The World Wanderer : Norway 2007

Monday 2nd July

Norway. Norway was strange this year in that I barely remember any of it. Not in the way that I was drunk or in a coma, but very little of it sticks in my brain. (And if you’d ever seen the prices of booze in Norway, then you’d be stone cold sober too. ) So it makes it almost awkward when everybody asks you how was Norway and the best you can answer is ‘meh’.

What do I remember of Norway this year?

I remember going into the bar on the ferry on the way to Norway to discover Sex-Machine hard at it with his phenomenally ugly wife on the dancefloor. Now Sex Machine is a god to us. Every year without fail he is on the same ferry as us either going to or coming from, but the man has the stamina of an adolescent ox and he spends it on the dancefloor of the night-club on the ferry for hour after hour after hour. And his style is a wonder to behold, and superbly consistent. He does the handbag dance, shifting from the left foot to the right foot with a hip wiggle to help him along… and then back again, but in case this isn’t enough for his audience, he throws in a spin every 4-8 seconds. You think I’m kidding. This year I took a 20 second video. He spins 4 times within that timeframe. The man’s a fucking gyroscope holding the ship on track, I would swear to it. All hail Sex Machine.

I remember breakfast consisting of slices of caramac-flavoured cheese, Bacon-Cheese in a tube, Salami-Cheese in a tube and Stabbed-Baby-Pate, also in a tube.

I remember my hand. My right hand was more injured in that two weeks more than ever before, though not seriously, just over and over and over again. My thumb had a penannula (ring-pin) spiked into it on the first day. My index finger was clobbered with a mallet during the putting up of the tents. The grass alone cut into my ring finger. A huge gouge was ripped from my thumb as we loaded the van, probably from a box with a nail sticking out. I counted 16 midge bites on my right forearm alone, and you see that cut on the pad of my index finger? That’s where I taught 15 Norwegian tourists one lunchtime the words “Fucking Hell …. Blood!” as I had just accidentally stabbed my finger with the scissors on my belt. Oh, and let’s not forget the rope-burns as I gracefully dismounted the world’s manliest ropeswing… onto my arse from a distance of about six foot.

I remember that many Scandinavians usually go stark staring bonkers after half a sniff of booze. Right from the hippy chick that loved the universe and wanted to make noise (that I never caught the name of) to Ulf, the man who wanted a fight with anyone and everyone, but wasn’t sure as to why.

I remember Egor the squirrel. It’s amazing how much a squirrel can amuse you when you’ve got naff all else to do and no inclination to do anything even vaguely useful.

I remember not having a crap for the better part of 5 days.

I remember going to the swimming pool on the ship and discovering that it was the smallest swimming pool I’d ever seen. But that there were a dozen young ladies in bikinis enjoying it and so I decided to magnanimously decided to give it a try. I remember warning Chrissy about the very slippery tile before she went tits-up and threw herself into the pool arse-first. I remember Bob’s swimming shorts being too small and all of us worrying about them exploding all over the place. I remember going to the on-board cinema with Bob, Simon and Chappy McFee with-the-one-leg getting let in by the steward who then locked the door and vanished without pressing play on the projector.

I remember Bob’s chocolate covered nuts. That I violated.

I think I remember Wednesday.

I remember being in Bergen looking for a bookshop and being told about a very nice bookshop in Skudeneshavn. Which is only about 174 kilometers away. Which we weren’t going to. At any point.

I remember loading one third of our prospective possessions onto the boat to take us off the island for the final shunt before food and bed only to watch the boat drifting with a rope trapped around the propeller. Which then takes us an hour to fix. Hearing that forwards was knackered but the boat can go in reverse across the Sund (big river) sounded like it might be fun to watch. Until reverse broke about 10yds out. Then forward started working eventually and we watched it chug into the distance… as Bob whispers into my ear “Bet you any money it blows up before the headland”. That was the last I saw of that boat.

I remember a small contingent of the Vikings looking like they’d escaped from the happy-room academy but had enough foresight to take their baskets with them. At least 6 or seven people had a go at basket-weaving while in costume this year. Myself included. And if you get chance, don’t. Basket-weaving will send you absolutely fucking bonkers if you let it.

I remember our resident fish-phobic, who could die if eating certain fish products, wondering where the fish was ... since he didn’t want it to go to waste. Needless to say he was one of the Scots.

I remember being entertained by the musicians in the longhouse. They had drums and squid that they’d blow into, and they had this song that went bom-diddy-bom-diddy-bom-diddy-sqEEEEEEEEky-bom-SqeeeeEEEEEeeek-diddy-bom. Which is different to their other numbers cos it had an extra bom-diddy in the middle. Or maybe it went SqueeeEEEEEEeeek for a little longer than normal. It was interminable shite though from start to finish. And the most insulting part? I heard them play the next day at their own encampment… and they played rock and roll, jazz, pop and anything else you liked. Rather well. But the act in the Longhouse was cultural. So that’s what they did then. Because anytime you think of music in the viking times you immediately thought of that old saga… “How to molest a poultry farm while my friend slaps a hippo”… parts 1 through 23.

I remember spending 3 hours on a boat to go to Bergen only to find out that we only had 2 ½ hours shopping before a 3 hour boat-ride back. Whoop-de-fantango-doo.

I remember trading a pair of soggy knickers for a box of ice-creams.

I remember spending close to two hundred and fifty quid on what turned out to be eight or nine pizzas and a couple of garlic bread.

I remember having the living shit beaten out of me as I was welcomed onto Team Glima for one of their half-hour display beatings.

I remember not going to bed before 3am any night I was away from home.

I remember driving the quad bike while being alone on the island, or as close as I was going to get. That was fun.

The only part of Norway that I can’t tell you much about is the reason why we went and it’s very simple as to why that is. The Norway show itself is the same as any normal show in England at any time of the year…. You sit, you demonstrate your craft and you talk to the audience about yourself and what you are doing. So I sit comfortably on the floor while braiding my silver wire and I wait for the audience to engage. Which they don’t. Now the Norwegians may be fine, friendly and pleasant people, but only if you talk to them first. They have ignoring down to an artform. You ever think that you’re getting no attention from people, imagine sitting in one spot for a week while twenty thousand people studiously ignore you. You know nothing. I’ve been ignored by professionals.

No, the show is the same as we have at home. No, where the Norwegians have us beaten hands down is in the organisation. And if you want a memorable experience to take away for a lifetime, get involved in some event hosted by the Norwegians. Now even though there may or may not be a vile little bastard saboteur (who shall remain nameless only because I can’t remember what the fat little toady bastard is called) in the ranks, the words piss-up and brewery come to mind. Mind you, shambles and absolute also ring fairly highly.

Getting onto and off the island couldn’t be more complicated if they tried. It’s just a matter of hiring a boat for a set time to ferry on, and another to ferry off. Which never happens. Who pitches their site where on camp … completely at odds to anyone’s planning. Accommodation before or after the island can be a toss-up and the food definitely gets a gold star for effort, though maybe negative points for the finish. They arrange Medieval Musicians for a Viking show because it’s historical AND cultural, never mind the few centuries difference.

But they do other things too that just tweak your brain that little bit too much. When you get on the fast boat they stick a dictaphone under your nose as they take your ticket. Into this you say your name and destination. This is incase they crash and sink and need to know who was aboard. How thoughtful.

I don’t know why I travel when I do, I almost never do the cultural stuff.