Ponchos all round

I blinked at the weekend, and missed Bergen's Gay Pride march. Bergen is not conducive to such outdoor activities, it rains all the time. Some people are probably aroused by the thought of ranting, wet lesbians, but I can take them or leave them myself. Bergen is not particularly large and neither are its gay and lesbian residents particularly radical, relatively speaking, meaning that from the photos I saw, it looked rather more like a bus queue then some sort of resounding declaration of one's sexuality and the edge was rather taken off some of the leather hotpants and feather boas what with the inclement weather. Someone had given out those disposable water-resistant hooded ponchos that Americans wear when caught unawares by the British weather. Most unfortunate. I have never really felt the need to become involved in such things, although I certainly think they're very important. I, as you know, am not one to make sweeping generalisations or place too much emphasis on physical appearance, but really, why are radical gays always as ugly as sin? One has an image to protect.

The tourists have arrived in Bergen in the last couple of weeks. It is most bizarre seeing one's own countrymen almost as a foreigner sees them. The number of middle-aged British couples who wear identical waterproof jackets is terrifying. I can spot British people from 1oo paces and in Britain I can spot Norwegians at 200. I'm not sure what it is. Something about their facial expression. Bergen is absolutely chock full of Spaniards all summer long. It doesn't seem like an obvious choice, really. They certainly look cold and never have the appropriate clothing with them. It's water-resistant ponchos all round. They're all on cruises. Who, in their right mind, would go on a cruise? It's like Bognor Regis afloat. 1500 couples from the Midlands called Carol and Steve with matching waterproof jackets? I'd throw myself off the poop deck before you could say "Bon voyage".

My italics have stopped working. I can no longer communicate. This is major.

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Eurovision Blues

Well, nothing but another year of endless waiting ahead of me. Ever-shortening days, those cold, empty feelings inside, the deep yearning for my favourite night of the year to approach once more - yes, Eurovision 2011 is over.

I endured an evening of terrible picture quality and a drunken friend from Woking in order to stream it online from the BBC just to get Graham Norton's commentary. He was, as always, hilarious.

I didn't only go for the English coverage to see Graham ripping everything and everyone to shreds, but also because I am off Norwegian commentary after their coverage of Wills's and Kate's wedding. I can't remember the names of the commentators, so I'll improvise. It went something like this.

Archbishop of Canterbury "Dearly beloved...."

Bjørn Olsen: "Well, Hilde, the crowd are scintillated, aren't they?"

Hilde Larssen: "They are indeed, Bjørn - but then they have to grasp at this seldom opportunity to be happy, being that they're British.

Wills: "I, William Archibald Godfrey Plantagenet Tollemach-Tollemach James Harold Fortinbras..."

Bjørn Olsen: "You're right there, Hilde. I mean, a glimpse of a white frock and a trumpet fanfare is probably all they have to hope for as a respite from their bleak, debt-ridden, indigent credit-crunch-ravaged existence, I would imagine.

Kate: "I, Kate Sharon Kylie T'quesha Paris Britney..."

Hilde Larssen: "Indeed, Bjørn. Of course, I suppose Kate might have had to run up her own dress -I mean, I wouldn't have thought anyone in Britain could stretch to a whole dress right now, would you?"

Bjørn Olsen: "I wouldn't have thought, so, Hilde, what with all that money being spent in Afghanistan whilst the economy nosedives and the whole country languishes in a pit of destitute pestilence. Still, it seems as if she has managed to cobble a half-decent frock together, doesn't it?"

Hilde Larssen: "Well, it's reasonable. I think perhaps if she'd lived somewhere, like, say, Norway, she'd probably have managed to jazz it up a little - look how thin she is, I imagine she's had to eat gruel for the best part of three months to pay for it. She even had to borrow a tiara."

Bjørn Olsen: "My, what a big cathedral."

I, of course, loved every moment of both the wedding and Eurovision. The Eurovision presenters were actually rather less embarassing than the norm. I mean, still buttock-clenchingly awful, but not quite chewing your own arm off behind the sofa because you can't bear to watch any longer as per usual. I loved the Hungarian song, I thought she should've done much better.

I was, however, hugely underwhelmed by the interval act. Never, in my many years of near-constant underwhelmment, have I been less whelmed, now I come to think of it. As Graham said, it would've been alright for a wedding, but for an audience of 120 million I think they could have managed more than a man in a sequin suit with a kazoo and a ukelele. It was like something from Great Yarmouth's Got Talent. To be fair, he did have rather a lot to live up to, what with the Norwegian flash mob affair of last year. I mean, I found it so moving just to think of it makes come over a little queer from the knees upwards. Here it is, if you haven't seen it. (Try to ignore the crap Alfaz del Pi bit and move on).

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=wsuPqiCjyag

I mean, all of Europe (practically) dancing to the same song? A video link to a homely Eurovision party in every participating country (including that of Crown Princess Mette-Marit of Norway). Crown Princess Mette-Marit! I mean, it was as if all of my gay Christmasses had come at once! You wouldn't get Beatrice and Eugenie doing that, would you? Whilst I think of it, what were they wearing to the wedding? Eugenie looked like she'd just inexplicably woken up in the excess fabric bin in the BHS upholstery department. It was as if she'd been planning to run up her own dress but hadn't actually got around to running it up.

Speaking of upholstery, I can't say I'd have liked to have been at the Albanian party (look at that three-piece suite) but otherwise I think it is one of the most heartwarming pieces of television I have ever seen and I don't care how naff anyone thinks it is (or I am) for that matter.

Well, that blog entry wasn't really about anything, was it? Still, I'm just getting back into it and it's half past one in the morning and I have just finished watching an online lecture about Common Principles of Primary and Secondary Share Issues. And nobody is reading this anyway. Throw me a f***ing rope here.

A-carb-adabra!

Not one slice of bread has passed my lips in two weeks. I have given up carbs. This is partially in order to develop the body of hopes and dreams, and partially to cure the hideous bowel disease of hell and death which has plagued me recently. I am glad to say that the disease of hell and death has all but gone, but sadly the body of hopes and dreams is yet to appear.

I now work for a company called Attack! Actually there's no exclamation mark per se but I think it adds a little spice. Anyway, Attack! is a Norwegian marketing company and we have a collection of holiday properties of which we organise the letting out. The company is rather taking off (I like to think that this is my influence) so unfortunately we have neither the data management nor telecommunications systems needed in order to support such an influx of enquiries. Whenever my colleague is away from her desk I have to answer her telephone within three rings. This happens quite often. She sits in another room. This means I have to fling myself across the office and answer the telephone whilst in mid-flight. It's almost balletic. My Norwegian skills on the telephone are not quite tip top, meaning that half of the time I can't deal with the query being presented anyway.

Not everyone knows that Norwegians, Swedes and Danes can more or less understand one another in speech when speaking their respective languages. Not only this, but Norwegians are better at understanding Danes and Swedes than Danes and Swedes are at understanding Norwegians. This means that Danes and Swedes know that they can be understood but that they don't know what is being said in reply. This in turn means that they generally just launch into conversation assuming that the person on the other end will get the gist of what is being said. It also means that they don't know that I am not Norwegian, they just think I am from the mountains and have an odd accent. Well, when there is a British person on the end of the phone I can categorically advise that they do not get the gist of what is being said. Usually, such conversations ensue.

Robert: "Good morning, welcome to holidayhomes.no, this is Robert speaking"

Danish Customer: "Akjd aius sifn holiday property dkfjw#$ Crete dasfij#$# towels!"

Robert: (with sense of rising panic) "Sorry, I'm afraid my Danish is a little hit and miss, could you possible speak more slowly? Thanks awfully"

Danish Customer: "Asigu adi#$( towels SDifu wife injured sfijs chafing soifss unhelpful Cypriot holiday reps akfuwe9erf "#$#Js gsjjs!"

Robert: (while gesturing in order to attract attention of colleagues) "Gosh, I'm sorry to hear that. Could I possibly take your number and get my colleague to call you back?"

Danish Customer: "#($ snf now! AKFjdi hideous scarring #)$fFj little hideaway in the Cotswolds FFJEr348 deathtrap dFK948#$(#$ on your head be it!!!

Robert: (flails widely at colleagues, mouthing Help me! For the love of god help me!) "Yes, I've taken that down, the person responsible for towel-related injuries will be in touch with you shortly."

Danish Customer: "#$$djskj absolutely unacceptable! D434FFIdf 98 Cheryl Cole fdjfd#($ hostage situation *æøfddfer#$ how dare you say that about my mother! #$(44 bloody yokels why don't you piss off back up the mountains where you belong???

Robert: "Thanks for calling, then! Bye!"

Nine times out of ten it turns out it was someone wondering when they can expect their deposit back. Sometimes I wonder if I'm offering the best level of customer service.

All of this on no carbs.

I don't believe it!

There I was, sitting in an empty classroom in an emptier secondary school wondering what manner of assorted freaks were about to arrive. Would someone be wheeled in strapped to a crate in a Hannibal style mouthguard? Would I shortly be joined by conjoined ginger lesbian triplets with dandruff and halitosis? Yes, that's right, I've enrolled at a course at the Open University. Well, the Norwegian equivalent. This is a course in Norwegian, so a necessary evil if I am ever to anything other than a barmaid.

Well as it turned out, my new classmates are relatively normal and most of them are quite good at Norwegian. There are two Germans, one Spaniard, three Poles, three Lithuanians, a Chilean, a Tunisian, two British people (including me) and an Australian. When I told the boyfriend's mother this she said "Gosh, it's very international, isn't it?". Yes, it's a Norwegian course in Norway, think about it.

I say most of them are good at Norwegian. This is with the exception of course, of the native English speakers. The other British person speaks Norwegian with a Yorkshire accent and says everything precisely as written (even though he isn't from Yorkshire) and the Australian has been studying Norwegian for two years can't string a single sentence together. He speaks so slowly that time actually speeds up. I mean, you can rely on him to be wrong. Nobody in the history of mankind has ever been less right. He makes George W. Bush seem fairly on the money.

The only other exception the the general level of competency is one of the Lithuanians, who speaks Norwegian at the speed of sound and with an astonishing Lithuanian accent. I think that the less able members of the class think that they can't understand her because she is really good and therefore speaks really quickly like a native. Well no, it's that she mutters a unwavering stream of conscious gibberish until the teacher (who, incidentally, is from Bosnia) physically restrains her. Honestly, it's like sitting next to a Virginia Woolf novel. In Lithuanian.

Well, I'm now a homeowner and have been for three weeks. The reason I only write this blog now is, of course, because setting up wireless broadband was a tortuous uphill struggle of eternal misery and hell. I did, however, manage to receive telephonic instructions in Norwegian and get it to work, for which I will be patting myself on the back until the end of time. It still doesn't work properly, though, so of course I have to stay at home from 7am to 10pm from tomorrow until next Friday week when an engineer might come and look at it.

Oh god, I'm Victor Meldrew.

Sade's fine silhouette

Someone has potentially replaced Cheryl Cole in my affections. It's Sade. She's unbelievable! Anyone who can sit around in Stroud for ten years and then nonchanlantly think, I know, I'll make an amazing album and sell about ten million copies of it deserves respect in my book. As it happens, it's not the music that has lead to this new-found Sade fascination, it's her timeless beauty. I mean, look at this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhcGcfnMaC8

The woman is 51 years old. That's three years younger than my mother. Not only does she sound the same as she did in 1984 she looks the same too. If one compares it to the video for By Your Side from ten years earlier she doesn't look any different. Incredible! So, I have decided to emulate her in every way. I mean, we look fairly alike, I'd say.

I was thinking about this whilst at the gym earlier (one is going to have to work out a lot if one is to freeze time like Sade). One gets so distracted and involved in daytime television at the gym that one is locked in a quandary of (a) wanting to stop exercising as one is about to start coughing up blood but (b) staying on the treadmill long enough to see the end of Quincy.

Norwegian television is second to none for re-runs of 1980s detective and drama serials. The only problem is that my gym is rather run down (not as good as the British equivalent) and thus most of the headphone sockets don't work. So, I have to watch Quincy only half understanding the Norwegian subtitles but knowing that it was recorded in English and that I just can't hear it. It's most frustrating. I'll be able to lip-read by the time I move back to civilisation. Did I say civilisation? Sorry, I mean England. Still, it's probably best that one can't hear Quincy, he does shout rather.


The other distraction in the gym is the one Norwegian thing that is better than the British equivalent, namely the severe hotness of Norwegian boys. I'm not talking about quite cute and better than the local totty down The Red Lion on a Friday night, I'm talking about blistering, boundless, ethereal levels of hotness. During commerical breaks in Quincy I often expect Calvin Klein to mince through the gym at any moment, scouting for models for his next advertisement campaign. I'm half tempted to take a camera in and sneak some shots but fear my membership may be terminated.

Speaking of commercial breaks (referring back to the one during which I was looking at the blisteringly hot boys), how do Americans cope? (Not with being American, a trial in itself -but with the sheer number of commercial breaks they have to endure). I was watching Oprah's Book Club the other day and spent more time watching advertorials for bizarre ab crunch machines than I did watching Oprah herself. Combined with the way in which Americans tend to end conversations abruptly it made for rather bizarre viewing. It went something like this.

Oprah: Hi, this is Oprah's Book Club, I'm here with Douglas Kennedy, we'll be right back.

[10 minute advertorial for Stairmaster]

Oprah: Welcome back, I'm here with Douglas Kennedy, Douglas tell me about your new book, The Big Picture.

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, it's a searing examination of my own love affair with sketching and watercolours.

Oprah: We'll be right back.

[12 minute advertorial for incontinence pants]

Oprah: I'm on the sofa with Douglas Kennedy. Douglas, what first made you want to write?

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, it was those halcyon childhood days amongst the cornfields up in Iowa.

Oprah: We'll be right back.

[Adverts for protein shakes, Slim-fast and Ymea Menopause and Silhouette]

Oprah: I'm chatting to Douglas Kennedy. Douglas, what can we expect from you next?

Douglas Kennedy: Well, Oprah, I think a slap round the chops and a strongly-worded letter from my agent if you can't speak to me for more than three seconds at a time!

Oprah: We'll be right back.

Over Leona; Ready for Tweedy

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm getting a little sick of Leona Lewis. Yes, she was lovely and sweet and had a powerful voice at the beginning, yes, I got a lump in my throat when she turned on the Christmas lights on Oxford Street, yes, I braved the hoards of girls from Hertfordshire to hear her sing at Westfield on its opening day, but I can't help but feel she's something of a one-trick pony. Whilst on the equine theme, she is a torch horsey isn't she? Not a description that one often has to apply to girls from Hackney, but, I mean, that's quite a chin, isn't it? I'm mean, we're not talking about Céline Dion territory, but it's close. So now Leona has done an Oasis cover, and the video is just the same as all of her others. Anyone can stand around in a grey, floaty dress in a strange, desolate landscape that has been oddly bleached of colour and warble on interminably in a low, husky voice with heavy vibrato. At least I know I can.

Whilst we're on the subject of girls from rough neighbourhoods, Fight for this Love by none other than Cheryl Cole has been released in Norway and is receiving heavy rotation on NRK P3 and Radio Norge. Hurrah! Perhaps they are being dragged slowly into the civilised world after all. I wonder if she is going to change here surname back to Tweedy? It was bound to happen, of course, that she and Ashley would split after her singing a song (I almost said writing a song then, let's not get carried away) about sticking together through thick and thin. Mind you, why she stayed with him for five minutes after he put it about whilst his wife who is a goddess of incredibly beauty and joy was waiting at home is something none of us will ever understand. What a plonker.

Volvos, Vienna, Vaterproofs

So, the Norwegian Boyfriend has got a ritzy new office, and thinks he's the dog's proverbials as a result. He manages to slip the fact that he's got a desk at the corner of the building with a sea view into most conversations. The one boon to be gleaned from this state of affairs is that he's got a coffee machine with a very wide selection, which includes none other than Wiener Mélange. Well, it's mocha. What a disappointment! No battered sausage floating in it or globules of fat bobbing along the meniscus but a plain old mocha. The mélange aspect would be the mixture of chocolate and coffee, and the wiener an indication that this is a practice originating in Vienna. I'd love to go to Vienna. Anyone fancy a citibreak?

People often ask me what Norwegians are like. I have more or less conditioned the Norwegian Boyfriend now so that he thinks like a British person, so he's perhaps not the best example. After wracking my brains (there wasn't a lot to wrack) I can only conclude that Volvos and Waterproofs are their two most striking qualities.

They love Volvos. On my second date with the Norwegian Boyfriend he took me on a romantic drive (to Portsmouth - don't ask). Well, we popped into his flat to pick up the keys (he had a ritzy apartment at the time, this is how he lured me in to going out with him in the first place, I'm sure) before going down to the underground car park (I did think he was going to garotte me and put my torso in a suitcase and throw it off the seafront at Portsmouth, but he didn't). Well, having been impressed by the ritzy apartment I was secretly thinking to myself "Ooh! I wonder what his wheels are like?" and lo and behold he sidled up, distended with pride, to a blue Volvo. Well, the bottom fell out of my world, I can tell you.

The thing is, cars are expensive in Norway. When I say "expensive" I don't mean moderately overpriced, I mean they cost more than your house. Some friends of ours have just bought a small, used Volvo, and they're going to pay for it in monthly installments of £400 for the next seven years. The upshot of this, then, is that cars in the UK are a steal to Norwegians. So, if they relocate to London for a couple of years it's 'passport control, baggage reclaim, customs, Volvo dealership'. Not only did the Norwegian Boyfriend have his own Volvo, he also had access to a company Volvo, so he drove two! I think he got out of bed every morning feeling like he'd just woken up underneath Cheryl Cole with a winning lottery ticket in either hand.

There's no such thing as a pleasant stroll in Norway. There's a polar expedition, or there's nothing. This means that even the simplest task is some sort of military operation, and therefore involves an awful lot of equipment (compass, map, hot chocolate, sticky buns, apples, Kit-Kats, rifle, rucksack) and most importantly, hiking footwear and waterproofs. This results in conversations such as this:-

Robert: Are we going for a walk to the beach then?

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Yes, I think so - are you going to get ready?

Robert: Yes, I'm ready when you are.

[Silence; pause; look of disbelief; look of incredulity; hidden snigger from all other Norwegian family members]

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, are you going to go, erm, like that?

Robert: Like what?

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, it's just that you've got [hides snigger behind hand]... trainers on!

Robert: Oh. Erm, is that not OK?

[Pause; tumbleweed rolls through sitting room; clap of thunder; funeral cortege parades through sitting room; elephant waltzes into sitting room and sits down to watch television; neighbours come out of their houses to look at the funny British person they've heard so much about]

Norwegian Boyfriend's Mother: Well, don't you want to borrow some hiking boots? And take three spare pairs in your rucksack? And where's your apple and your Kit-Kat? For God's sake it's a jungle out there!


The thing is, any sort of outerwear is hugely expensive in Norway. When I say "expensive" I'm not saying there's a little bit of a mark-up on it, I'm saying you have to sell your Grandma if you want anything made by North Face. This has its benefits. I walked into a bar in Bergen Sentrum during a torrential downpour in a pair of North Face waterproof trousers and a Helly Hansen waterproof jacket, both of which I'd picked up on Amazon for less than £15, and the entire bar stopped and stared because I was the best dressed individual they'd ever seen.

Perhaps the best and most noticeable thing about Norwegians is that they get their 'v's and 'w's mixed up when speaking English. Nobody is really sure why this is. There is a 'v' sound in Norwegian, but when speaking English, Norwegians tend to convert all 'v' sounds to 'w's. A typical conversation might go like this:-

"Hello Wictoria, I haven't seen you in a wery long time!"

"Sorry Wiolet, I've been tied up vatching Vimbledon; hardly time for a conwersation!"

"Really? Vell, Tim Henman vas a bit of a vanker"

"I know! Still, at least Wirginia Vade still does the commentary"

"Yes, she's wery good. Actually, I'm just on my way to buy a new tennis west and some vaterproofs. Can I give you a lift in my Wolwo?"

"Oh wery kind of you - so conwenient! Gosh, this car is nice..."