The opposite

Part Two: Bad Language

Let’s get one thing straight right now: there is no such thing as the Norwegian language. Officially, there are two of them: Bokmål and Nynorsk. Bokmål, which literally means ‘book language’, is not necessarily the language you find in a book, as there are at least some books written in Nynorsk. Nynorsk, which means ‘new Norwegian’, is, however, exactly what it says on the label: it’s new (well, about 150 years old, which is new in linguistic terms anyway).

So why have two languages?

Good question. Bokmål, which can be loosely defined as a sort of unofficial standard Norwegian, is spoken by roughly 88% of the population, 80% of whom work for TV and radio and write for the newspapers. On the other hand, Nynorsk is spoken by a few farmers and fishermen on the west coast.

So what made these farmers and fishermen so important as to get their own official language? The short answer is that they couldn’t understand each other very well and none of them spoke Bokmål. You must remember that most of the west of Norway is mountainous, and what is not covered in mountains is divided up by fjords. This means that speaking to anyone outside your own community used to be a bit difficult, unless you thought that a nice chat was worth risking your life on a mountain or in an open boat. The result of this was dialects. Not just a couple either – loads of them. Hence Nynorsk: a brave attempt to get Norwegians to understand each other.

A typical language barrier.

Strangely enough, more or less the same can be said of Bokmål. It may well be the semi-semi-official language, and it may well be understood by everyone (even the people who speak Nynorsk) but it too is an attempt to rope together several dialects. Not consciously, as in the case of Nynorsk, but it amounts to the same thing.

In fact, left to their own devices, no one in Norway would speak either language; they would all speak a dialect.

Of course, if you were foolhardy enough to enrol for Norwegian lessons, you would be taught Bokmål. After all, you’re using a bok so it seems logical. Besides which, the people who write ‘Teach yourself Norsk’ books are all Bokmål speakers anyway, so you haven’t much choice.

But, in fact, using a book is not such a good idea anyway because very little of what you read will resemble what you hear. Take a simple word like Oslo, for example. We all know Oslo, don’t we? The capital of Norway? And how is it pronounced? Oz-loh, right? Nope. It’s actually pronounced Ooshlo. Or even Ooshloo in some parts of Ooshlo. Okay, you might say, but what about Paris, which the French pronounce Paree? Well French pronunciation follows clear rules, according to which the S is not pronounced anyway.

A group of Norwegians trying to pronounce Oslo.

So does Norwegian follow similar rules? Well, if it does, they are certainly well hidden. In a desperate attempt to get Norwegians to pronounce ‘oh’, ‘ah’ and ‘er’, someone even introduced three extra letters – å, æ and ø. As you might expect, these are the last letters in the Norwegian alphabet. And they are also the reason why Norsk-speak looks so odd.

Naturally, in order to overcome these linguistic difficulties, some Norwegians decided to take the easy way out by emigrating to the United States, where they could speak a dialect of English in peace.

But, you’ve guessed it. I’ve been fooling you all along with this story of Bokmål and Nynorsk being the two Norwegian languages. There are also Riksmål, Østnorsk, the actual Oslo dialect and, of course, Danish. In fact, a linguistic war has been waged in Norway for the past 150 years and no one really looks like winning.

Two Norwegians settling a linguistic point.

Here are a couple of examples of this verbal conflict to give you some idea. The verb ‘to eat’, which is ‘spise’ in Danish, Bokmål and Østnorsk, is ‘eta’ in Nynorsk and in Oslo. If you were to say ‘the boats’ in Danish it would be ‘bådene’, but in Bokmål and Østnorsk it would be ‘båtene’, while it would ‘båta’ in Oslo and ‘båtane’ in Nynorsk. Confused? You will be!

So perhaps there’s some excuse for people like me who, after seven years in Norway, hardly dare utter a word of Norwegian. I lived in France and spoke French and I lived in Holland and spoke Dutch. Without any problems. I could even pronounce the capital cities. But somehow Norwegian has eluded me. And that’s probably because whenever I think that I can pronounce a word correctly, I suddenly realise that I can’t.

Part One: Keeping up appearances.

I ought to say at the outset that I was prompted to set down these thoughts about Norwegians by my wife – who’s Norwegian. That’s just in case anyone might think I have some sort of prejudice against Norway and Norwegians. In fact, that could not be further from the truth: I love Norway. But having lived here now for 7 years, I’m no longer blind to its peculiarities. And there are plenty of those.

So let’s start with what Norwegians look like. Well, today they come in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes, but this was not always the case. Back in the good old Viking times, everyone looked more or less the same: tall and blond (or, in some cases, ginger). Things weren’t helped by a fondness for wearing beards (usually the men) and identical helmets and carrying shields.

It’s no wonder that battles in the Viking days were chaotic affairs. As most people tended to look fairly much alike, you couldn’t be quite sure whether you were fighting the enemy or each other. This may explain the Viking tactic of standing in line abreast facing the enemy, so you could be more or less certain whose side you were on, and their fondness for attacking monks – it being difficult to confuse a fellow Viking with someone wearing a cowl and sandals.

A group of Vikings on a day-trip to Lindesfarne. Spot the odd one out.

The Vikings went some way towards addressing this problem by giving each other descriptive names: Svein Forkbeard, Erik the Red, Jimmy Five Bellies, etc. This worked as long as they never met anyone with a red, forked beard and five bellies.

As I said, things are different today. However, there are still a very large number of Norwegians who conform to the racial stereotype: tall, blond(e), blue-eyed, etc. In fact, these Norwegians are almost impossible to tell apart and there are even theories that they are not born naturally but come off a production line in Taiwan and are sold in cans. To complicate the issue even further, middle-class teenage Norwegians tend to favour a style of dressing that further emphasises their uniformity and their general Barbie and Ken appearance: white and pastel colours (both sexes, even in winter), bandanas (!) and snow white socks and trainers.

A group of Norwegian ladies desperately trying to look different.

So there’s little wonder that levels of divorce and illegitimacy are so high in Norway, as there’s a fair chance that you might well end up in bed with someone else’s wife or husband simply because you mistook them for yours.

When it comes to dressing, Norwegians are much less uniform. Particularly in winter. After all, when it’s minus 20 outside you don’t much care what you look like as long as you’re warm. Which explains why so many Norwegians still favour woolly hats. They may look ridiculous, especially those with the bobble, but they keep your head a lot warmer than a stylish pork-pie hat or a trilby. And warmth is what it’s all about. In fact it might be accurate to say that between November and March a lot of Norwegians can go out without recognising each other at all, so winter means that a good opportunity for mutual identification is more or less wasted.

Summer is a different matter, however. As soon as the sun ventures above the horizon for more than 4 hours a day, out come the shorts and T-shirts! Particularly noteworthy are the captains of industry who swap the boardroom suit for regulation summer-wear at weekends. You can spot them a mile off. The shorts are, of course, neatly pressed and the T-shirt is at least Lacoste but the dead giveaway is the feet neatly tucked into socks and expensive running shoes in which they do anything but run. It might still be sub-zero and their knees are blue but, my God, summer is almost, well nearly almost, here and it’s time for T-shirts and shorts, come what may! Of course this is closely associated with the barbecue season – which extends from the last frost to the first frost – but more of that in a later post.

The ultimate in pastel high-tech cold weather gear. Just right for August!

It is quite easy to spot a Norwegian on holiday. They are generally big, with extended families, as you might expect given all the confusion, and they tend to amble along the street occupying all of the space as they do so. It is impossible to overtake a Norwegian family on holiday so the best move is simply to exercise patience. Stop at a local bar and sip a Pernod, read the paper and have an interesting conversation with the person at the next table. This will have allowed the Norwegian family to advance about 20 metres as they gaze open-mouthed at shops selling things that they have seen a hundred times before and interesting buildings that are no different from any other buildings.

A Norwegian extended family on holiday.

If you suspect that you may have encountered a Norwegian on holiday, but are still in some doubt about the matter, here are a few tips. (Here we’re talking about the ÜberNorwegian, of course.) In men, look for very large size (XXXL), shambling gait and possibly the odd tattoo. Don’t worry, this is no Hell’s Angel, just a normal holidaymaking Norwegian with whom you can probably have a quite interesting conversation about Schopenhauer over a cappuccino. In women, look for very large size (XXXL), shambling gait, possibly the odd tattoo, and slightly shorter hair. Don’t worry, this is no Bull Dyke, just a normal holidaymaking Norwegian with whom you can probably have a quite interesting conversation about flower arranging and stock-car racing.

So that just about wraps it up for appearances. Next time, housing. As in homes. As in IKEA.

So the rebels are getting gradually pushed back to Benghazi in the face of overwhelming firepower. And meanwhile Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, that decadent physical and mental wreck, is sitting back and playing his usual psycho games – hoodwinking his followers with a mixture of money, charisma and fear.

And what do the other countries do?

Nothing.

Why do they do nothing?

The Arab nations do nothing because they don’t want the same thing happening in their backyard. They’ll make sympathetic noises but they won’t intervene in any meaningful way.

The UN does nothing because it would mean a vote in the Security Council, which China would veto. Why? Because China doesn’t want the same thing happening in its backyard either.

The EU? Well, the EU is the Coalition of the Ineffective. Intervening in Libya would mean creating a pan-European military force. Which the EU doesn’t have.

The ‘Coalition of the Willing’? They got their fingers burnt in Iraq.

NATO? Up to their heads in problems in Afghanistan and they won’t do anything until the UN says so (see above).

Who does that leave?

South America?

Central and Southern Africa?

The Far East?

Antarctica?

Sorry Libya. It looks like you’re on your own.

Everyone has their secrets, their hidden vices, their sins, their dark side, and I am no exception. You don’t get to my age without a few skeletons packing into the closet like Japanese businessmen on a 7 p.m. commuter train.

But my particular vice is one that is difficult, if not almost impossible to admit to in public. For many years, perhaps since the Dawn of Time itself, it has been one of those vices that was considered so universally heinous that it was not even so much as whispered about. Even the people who wrote The Bible shrank from mentioning it, no doubt believing that it was unnecessary to include something so vile in the Ten Commandments.

Yes, I’m talking about Passive Smoking.

Well Eleven Commandments sounds a bit daft anyway.

I first got into Passive Smoking at an early age via my Dad and a packet of Player’s. As the curls of blue smoke wafted across the living room, obscuring The Lucy Show and adding a stylish russet patina to the flying ducks on the wall, it was then that I realised I was hooked. My life would never be the same again. From then it would be a never-ending quest to seek out places where smokers congregate.

But, I hear you ask! Why didn’t I just take up smoking instead of smoking passively?

Good point.

There were 3 main reasons for this:
1) Economic. I couldn’t afford to smoke.
2) Social. Passive smoking involves meeting other people.
3) Variety. I can passively smoke several brands in a single evening. Without paying for them (see 1).

These days you can also add the health advantages of leaving a building several times throughout the day. Naturally, most people think that this is to get a breath of fresh air and has nothing to do with capturing that elusive nostril-full of Gauloise from an antique-dealer who has recently returned from holiday.

Some fresh air.

In fact, I didn’t start to recognise Passive Smoking as a problem at all until my doctor brought up the subject. I’d been for a general check-up and received a clean bill of health. My lungs had come in for special praise. Especially my alveolar ducts. So, it came as quite a surprise to me when my doctor raised an eyebrow and said:

“How many a day?”
“How many what?”
“Pubs, clubs, station waiting rooms, you know what I mean?”
(This, of course, was before we Passive Smokers were driven out of such places.)
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I blustered.
My doctor leaned back in his chair and eyed me disbelievingly, tapping his Biro against his teeth.
“Two? Three a day? Four maybe?”
“You mean the Passive Smoking,” I mumbled, flushing with embarrassment. “Five. Sometimes six.”
If my doctor was shocked, he didn’t show it.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he said, hurriedly. “There’s plenty of help out there. Patches…”
“Patches?”
“Patches on your trousers and elbows are a great idea. People will think you’re living on the streets and they won’t want to smoke while you’re around in case you ask them for a cigarette.”
He twirled around on his swivel chair and tossed his Biro into the trashcan.
“In fact, asking for a cigarette isn’t a bad idea. That will get rid of most smokers immediately. You could cut your habit by 50% at a stroke.”
“There are many serious health risks,” he added, ominously. “Lung cancer, heart disease, gonorrhoea…”
“Gonorrhoea?”
“Who knows what company you might end up in?”

My doctor looking extremely shocked and angry.

And so, on doctor’s orders, I tried to conquer my problem. I continued to congregate with smokers as usual – after all, I didn’t want to excite any curiosity – but now I held my breath. Literally. This was not a wise strategy as on two occasions I passed out entirely and had to be taken to hospital and on one occasion someone thought I had choked on a chicken bone and administered the Heimlich Manoeuvre. He had never administered the Heimlich Manoeuvre before and this resulted in a further six weeks in hospital including four in traction.

Naturally I tried my best not to frequent pubs, clubs, station waiting-rooms, etc. This was not as difficult as I imagined because most of my acquaintances now seemed to dislike the idea of further social contact. At first I could not understand why my old Passive Smoking companions avoided my company, until I realised that nobody wanted the responsibility of taking me to hospital or attempting another Heimlich Manoeuvre.

Don’t let anyone tell you that giving up Passive Smoking is easy. Like ‘real’ smokers, I found myself unconsciously resorting to substitutes for my addiction. In my case this meant lingering at busy intersections on windless days and breathing in carbon monoxide, mono-nitrogen oxides, particulate matter, benzene and, of course, good old ozone and carbon dioxide. I found myself standing beside the ventilation systems of fast-food restaurants and inhaling the fumes. I even spent a week’s holiday at an industrial plant in eastern China.

Some carbon dioxide. Notice the similarity to fresh air.

But I feel that I have finally turned the corner. My doctor has confirmed that I now have normal lungs for a man of my age: slight lesions, inflammation and reduced lung capacity. I spend more time at home, happily sitting at my computer for hours on end or watching the Shopping Channel. And, of course, those few people still left around me are no longer in any danger from passive Passive Smoking.

In fact, once I get the Passive Drinking out of the way, life will be perfect.