Happy New Life.
As I find myself in the darkest season of the year, I've spent my holiday reading a bestselling book where someone interviewed people in their final stages of life. It might sound rather counterproductive, but I've concluded that it's better to simply embrace all the darkness in the world. If it were a film scene, it's as if I suddenly stop trying to run from the raging grizzly bear in the forest. Instead, I turn around and walk towards it with open arms. The book elegantly captures my own feelings of hopelessness, until it summarises what people regret most on their deathbed. Then it suddenly doesn't feel quite as relevant anymore.
I wish I'd had the courage to live life on my own terms rather than meeting others' expectations.
I should have worked less.
I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
I wish I'd stayed in touch with my friends.
I wish I'd allowed myself to be happier.
To me, it's obvious that these points of elevated insight come from a generation raised on self-help books and inspirational fridge magnets with uplifting messages like: "Life doesn't offer reruns", "Seize the day", "Today is the first day of the rest of your life", "You only regret the things you didn't do" and so forth.
So I amused myself by visiting a hospice here in Stockholm during the days between Christmas and New Year's, holding the hands of complete strangers on their deathbeds. Disguised in a Dolly Parton wig, Crocs and a very short hospital gown, I probably looked like a lost drag queen, but no one seemed to react when I sat down. With my head tilted and a sympathetic smile, I patted their hands, determined to get more truthful statements.
-You can let go of all those life-affirming platitudes now. Just tell it like it is, I whispered with my notebook in my lap. Those who could open their eyes did so, and perhaps they mistook me for God. Or alternatively, the Devil - it's hard to tell.
Either way, I got what I suspected: a more credible list of points.
I regret not going to a proper doctor straight away, instead of letting some shaman from Sundbyberg try to cure my aggressive cancer.
I regret not shagging around more when I had the chance.
I should have worn a face mask when I demolished that asbestos villa.
I should never have given that lottery ticket as a Christmas present to a colleague who then became financially independent.
I shouldn't have gone clubbing in Berlin and tried smoking heroin, only to wake up in a hotel bed with a garden gnome lodged firmly up my backside.
Perhaps these aren't the sort of life lessons you'd print on coffee mugs, pillowcases, or get tattooed, but I reckon this honesty might serve as liberating guiding stars for all of us heading into this rubbish new year.
Happy New Year to you all!
The Journey to Self-Discovery.
I'm wedged between the aircraft fuselage and an enormous man beside me. He's scrolling through TikTok, continuously munching peanuts and drinking full-fat cola. Yes, it's relevant to the story, but we're not there yet.
-Typical that they seated two big blokes next to each other, he suddenly says to me.
I look at him, tempted to inform him that I'm big whilst he's merely fat. But I'm well-mannered and employ my only known superpower - being accommodating.
-Yes, most aeroplanes are built for Smurfs.
He chuckles, and peanut fragments fly through the air, landing in the hair of a woman in the seat in front of him. Then he laboriously turns towards me, as if suffering from both a stiff neck and lumbago. He gives me a conspiratorial look.
-It’s the bloody Liberals' fault.
-Yes, perhaps, I reply with a forced smile whilst trying to process what he's just said. That the Swedish Liberals have compromised everything they believe in just to secure parliamentary seats without any real influence is quite correct. But what do they have to do with aeroplane seats?
-I didn't know they were big in the aircraft industry, I reply, feeling I ought to say something.
-They’re everywhere, ruining everything that's fantastic about Sweden and...
He suddenly chokes on a peanut and can't breathe. His face quickly turns blue, and I'm once again reminded of Smurfs, as he gestures at his throat and looks at me with bloodshot eyes. I want to be a bigger person in this moment. I should yank him out of his seat and perform a perfect Heimlich manoeuvre to save his life. But I have no desire to rummage around his diaphragm and fumble for a seatbelt buried in his fat rolls. Besides, it's doubtful my arms would reach around him; it would just look like I'm trying to spoon a dying man. I'm not sure how I'd explain that to my family. But even if I could get a grip around his love handles, I don't think I could lift him even a millimetre off the aeroplane floor.
-Are the Liberals big in the peanut industry too? I ask before oxygen deprivation causes his eyeballs to whiten and his body to start twitching in convulsions. I realise I should probably call for the purser at this point, but it would be rather nice to have more space to myself, wouldn't it? Am I a terrible person for thinking this way?
Or have I finally stopped being a pushover?
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The difficult conversation.
Your child has reached an age when it's time for that conversation that's so hard to have. Because how do you explain to children that not all adults are nice without scaring the shit out of them?
-You know you should never accept candy from strange men?
-What about crisps?
-No.
-Cheese puffs?
-Okay, listen carefully now. You mustn't accept anything from people you don't know.
-Once I got a medal from the referee after a football match we won.
-That’s okay. Then there were lots of other people there too.
-I see.
-But never get into strange cars.
-Chinese cars?
-Not those either. But I mean cars driven by someone you don't know.
-But I can ride with you?
-Of course.
-But what if you're not driving?
-Then you don't go.
-Even if it's mum?
-For fuck's sake, you know your own mother, don't you? Sorry. What I mean is that you should never jump into cars with strangers.
-Once I went home with Jonathan after school. His mum drove.
-You know her.
-Jonathan’s grandmother was there too.
-Yes, but his mum was there so…
-I sat in the back seat with the grandmother and she offered me sweets. I think I ate a few pieces.
-That’s alright, darling.
-She said I was cute.
-Of course. I think we can forget about Jonathan's grandmother, it's not old ladies we need to worry about.
-Then she whispered asking if I'd ever seen an old woman naked.
Can I have you for dinner?
After watching a documentary about salmon farming, I lost all appetite for salmon. Typical, isn’t it? I had bought the myth that farmed fish could be the food of the future, only to discover it’s industrial, dirty, cynical, and environmentally destructive. Salmon may not have a brain that makes it an intellectual giant, but it feels stress and pain. It is killed, gutted, and the flesh is dyed pink to look more appetising on a cruise ship buffet, where half of it isn’t even eaten but thrown in the bin.
I should mention that I’ve also seen and read quite a bit about poultry farming and the meat industry, which has led me to abstain from chicken and red meat. This usually lasts about a week, then I’m back to burgers, lamb shanks, and chicken stew as usual. That’s as high-minded as I get. It’s dreadful; we need to find new ways to create sustainable food. Especially food that lacks a brain. Mushrooms, vegetables, and seaweed. Apparently, shrimp and shellfish feel pain when boiled, so we’ll have to find other ways to kill them. Like Stalin, perhaps? Invite them over in a pleasant manner, and when they least expect it, shoot them in the back of the head.
There’s been a lot of talk about insects as a potential food source. Unfortunately, that avenue came to a sudden halt the other day when British researchers mapped the fruit fly's brain. With 130,000 cells and 50 million connections, it can walk, fly, and even sing love songs to potential partners. So the only sustainable diet I can see ahead is human flesh. Our species has millions more brain cells than the fruit fly, but quantity doesn’t seem to be a good quality metric here. Humanity mainly consists of idiots and the taste is said to be surprisingly good. Like chicken, they say.
An average man has 33 kilos of muscle, and a woman 21 kilos. Then many innards shouldn’t be underestimated as food either. So let’s settle on 35 kilos of edible male flesh and 23 kilos of female flesh. At the same time, we don’t want to exceed the new Swedish health rules of 350 grams of red meat per week. That amounts to 18.2 kilos in a year, which means we could manage with about half a butchered male body or a whole female body. That should fit in most Swedish freezers.
I also believe that the origin of the human flesh will become an important factor. The liver of a church pastor who has never drunk alcohol. The fillet of a figure skater in the prime of her life. So the remaining question is how we choose the people who will become food for the rest of us. Perhaps the death penalty could be reinstated to provide us with endless food. Chops from a serial killer, anyone? Otherwise, we can rely on wars or the lunatics in traffic to sort it out for us. All these tragic deaths could suddenly gain meaning and bring joy to everyone. Yes, now we’re getting somewhere. I can see all the new, colourful cookbooks in front of me with sustainable food and exciting recipes: HEALTHY IDIOTS, DESSERTS OF THE AFTERLIFE, and MAN, THIS IS GOOD. I also see a heavily tattooed waiter in the hip quarters of Stockholm who keeps squatting down to confidentially ask me what kind of food I like.
—I like velodrome cyclists in their thirties who have happened to run off the road during a cycling holiday in Zermatt. Preferably with a mushroom sauce!
Adapt and live.
-It feels as if we’re moving into our final disposal, I told my wife with my unfailing sense of the melodramatic. Is this the place we’re going to die in?
As you can hear, I was sceptical about moving from our 280m² villa with a large garden to an 87m² flat with a balcony. But adaptability is what makes a species viable, and now six weeks have passed without any of my fears being realised. I’ve neither had a breakdown nor completely lost my mind. On the contrary, I’m more content with life than ever and haven’t missed our house or garden for a second. It’s as if that time has been erased from my consciousness. And yet, we raised two children there, had two dogs, and spent tons of money and love on that house. Is it possible that I’ve adjusted this quickly, or am I just lying to myself?
For a while, I thought my turnaround was because our new flat is just a kilometre from where I was born and spent my first 18 years. All my old schools are still there, the sports field where I learned to skate is within walking distance, the villas where my friends lived have changed owners and look better than ever, and the library in the centre is as hopelessly outdated as ever. I can see my 12-year-old self cycling to and from school on the same streets that I now dreamily walk along. He’s not wearing a helmet, of course, and has a jacket that’s far too thin because it’s cool to act as if you’re not freezing your ass off.
-You could get cystitis! I shout affectionately to myself from a distance.
-Shut up, you bloody paedo, little Anders shouts back, cycling for his life.
I’m not going to let this pass, so I run after him at full speed to teach him a lesson. Children need clear boundaries; otherwise, they might end up as mime artists or junkies. He looks back from his bike and makes a silly face at me just as a lorry pulls out from a crossing street ahead of him.
-You’re not so cocky now, are you? I say, looking under the lorry where little Anders is wedged between the bike frame, spokes, and the lorry’s driveshaft. He’s having trouble speaking because the handlebars have gone through one of his cheeks. But there and then, I have a life-changing insight. I realise that my adaptability has nothing to do with nostalgic memories, but rather with the future.
-I’m debt-free, I say lyrically to little Anders before I skip along the streets of my childhood.
The Gang School.
A new private school has been established for secondary school students who want to pursue a career as gang criminals. I am hired by a newspaper that doesn’t want to expose its permanent writers to life-threatening situations, so I’m sent out to interview the headmaster.
-There’s been a lack of a school that teaches the basics of how to become a gang criminal, explains headmaster Urban Zetterlöv in a broad Gothenburg accent. He promises comprehensive teaching in everything from handling weapons and explosives, drug knowledge, money laundering, and basic criminal law to argot.
-Argot? I wonder.
-Being well-acquainted with the terms and concepts that are prevalent in the industry is crucial for being able to act credibly and rise through the ranks.
-Where do the students come from?
-Everywhere. Previously, it was just the youths from the suburban slums, but now we see a clear trend that even native Swedes from affluent areas long to become part of the criminal world. And that is truly positive.
-How so?
-I see it as a process of democratisation. Nowadays, all parents, regardless of socio-economic factors or demographics, have given up on trying to raise their children. No one bothers to take parental responsibility anymore. Some even hide behind the old cliché from the 60s that it’s society’s fault when children choose a criminal path, laughs Urban, pouring himself a bit more coffee.
-And you have no issues with starting a school that fosters crime and trains murderers?
-I see record numbers of young people longing for community and a purpose.
-And gang crime offers this?
-Oh yes. There is camaraderie, entrepreneurship, and big money for everyone.
-And violence and substance abuse…
-That exists in all workplaces, Urban interrupts me brusquely. Here we teach the youths to use Tramadol judiciously, so they can execute someone with both emotions and weapons under control.
-What a relief…
-I know. There’s a snobbery in the education system that has always irritated me. People dismissed the two-year vocational programmes when they came along too, but look at how many mechanics and nurses we got because of that. And this hunt for private schools continues despite the fact that most of them offer a better education than the municipal ones.
-So who owns the school?
-Two gang leaders who believe so strongly in this school that they have set aside their rivalries and are financing it together.
-So it’s blood money?
-Blood money? Urban says, looking at me wistfully. What is that? All revenue for criminal gangs comes from ordinary, decent Swedes who buy a bit of relaxation. It could be drugs, smuggled spirits, prostitutes, or other things that add a bit of sparkle to life.
I watch Urban as he comfortably starts devouring a blueberry muffin.
-But doesn’t it concern you that young people are dying in gang violence?
-Oh please, spare me, Urban says, licking his fingers. There are plenty of professions where the career is short. Ballet dancer, circus artist, astronaut, elite athlete, etc. The youths choose our school because they are passionate about becoming gang criminals; they are fully aware of the risks.
I conclude the interview by photographing Urban posing with an assault rifle in the teacher's room.
-What do you think of the headline: A GANG BANG SCHOOL? he says, laughing so hard that he accidentally fires a round into the plaster ceiling.
Mordor is just outside of Stockholm.
We were in the car, having just sold our house and moved into a new flat, when my wife looked at me thoughtfully and asked a question she hadn't asked in over 20 years.
-Shall we go to IKEA?
We'd agreed that I'd never have to go to IKEA again, because every time I did, it threatened our marriage. There was an exception to the rule last winter when I accompanied her to IKEA in Miami. I acted as a human forklift for my wife, who was furnishing a house in Florida, and I was a little tempted to see what the chipboard temple looked like in the USA. The experience was exotic, and strangely I felt a little proud as I wandered around looking at all the products with Swedish names, staff in Swedish colours and a pleasant homely feel. My wife noticed that I didn't have to take beta-blockers or wear a muzzle during the visit and must have thought I was cured.
-We need drawer inserts for our new kitchen, she continued, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
Perhaps I agreed because we were debt-free and my body felt light as if it had been pumped full of helium. Maybe my judgement had been altered by the Miami experience, or maybe it was the promise that we would just go there to buy some drawer inserts and then head straight home.
-Okay, as long as we have the measurements for our drawers?
-Of course.
We made our way to Barkarby. Not very Miami, but more like a standard Swedish shopping centre on steroids. We parked in the IKEA car park and strolled in to do our business. Now, everyone knows that IKEA not only has a system for assembling its flat-pack items, but also for herding customers like cattle through the stores on their terms. So I was pleased to see the large signs generously indicating shortcuts to get us to our destination faster. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that these shortcuts were impossible to find. I began to sweat profusely in the bedding section and clenched my fists so tightly that my blood stopped circulating in the kitchen section.
Even the staff struggled to give us clear directions on how to get straight to the kitchenware. Apparently there was a lift somewhere that would take us straight there, but where? My guess was that the lift never existed. I explained to my wife that these were Ingvar Kamprad's last words on his deathbed.
-No shortcuts, no lifts…
Trying to keep her spirits up, my wife led me through the store as if we had eaten bad oysters and were desperately looking for a toilet. Then suddenly we found ourselves in the kitchenware section. Eagerly, we started rummaging through the boxes and quickly realised that our new kitchen had completely different dimensions from IKEA's. Not a single tray fit. My blood pressure rose to the point where the veins on my forehead and neck were protruding like earthworms. We left as quickly as we could, and when I looked in the rear-view mirror on the way out of the car park, I could swear the whole place looked like Mordor from The Lord of the Rings.
-Never again, my wife said firmly.
I smiled, glad that my wife was on my side.
-Never again will I go to IKEA with you, she added.