I need elizadrool to expand on this, but the notion of Sweden as the home of all horrible og unmentionable moral, and spesifically sexual, badness, is so clearly based on watching Swedish porn in the sixties and seventies, that one must assume that the members of this church have some moral issues of their own.

(There is however a story to this – Swedish evangelist pastor Åke Green was some years ago to court for his rather distasteful attacks on gay people. This led to a certain reputation amongst some American preachers that Sweden is the home of all immoral acts, and with a state ready to defend gay people. The shock! The horror!)

But living in Scandinavia, the idea of the Swedes as the Masters of the Promiscous Sex-world, is completely silly. It is the Danes, stupid!

(Having checked the completely insane website assosiated with these people, http://www.godhatestheworld.com/, I realize that God does not hate Norway or Denmark, only Sweden. He does however hate Russia for being gay, incidently one of the most homophobic places on the planet. I feel that fact-checking is not high on the agenda with these people.)

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After sharing my recent thoughts on breast cancer campaigns with a friend – how great is it that my friends get to not only read my grievances but also hear me moan for hours after they’ve agreed with me? – mr. Friend dutifully chimed in: And how about prostate cancer? Big killer! But no one wants to sport a hairy ribbon!

True.

But if we did, I know the perfect spokesperson for the campaign:

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PS: Please don’t google ‘hairy ass’ for illustrations of this post, like I just did. Please.

nattbordJames McAdam has made this rather nifty bedside table for the nervous amongst us, and those willing to fight off their enemies, it seems.

However cool it looks, I’m afraid it is not for me. I am scared of things that go bump in the night, but very rarely is this the right weapon to get rid of them, if everything I have learned from Joss Whedon is correct. And I am quite sure that it is.

And if I really should have a bog standard burglar in my house, I would curl up and try to will the bastard away. To attack someone when you don’t know what to do, is far more likely to end with getting yourself injured, I fear.

Plus, the amount of books, newspapers, coffee-mugs and assorted crap that would have to be tossed on the floor in the process of assembling this in my bedroom, would surely alert the burglar to my existence long before I was ready to wack him over the head.

But I gotta give it to James – rather good idea!

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I’m not very proud of it, but I am tired of Barack Obama, the movie, now. We got inspired, they got ignited, you got elected, all right! Next story please.

A bulimic consumer of politics, I am not alone. Everything is a story, in this case: a drama series where we just watched the most fantastic season finale ever. And now I need the summer hiatus to catch my breath and work up an appetite.

Or perhaps it’s just that I fear what the sequal might contain. Divorce, failure to lead, daughters on drugs… There’s no end to my speculation. Didn’t we feel the same way about Clinton back then? Don’t you wish that movie had ended with his inauguration speech, at least the second one?

And if not failures in life, then the story logic itself begs for drama. He’s risen so high, the fall is inevitable. Don’t blame the journalists for tearing him down, we’re the ones that change. Our perception of that boyish grin, suddenly too smug, the bright mind elitist, eloquence empty. To the lions. Next.

Perhaps we can have a little Christmas hiatus and turn back on January 20th? It would be good for him, good for us, good for the story. A breather.

I’m high on hope and I want it to linger. And then you can get on with the story. I promise.

Here in Norway we have a rather embarrassing political situation occupying us at the moment. Apparently, a politician in Parliament has, on a few occations on trips abroad, been so blatant in his pursuit of prostitutes that the head of Parliament has given him a sharp talking-to. This has been going on for some years, if I understand it correctly.

The rather more interesting episode has allegedly happened on a trip to some undisclosed country in Africa, where the problem of trafficing of women to Europe was the topic of discussion. Apparently, when session closed, this esteemed member of Parliament have then ventured out into the city, buying the services of the local women. He has also been quoted by one one the female participants on that trip, who found the whole thing rather inappropiate and confronted him about it, to have said that “What’s the difference between buying food and sex? I don’t understand why you are so upset”.

Charming, in so many ways.

He has – without being named – commented to say that the whole thing is ridicolous, he has never bought sex, never been reprimanded about it, and don’t understand why the journalist asked him this rude question. Something that strikes me as rather stupid, seeing as the head of Parliament has already confirmed the whole thing.

This story broke earlier in the week, and surprisingly his name has not yet been disclosed. Because honestly, in this day and age, these things have a tendency to see daylight rather quickly. And why don’t they learn?! The best thing to do is to admit, grovel, and beg for forgiveness. Every child knows this!

But it gives the whole country a feeling of – I don’t know if this is distasteful – holiday, to be honest. Everything else seems to be suspended, we all have something in common to talk about and despise (even other men who buy sex, because taxpayers money is involved), and it is that whole feeling of glee. Never to be underestimated.

Rumours are however starting to emerge about his identity, and in a country of 5 million people, you can hardly keep anything a secret. So I’m waiting eagerly for the groveling. That is the best part, don’t you think?

I used to live in London. Love the city, hated living there. Mostly because I lived in a rather crap neighbourhood with a somewhat peculiar boyfriend. If I had tons of money and could live in Hampstead – well, that would be a completely different story, I think.

However, watching Closer tonight, a movie that is a perfectly tangled web of love stories between four of the most beautiful people on the planet, and about the general difficulty of life, really, I can’t help falling in love with London all over again. Closer is a bit like Sliding Doors, Notting Hill and Bridget Jones, in that respect. However Closer is a bit more complicated a movie than the romantic comedies I suppose the other movies would have to be described as.

I do love them all, and not only because they paint London in such a glorious light. I love romantic comedies in general, so I’m quite easily pleased, really. But the two Gwyneths in Sliding Doors intrigue me, Notting Hill is just happy silliness, and Bridget Jones – well, it’s Bridget Jones, isn’t it? Defining woman of the 90’s, when all is said and done.