughts, says the news chief despondently.

-And the segment with three lambs born as triplets on Öland doesn’t save any lives? I wonder.

-No, not even the feel-good story about an old man who fell into his own well and was rescued by his 12-year-old grandchild lifts people’s spirits.

-Because everyone realises that if a half-blind man and some lambs are the only good news of the day, then the world is beyond saving? I summarise.

Nods around the table.

-We don’t know what to do. That’s why we reached out to you. We need someone with a fundamentally positive and hopeful attitude who can help us.

Jesus, I think to myself. Not only do they have the world’s problems on their shoulders, but they’ve also contacted the completely wrong person for the job. They need God, but he’s either dead, a fundamentalist, or very busy covering up some paedophile scandal.

-Satire, I finally say. It’s the only thing that can both inform and make people laugh at the same time. Plus, it has the added bonus of driving regimes and those in power to madness. They can’t stand being laughed at.

-That’s unthinkable. Then we’re no longer objective.

-I’m not saying your Middle East correspondent should report from a humanitarian disaster with castanets in his hands and a laugh track running in the background.

-Thanks, says the news chief, closing his eyes.

-But maybe we can create a positive feeling with the viewers—a sense that we’re going through this crap together? We laugh at the clown in the White House, we watch in amusement as the planet reaches boiling point, we roll our eyes together at the fact that the world’s largest country sacrifices its sons to gain even more land. Together we share the world’s burdens, and somehow, it helps us carry on and dare to believe in a better future.

-This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, says the news chief, standing up. The meeting is over, but I feel a strong need to end it on a positive note.

-Do you know the difference between an optimist and a pessimist? I ask, looking around the room. No one can be bothered to answer.

-The pessimist is better informed, I say. Oddly enough, I don’t even get a smile in return.

Close up.

My wife and I were sitting in our new flat, catching our breath after the move. It had been demanding, both physically and emotionally. Mostly for me, of course, but as we sat among the packing boxes surveying our new home, it finally felt like we'd landed. We'd cracked open a bottle of red and started unpacking when my wife found an old photo album.

-Never seen this before.

-Sod that. I meant to bin it.

I reach for the album, but she twists away and opens it.

-Are you mad? You can't just chuck away part of your life!

She flicks through a few pages and chuckles. Meanwhile, I'm going clammy.

-Christ, look at you here - so sweet! Is this pre-uni?

-Dunno, love, just give it here...

-No, I want to see, she replies, turning another page.

-Please, darling...

Suddenly I notice my wife stiffen.

-Who's this then? she says in that icy tone.

-Who?

-The woman posing starkers in a bed.

-Right... don't recall that, I say, feigning nonchalance.

-Can't even remember her name?

-Come on, it was ages ago...

I hear my voice crack as she turns another page.

-Good grief, these are proper porn shots.

-No they're bloody not!

-Then what's this? She thrusts the album at me.

-She wanted me to take the photos!

-Naturally.

-Just for laughs... let's chuck it...

-Yes - question is why you didn't years ago?

-Oh bollocks! It's been in the loft forever. I even forgot it existed.

My wife flips to the next photo and holds it up.

-Forgot? I find that very hard to believe.

I shamefully avert my gaze. I'd also forgotten I once owned a macro lens for extreme close-ups.

An unfortunate time travel.

I’ve saved my grandfather’s 16mm films, where a large part of our family history is preserved. Since no one owns a projector anymore, I digitised about eight hours of material. Only a handful of people still alive have ever seen the films before, so it was with a sense of reverence that I stayed up one night watching through it all.

The earliest clip shows my great-grandfather’s 80th birthday. Carefree guests with cocktails under the lime trees, lanterns, cigarettes, and brandy in the black-and-white summer evening. Someone’s little child runs past in a white cotton dress. The next clip is from the same year but shows a group having coffee outdoors on a sunny summer day. Someone else must have been operating the camera because I see my grandfather sitting at one end of the table, around 30 years old. Suddenly, the camera passes the other side of the table, and there sits a person I immediately recognise. The scene is brief, but when I freeze the frame, there is no doubt. The same colours, the same hair, shoulders, posture, nose, and smile. It’s me sitting there.

The next day, I excitedly show the clip to my wife, who agrees that it undeniably looks like me.

-Well, it must be a relative, she reasons logically.

-With genes that produce exact clones?

-Yes, there are people with strong genes.

-But it doesn’t add up, I reply and call my 80-year-old uncle. I ask if he knows who it is in the film.

-It looks like you, but I don’t know who it is, he replies, which rules out the possibility of a close relative.

-Your grandmother had an affair with him, my wife insensitively suggests that evening.

-I don’t want you trash talking my grandmother.

-It’s the only explanation. He’s your biological grandfather, and when your mum gave birth to you - you became his exact copy. That must be it, she concludes confidently.

-Not at all, I reply irritably. It could be me who travelled back in time when I was around 30 and accidentally got caught on camera.

-How?

-I don’t have all the answers! There are several theoretical physicists who argue that it’s possible. I might have stumbled into a wormhole and travelled back in time.

-Well, you’d remember that, wouldn’t you?

-Not necessarily. Travelling close to the speed of light can have strange effects on the brain.

-So, you went back in time and slept with your own grandmother, is that what you’re saying?

At this point, I chose to end the conversation. It was too much to process. Could I be my own grandfather?

One fucking trip.

I never understood people who pay for sex, until one day when I decided to do it myself. Not like the Swedish performance artist who slept with a prostitute and filmed it to show how wrong it is. In my case, it was about my dog Signe, whose genes I believed must be passed on. Not so much for her sake as for my own. I was thinking long-term, so that when our beloved dog one day passed away, her puppies would remain and provide us with a diluted version of our beloved Signe.

I found the perfect male and made a tentative call to the owner, a woman from the Swedish Midlands. She assured me that her male certainly wasn't shooting blanks, having successfully impregnated several females before. I asked rather shyly how I would know exactly when it was time to drive down with Signe. The woman replied that I should massage her "ringpiece" a bit, and if she moved her tail aside, she was ready. I didn't dare ask any follow-up questions and later analysed whether something had been lost in the dialectal differences. In my part of the country, the ”ringpiece" refers to a different bodily opening. I considered calling back to clarify that I was prepared to pay for my dog to be impregnated, not violated. If she or her dog had any other ideas, shouldn't they be the ones paying me? Not that it was an option, but still. It's an important matter of principle. I wanted to buy sperm, not finance someone's sexual fantasy.

After a while, I calmed down and assumed she must have been referring to Signe's more reproductive parts. But the idea that I should massage her there didn't feel right either. Neither for Signe nor for me. Perhaps mostly for me. Should I put on a washing-up glove and then stand there rubbing my dog’s private parts? In my racing imagination, I pictured my wife coming home and surprising me, and the difficulties I'd have explaining what I was up to.

So one weekend I drove to this small town, come what may. Like a pimp. I had a feeling I'd return home with material for an entire novel. And who knew, even with an expectant bitch?

I had packed a cosy blanket, a small nurse's uniform in Signe's size, some scented candles, and prepared a Spotify playlist exclusively featuring Barry White. I envisioned an equal meeting between two mature dogs with the potential for romantic mating at the end. A beautiful vision that was shattered the moment I approached the farm outside the small town. A desolate, red-flagged cottage with a corrugated metal roof, half-overgrown by forest and wild greenery.

I parked by a barn with broken windows and saw chickens running freely around the unkempt property. A rusty car wreck from the 1930s rested in a grove, and in a fenced dog yard behind the barn, I could hear the yapping of two Rhodesian Ridgebacks. The owner came out to meet me, sporting freshly dyed hair and large, jangling jewellery around her wrists and neck. Like a hybrid between Frankenstein’s monster and Sharon Osbourne, I thought, before she ushered Signe and me into the house's kitchen.

I thought I'd walked into a butterfly house, as the room was filled with butterflies and flies competing for airspace. The sun filtered through the dirty windowpanes, and the shadows from the butterflies played on a brocade-patterned linoleum floor. The door to the rest of the cottage was closed, and the air was stuffy and musty as we sat down at a bare pine kitchen table with matching chairs. A daughter of about 16 leaned against a kitchen cabinet with a self-painted cat on it. She kept fiddling with her mobile. The mother slipped out quickly and returned with a Jack Russell male in her arms. She put him down on the floor, and I quickly realised that the nurse's uniform wouldn't be needed to get him interested. The problem was that Signe wasn't the least bit excited. I thought she showed it quite clearly by growling and snapping at the male when he came too close.

-She wants to, she's just playing around, the woman declared in broad Midland dialect. I considered offering a feminist perspective on that statement but realised this was neither the place, time, nor audience for it. The daughter cast disinterested glances at her dog who manically was trying to chisel his way into Signe, she then told her mum offhand that she needed a lift into town soon. Another stress factor. The woman urged me to hold Signe still, to make things easier for her male. Not exactly the Barry White method, and I felt very uncomfortable. Images from films like "Midnight Express" and "The Last Journey" popped into my head, and I had to react.

-I don't think this is going to work. Not like this, I said, choking up.

The woman decided to drive her daughter into town, and we agreed to meet up in a park with our dogs to see if things would work out better there. Signe and I probably had the same view of that kitchen; it created absolutely no desire for sex. Nor cooking, for that matter.

In the park, things changed. The dogs got to know each other and eventually started mating on their own initiative. The woman and I sat down beside them and watched in oppressive silence. Hers was probably more of the unconcerned, bored sort, while mine was more awkward and embarrassed. We held onto the dogs since they apparently can hurt themselves at the crucial moment.

-In case one of them decides to chase after a hare or something, the woman said routinely. At that moment, I just wanted to transform into a hare myself and hop deep into the forest and disappear.

Later I was sitting at home, studying Signe searchingly, trying to interpret every movement and action as proof that the journey wasn't in vain. That I wasn’t a wretched sex buyer who'd only come home with an abused dog and a story to write.