Vague attempt at light cultural insights

We miss out, in the UK, on foreign culture. As I was perusing the best-sellers section in Platekompaniet (the equivalent of HMV) I pondered this thought. The best-sellers, you see, were from all over the world. Sitting down to an evening of television in Norway (or any non-English speaking country) one is presented with an array of subtitled choices. It's different in the UK. One has to be in a particular mood for world cinema. Sometimes I do get a little queer feeling all over me, and think to my myself 'I know, I'll watch a foreign film'. The beauty of this is that one feels like one is being edgy and cultured and alternatif, when one is, in fact, just sitting on one's behind eating popcorn, as one would be if one were watching Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe. Not so up here. I feel it's a good thing. Unfortunately most of the subtitled television available is Midsomer Murders but you've got to take the rough with the smooth.

On the opposite foot, I have a restricted choice of literature. I do tend to pick things up when in London, but going to a bookshop in Norway and their having only fifty titles in English is actually rather a boon, because one is forced to make choices that one perhaps wouldn't otherwise. The only novels that I can read in Norwegian feature Miss. Marple and the only reason I can manage those is because I am familiar with every intricacy of each plot, so even if I don't understand a whole paragraph I still know who had hidden the revolver in the aspidistra in the library. Consequently I have recently read Shantaram and The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, neither of which I normally choose but both of which were, in their own way, rather moving and both featured in Oprah's Book Club. I fear that Oprah's Book Club is the sole criterion upon which imports of English paperbacks are decided in Scandinavia.

Talking of things that are moving, I'm going on a train on Friday. Across Norway. Norway is a very narrow country, but being that there are so many mountains and lakes and fjords it takes forever to get anywhere. I'm told that the first of the snow will be on the mountains. It's October! When I last saw the inland mountains it was June, and the last of the snow was on the mountains! It really is three months of summer and nine of winter, with very little in between. I rather like chilly weather, but not all of the time. Where I live in Bergen is relatively mild, but everywhere is absolutely brass monkeys. I am getting the train to Oslo. Last time I was there I didn't take my longjohns off for the entire weekend. Not even in the shower. I shall manage. Anyway the mountain journey is supposed to be beyond breathtaking in its romance and scenery, so I'm very much looking forward to it. I shall take some photos and place them on le livre de visage.

To round up on the culture (these are the only cultural references you will ever find in this blog) there is an amazing sculpture park in Oslo to which I will pop. I'm not one to come over a little queer just because of a sculpture. I'd like to be that sort of person, but I'm not. I'm dead inside. However, these scultpures. Amazing. They really put the willies up one. I can't even describe it. I mean we're talking pant-shittingly good. I'm going to try to insert a picture, hang on.

Well there you have it. Two, in fact. Never have I seen such emotion conveyed in stone. It's all about, you know, universal suffering and shared humanity transcending physical barriers and what have you. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of people depicted. Amazing. Well, I'd love to give a detailed analysis but I'm dead inside. Perhaps those of you with more intelligent blogs will step in on my behalf. But anyway, all I'll say it that it's worth braving the sub-absolute zero temperatures in Oslo just to see it.

Well, after that little cultural exposé I'm going to have to go and do the Daily Mail crossword by way of counterbalance. I've done it again. It's even worse this time. Not only did I buy it, but I paid £3.20 for it, I used my credit card as I didn't have any cash with me and I only bought it to read about the riddle of Stephen Gately's final hours. I feel so dirty. I have nothing left to offer the world. Nothing.