Oslo City's new superhero 'The Human Peacock' had a long way to go before reaching Batman's popularity
2nd October 2008
Current Mood: Cold
Category: Travel And Places
A little known fact about Norway is that it is the original birth place of Father Christmas before he illegally entered Finland via a reindeer stolen from the RondaneNational Park.
Del had a new weapon against the knife carrying hoodies when travelling to South London
Once in Finland he sought refuge in the dense woods of Lapland, Northern Finland for four years until he automatically qualified for residency and a national passport. A lot like what people are doing over here in England.
On the way to the airport at the ridiculous time of 5 in the morning we entered some very heavy mist whilst passing through Essex on my beloved motorbike, The Canary.
The mist was so thick it was a bit like going through the film set of The Village – any moment I was expecting a creature with a serious need for a manicure to come out of the trees and poke me in the ribs. Thankfully that never happened and as it was we cruised on to the airport when really I should have been trying to break the land speed record I made earlier that month for London to Stanstead when on my way to France – cos we only went and missed our flights didn’t we. 3 minutes. 3 bloody minutes is what we missed it by. As Homer Simpson would say at this point: ‘You no good afterbirth of a whore dropped in an Amsterdam sewer, doh!’ So we had to get a later flight at an additional cost of 50 quid – something I gasped at until Norwegian Airways offered us a flight for 232 quid, to which we replied, ‘Thanks… but no fuck off thanks’ 50 quid from Ryanair now seemed like a bargain and I will probably consider missing my flight every time I go away to take advantage of this low transfer cost. So we had 4 hours to kill and where else better to kill it than in a boozer.
Moments after this photo was taken Del was shot several times by the UN Security Division for tresspassing
I was tempted to call up a mate and ask him if he fancied popping down for a pint, but it was in the morning and was probably a bit early, so I waited until it got to 7. Being in the pub with a pint of Caffery’s sitting in front of me allowed my to get some more sleep in, something I’ve never done sober in a pub before.
Finally much time later the plane dumps us in ‘Oslo’, and I use those little hyphen things cos this ‘Oslo’ happened to be over 120km away from the city centre. A pretty big fucking city that’s going to take more than four days to get around I reckon. We might as well do the same thing over here in England and rename Manchester International ‘Manchester International London Branch’.
Luckily for Del he always carried a spare pair of testicles in his hand bag
The only way to see ‘Oslo’ from here was by looking at it on a fucking map. Anyroad, by the time we were catching our bus to take us into the city centre it was – by which point if it weren’t for missing our earlier flight we should have already been in an Oslo bar moaning about the price of a beer. A pint was costing us 6 bloody quid a go, and it wasn’t even a full pint. The Norwegians have made up a new measure of 0.4litres. If I wanted to buy a round I was looking at the prospect of selling my right lung on the medical black market. As for selling my liver, forget about it mate, cos I can guarantee you there’s no alcoholics in Oslo at those prices. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, at the weekends you can’t buy alcohol in the shops after .
'Hold on a mo, if I'm here then who's driving??'
For over an hour Zsanett and I walked about Oslo’s equivalent of Tottenham looking for a dodgy off licence that would sell us some under the counter beers, but to no avail.
For the tourist side of Oslo there are a fucking shit load of museums to go see. We saw that famous ‘Scream’ painting that was the inspiration behind the movie, also called ‘Scream’. As for the painting itself it was nothing special, I see the same picture every Sunday night after coming back from a squat party the Saturday before. We saw preserved boats at the VikingMuseum which upon seeing them made me want to eat chicken wings with my hands and let the fat dribble down my chin.
It was funny until the cannon actually went off...
The Faum Museum told of the story of how this bloke, I forget his name but there was most likely a ‘Faum’ in there somewhere, was the first to sail to the North Pole before challenging a Scotsman of all people to a race to the South Pole. I mean where’s the challenge in competing with a bloke who eats sheep guts for breakfast and calls caber tossing a sport? Needless to say the Norwegian won the race but what took me completely by surprise was that the Scotsman only managed the feat of getting to the South Pole, if only 30 days or so after the Norwegian. Just as my admiration was growing for him and Scotland as a nation, he only goes and ruins it by getting himself lost on the way back and subsequently was never seen again. He should have stayed safely on his Scottish mountains wearing his skirt and chasing sheep. Anyroad, not content with sailing to both the North and South Poles and being somewhat responsible for the death of a Scotsman, this Faum fella then has the inspiration to start flying expeditions to the North Pole cos no one has ever done it before, but what does he go and do? He only does an impression of the Scotsman by never being again – stupid bugger. I guess he never heard of karma. Meanwhile in heaven the Scotsman probably greeted him by saying, ‘Serves you right for putting me in a pickle – brought any sheep with you?’ The moral of the story is don’t go to the North or South Pole, especially if the companies are called Titanic Cruise Liners or Spanair. Go to the East and West Poles instead, it’s much safer and probably a tad more interesting too.
'This isn't what it looks like' Del told reporters. 'I'm actually having an orgy with some statues...'
And we also learnt the person who created the Nobel Peace Price, ironically called Alfred Noble was a dealer of guns and dynamite – how peaceful…
Carrying on with all the touristy bollocks, we were having a snoop around the RoyalPalace, you know – looking for a good spot to break and enter into like, and it soon occurred to us that security at the RoyalPalace is really lax. I could for example, say if I was drunk enough, go up to the front door and set alight a brown paper bag full of shit before knocking on the door and running away.
Del finds his next conquest after torching londons famous Cutty Sark
The only security the Palace has are these 17 year old Norwegian boys who, whilst they carry a gun, all they seem capable of doing with it is twirling the gun around in their hands before walking back and forth like a sleepwalker who’s unsure whether to walk off their balcony of go back to bed. And if that wasn’t lax enough, one of the guards was Chinese – probably part of some student guard exchange program I reckon. All this combined gave me the terrible urge to start attacking the Palace with all the conkers that were scattered about the garden just to see the Norwegian guard shout at me to stop or he’ll lose his job, meanwhile the Chinese guard would do a runner shouting ‘Fuck this, he ain’t my King – I’m doing a bunk back to China!’
In Oslo we even saw a rickshaw with a foreign guy peddling away with the usual bored look on his face – ‘fuck me’ I thought, ‘it’s a long cycle back to Leicester Square when he’s finished that fare’
The nightlife in Oslo was a bit of a let down, partly cos the price off beers prevented you from getting anything more than hydrated and also the public transport system finished soon after .
We did however think our luck was improving when we stumbled across a squat that had a punk band practising for a gig later that night, but like a homophobic discovering he has gay tendencies we were a little pissed of when the band said it was going to be a 5 quid charge to get in. Not cos it was 5 quid, but more to do with the gig lasting only 30 minutes. I mean come on, even Arctic Monkeys have albums longer than that.
The national snack over in Norway is something called a ‘Polse’. It’s like a hotdog right, but whereas a hotdog is a sausage in a bun the Norwegians have created their own version – also a sausage in a bun. In other words Norway has the intelligence to become the first nation to use advanced technology to travel not only to the North pole but also the South, have advanced ship building science which made the Vikings so successful upon their adventures and raids, hold the prestigious Nobel Peace Prize award each year, yet when it comes to creating a national snack they rip off the all American Hotdog and rename it a ‘Polse’. Sure, Norwegans will argue that they also use a potato pancake with their sausage, but that will ruin my rant so I’ll pretend this potato pancake doesn’t exists.
E.T returns from a fashion shopping trip to Milan
As for the fashion in Norway, it has a lot to be desired let me tell you. For example, I have this jumper that I managed to get my filthy hands on from a retro store in London’s Notting Hill. I call this jumper my ‘it’s so disgustingly bad, it’s actually quite cool’ jumper. Absolutely disgusting this thing is. Big. Stripy. Very dodgy patterns. I walked into this retro shop and there was a rail of really crap clothing – and this jumper was so bad it actually stood out amongst the crap clothes. I challenge anybody’s Grandmother to knit something worse. So I bought it and became the new proud owner of this crap jumper and thought I’ll take it with me to Oslo, partly to keep me warm but more so to show Norwegians my really crap jumper. Well fuck me sideways if every other Norwegian and his dog aren’t already wearing jumpers similar to mine. My jaw dropped open when I seen all these people wearing the same clothing as me – it was like a mass ‘Crap Jumper Convention’. Several times I had to call Zsanett back to me as she went off following some other guy. I have to admit I was greatly disappointed at not receiving any attention from my crap jumper, but instead ended up looking like a local Olso man who’d just had his hair dyed darker. The only spin I could put on the story was that I was embracing Norwegian culture.