SWEDEN: 2 OF 2

Sweden, what are you?

In this post I answer the tough questions. I've just come back from a week in Stockholm, or as the Swedes call it, 'Jogdaskfdbaljfalfh'. They do this a lot to words. More about that later.

My friends said before I left that it'd be mad expensive. They said a lot of things. The women are pretty and have long legs, they said. The city is beautiful, they said.

I know whether they were right or wrong - but I don't want to ruin the ending for you.

The flight was cheap as £70 worth of chips. Fucking win. It costs more to go to the edge of England on a train than it does to fly to another country on a plane. A return ticket to New Quay is about £80. Fucking fail. I went with 2 business associates of mine. 2 of the baddest dudes to ever walk the mean streets of Brighton.

From left to right - Me, Danny, Jez.

Danny 'Crack-Daddy Switchblade' Montez and Jez. (Jez doesn't have any nicknames. :( sadface). Danny's wiry and tall, with a sea of brown curly hair, and a face like a sad mole. Jez is squat and powerful, like a Henry Hover. Jez can do a shit-ton of push-ups. Jez doesn't fly well. He doesn't like the take off, he doesn't like the landing, and he doesn't like the bit in the middle. But that's okay, because you can buy booze at the Duty Free at the Airport and you can buy more booze on the plane. We stocked up on 3 litres of the good stuff before we left England. We thought that 3 litres of spirits would last us the bulk of the holiday. It didn't.

We also got loose on the train up to Gatwick.
Guess who's booze is who's? This blog has fun activities.

About 2 hours into our journey - Jez and I are as drunk as a Hen Do. Our tiny, piece of shit, plastic treehouse, economy flight seats are our nightclub. We are drunk and we are fun and we are cra-a-a-azy. We are pissing everyone off. We don't care. We are a 2 man Hen Do. The flight attendant refuses to give us any more ice for our whiskey cokes and our rum and cokes. "I have a medical condition and I need ice to cure me," I say. I think they must have a procedure about not dicking around with medical conditions. He brings us moar ice. I am lol. By the time our return flight comes around, I'm calling the flight attendants "Little bitch," and "Motherfucker". Stockholm did something dark and sinister to our language. More about that later.

I was so drunk by the time we got to the hostel, it felt like the whole journey - the train, the flight, the bus, the walk - took about 3 hours. I think door-to-door it took 7 hours.

This was the view from the bus.
Beautiful. Just beautiful.

We set up camp in the hostel. We're rooming with Some Spanish Guy and His Girlfriend Who Has a Sweet Ass, and another European couple, Steve and Judith. Steve isn't called Steve. Steve is Dutch and his name is Sietce. We can't pronounce that - so we offered to call him Shih Tzu, Schnitzel, or Steve. He likes Steve the least, so obviously, that's the name we choose for him. Obviously. 

Steve is a 6 ft Ken Doll. He's so asexual I think if I pulled his shorts down I'd be greeted with a perfectly smooth, penisless sheet of pink plastic. He also has the lulziest speech impediment I've ever heard. He occasionally drops a word to the back of his throat and stammers it out in a low hum, like a fridge compressor turning on. I've laughed right in his face like twice now - but I can't help it. He is offering the lols. The lols must we answered. (Judith is just called Judith). We like Steve and Judith very, very much. 

Steve and Judith. Guess who's who?
This blog has fun activities.

It's a beautiful city. It looks like someone started building a dolls house and didn't know where to stop. It's a gingerbread house made of stone. It's a toy built for grown ups. I've lived by the sea my whole life but this is the best I've seen it done.

Yes, the women are lovely. Their legs extend a full 12 inches longer than they should, like they start at their diaphragm or something. But facially, I'm on the fence. It's like all the features are in the right place but the maths is wrong. I haven't seen 1 OMG IT IS STUNNG! woman since I got off the plane. I am :( sadface.

You can dress up like a Viking and stuff
at the National Historical Museum.

I meet some drunk Swedish guys outside. Danny's with me. Jez's having serious dicky-tummy issues. More on that later. One of the guys is being really obnoxious, but in a harmless and fun way. I think he's going for the shock lols. Brother, let me stop you there. I'm a veteran. I've seen stuff on the internet, man. I've seen some shit, man. Forget about the internet’s original purpose – the bold new age of shared learning. Instead it's devolved into the deepest, darkest ocean of shit known to man. Even sunlight doesn't penetrate that far down. Only the most highly adapted and specialised kinds of life can survive down there. They all look like abortions.

However, he did give me the purest lol I've had since I got off the plane. He's talking about this woman he's dating. "I know I've had a good date with a woman when she starts to cry," he says. I mean, what the fuck is that? What do you even say to that? I am lol.

I am always lol.

There's a slower pace of doing things here. There's no hustle or bustle. There's no rush. Maybe it's because it's an opulent holiday city. Or maybe we're just in the right part of town. It reminds me of how much I dislike London. There's no serious businessmen in suits charging around from A to B, or people beeping one another like mechanical 'fuck yous,' or dozens of people shoehorned into streets that can't contain them. It's just nice. Very pleasant. 

So far we've done things by the numbers. 'Got fucked up the first night. 'Went out to dinner (and got fucked up) the second night. The third day we jumped on a guided tour of the city by boat. It includes a bus tour too. Hop on. Hop off. It costs £35 for a 24 hour pass.

Our boat does not look this cool. Not at all.
Outside the Royal Warship Vasa Museum.  

Also, I'm off the booze today. I woke up at 5am and then again at 7am to be sick. I haven't been sick from booze for as long as I can remember - but doing the maths, I think I've gone through at least 1 litre of whisky in 2 days. Far too many alcoho-lols. I think, 'Imagine if I hadn't woken up and I'd just choked to death on my own vomit in some hostel?' Oh dear. Oh dear, I think. I'm off the booze today.

Which brings me to the price of booze here. We are hemorrhaging money. We're hemorrhaging money like a city council trying to come up with a recycling initiative. A single spirit and mixer is £10+. A beer is around £8 for 400ml. 

This. This cost about £7.

And the heads on the beers are far, far too big. Like the mushroom cloud looming over Hiroshima. For a £7 beer I expect no head. I also expect 2 beers, but then that's just me. Also, it's another one of those cities where you can't buy precious alcoho-lols just anywhere. You have to go to the Special Shop. It's called something real plinky-plonky, and like many of the words here, I cannot pronounce it. 

But it's cool - everyone seems to speak English dead proper like.

Some Spanish Guy and His Girlfriend Who Has a Sweet Ass both tell us to keep the noise down. This is on the first night. They're gone by the second night. Replaced with another plucky young adventurer, Rapey Dom. Rapey Dom's not his real name, of course. He tells us this story about how he once pulled a 14 year old girl in a club and made out with her accidentally. Accidentally, he says. Rapey Dom. Paedo Dom. Dom the Rapist. These are the names that we call him for his sins. He volunteered this information during a game of Kings. Part of the game is an I've Never section. I can't even remember what the fuck it is that he's never done - but it was genuinely an innocent mistake. 

Accidentally, he says.

We like Rapey Dom very, very much. Rapey Dom says that he thinks English women are ugly. We can't argue with him. But Brighton has some absolute gems, we say. We spend the third night convincing him. 

Then this happens. 

Daisy. Daisy is English.

Daisy looks like a birthday party that nobody turned up to. She's all slight, slumped shoulders and nervous laughter. Daisy is a half eaten bowl of custard. Beige. All the work we put into convincing Rapey Dom the merits of English women is undone the minute she walks into the room. And, man, does she like faffing around with her bags in the morning. She's there an hour every morning. Rearranging. Checking. Organising. I want to scream at her, 'Daisy, you disgusting animal, what the fuck are you doing down there?! What are you?!' But I don't. 

Danny and I go to the museum. Danny and I go for a walk. Danny and I go for a walk through the Old Town. Where's Jez in all this? Well to understand that, you need to understand about Chorizo. 

I didn't take any photos of the Chorizo.
Here's Danny in the brush museum.

Like I said, we can't afford anything. We can't afford to eat. Like cavemen discovering fire, we learn that we can buy hotdogs from Stockholm's street vendors for £3. Most of them are skins of old animal carcasses, and eyelashes, and dirt. And then there's the Chorizo - the Spanish sausage, the life giver, the angel with Paprika deodorant. We ate a ton of them the first 3 days. We try to mispronounce it as badly as we can. The Chorizo. The Chozero. The Chozerzorio. We do this to torment the street vendors. Whoever can speak the sacred word as poorly as possible, not laugh, and still get the nutritious hotdog wins. Oh, Chorizo. Oh, angel with Paprika smile. Jez supplemented this diet with booze and medicine-ball sized bags of Wotsits. Or, Wijslgflsgf, as the Swedes call them.

Here's Jez in his cesspit, hostel, hospital bed.
It was his tomb. He rarely left.

He got very, very ill. His bottom bunk bed became his death bed. We check on him every now and again for signs of life. There aren't any. Jez isn't here right now. Jez can't get to the phone right now but please leave a message. Danny and I press on.

The city is gorgeous. It's like that dream city from Inception. I can't be bothered to check on Wikipedia, but it was probably filmed in Stockholm.

I meet some gypsy people. They read my palm and say that I've been in love 3 times. I have. They say I'll fall in love again in August. I will? I think they robbed me, but I went on a charm-offensive and I think they reverse-stole all my treasure back into my pockets. Thanks, guys. I am :) happyface. 

Rapey Dom knows these 2 women and we go to meet them. They eat Reindeer meat. I wonder what Rudolph tastes like, because he looks like shit. 

We have a new hostel-mate. He's this Russian chap. Again, really, really lovely guy - but he looks liek a serial killer. I may not wake up tomorrow because I have been killed to death.

Stolkholm has these little parks and organic areas set aside. They shine all around the city like Christmas tree lights in July. Potted plants wouldn't survive in Brighton. Or London. They'd get replanted with empty cans of Carling and cigarette butts. Or vandalised out of meanness. Also, they don't lock up their bikes in Stockholm. 2 bikes have been stolen from outside our flat, back home in Brighton. Maybe it's a 'respect for your city' thing.

Some little island in the middle of the city.
It is pretty.

There's a lot of heritage here. Lots of galleries and museums and churches. The 3 of us walk into a church in the middle of a funeral. The woman on the front desk looks up from her books and her papers over equilateral glasses and gives us a look like, 'Guys. Guys, are you fucking kidding me?' We leave.

SO EMOTIONAL!!!1ONE

The 3 of us walk around the city for 2 days straight. Popular opinion before we came here was that the city has a beautiful X, Y, and Z - but no one had any specifics. Yes, it's attractive and historic, but it's sacrificed change to maintain that. I've only seen a whisper of red hair since I've been here. The only Black and Asian people seem to be tourists. If I'd had £1 for every handsome, blonde guy or long-legged, blonde woman I'd seen since I'd been here - I wouldn't need to shop at Lidl here. There's no variety. There's no diversity. The citys best selling point is also it's weakness. It hasn't changed.

This photo. This is the beginning of the end.

"Yo. That motherfucker's beautiful," Danny says about the building above.

"Ima gonna take a photograph of that bitch," I say about the building above.

It was the beginning of the end for our language skills. Everything - everything - became 'bitch,' and 'motherfucker,' and 'nigga' - OMG this got so out of hand. We talk like we're from Compton, or from N.W.A., or part of Snoop Dogg's entourage. 

"Don't move, motherfucker. Ima gonna photograph your ass," I say. To a statue.

OMG this got so out of hand. God knows why. Maybe we've been away too long. 

It was time to go home.

CONCLUSION: 

I like Stockholm. It's a nice city but a week's too long to stay there. Jez and I were done after 4 or 5 days. It's maybe somewhere I'll return to when I'm old and grey and retired. 

We met some lovely, wonderful people. The hostel (Old Town Best Hostel. See links and shit below. This blog is informative) was great, and great value, too. It was about £25 a night. Bargain.

You will not be able to afford stuff there. We had to shop at Lidl just to get by. I haven't had to do that walk of shame since I was a student. Apparently, if you live there, then it's all relative. Even minimum wage, crap, shitpiss, pisspoor jobs like McDonald's pay about £12 an hour. The women who work there are pretty hawt too. 

At £70 a flight, do it. It's well worth the mission.

Just stock up on booze at the airport.

http://www.ryanair.com/en - Cheap flights. 'Nuff said.

http://www.besthostel.se/en/ - Where we stayed. £25 a night. Bargain.

http://www.nationalmuseum.se/ - Fucking sweet gallery. Ignore the name. It's a gallery. £12 entry.

http://www.historiska.se/home/ Historiska Museet. 'Museet' means museum. I am clever. £4 entry with a discount book from the boat tour. 

http://www.stromma.se/en/STOCKHOLM/Tours/Stockholm-Sightseeing/Boat-Tours/Hop-on-Hop-off1/ - Boat Tour. Hop on. Hop off. £35 for 24 hour ticket. PROTIP: get it in the afternoon. Blag 2 days. Win.

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