The difficult conversation.

Your child has reached an age when it's time for that conversation that's so hard to have. Because how do you explain to children that not all adults are nice without scaring the shit out of them?

-You know you should never accept candy from strange men?

-What about crisps?

-No.

-Cheese puffs?

-Okay, listen carefully now. You mustn't accept anything from people you don't know.

-Once I got a medal from the referee after a football match we won.

-That’s okay. Then there were lots of other people there too.

-I see.

-But never get into strange cars.

-Chinese cars?

-Not those either. But I mean cars driven by someone you don't know.

-But I can ride with you?

-Of course.

-But what if you're not driving?

-Then you don't go.

-Even if it's mum?

-For fuck's sake, you know your own mother, don't you? Sorry. What I mean is that you should never jump into cars with strangers.

-Once I went home with Jonathan after school. His mum drove.

-You know her.

-Jonathan’s grandmother was there too.

-Yes, but his mum was there so…

-I sat in the back seat with the grandmother and she offered me sweets. I think I ate a few pieces.

-That’s alright, darling.

-She said I was cute.

-Of course. I think we can forget about Jonathan's grandmother, it's not old ladies we need to worry about.

-Then she whispered asking if I'd ever seen an old woman naked.

Can I have you for dinner?

After watching a documentary about salmon farming, I lost all appetite for salmon. Typical, isn’t it? I had bought the myth that farmed fish could be the food of the future, only to discover it’s industrial, dirty, cynical, and environmentally destructive. Salmon may not have a brain that makes it an intellectual giant, but it feels stress and pain. It is killed, gutted, and the flesh is dyed pink to look more appetising on a cruise ship buffet, where half of it isn’t even eaten but thrown in the bin.

I should mention that I’ve also seen and read quite a bit about poultry farming and the meat industry, which has led me to abstain from chicken and red meat. This usually lasts about a week, then I’m back to burgers, lamb shanks, and chicken stew as usual. That’s as high-minded as I get. It’s dreadful; we need to find new ways to create sustainable food. Especially food that lacks a brain. Mushrooms, vegetables, and seaweed. Apparently, shrimp and shellfish feel pain when boiled, so we’ll have to find other ways to kill them. Like Stalin, perhaps? Invite them over in a pleasant manner, and when they least expect it, shoot them in the back of the head.

There’s been a lot of talk about insects as a potential food source. Unfortunately, that avenue came to a sudden halt the other day when British researchers mapped the fruit fly's brain. With 130,000 cells and 50 million connections, it can walk, fly, and even sing love songs to potential partners. So the only sustainable diet I can see ahead is human flesh. Our species has millions more brain cells than the fruit fly, but quantity doesn’t seem to be a good quality metric here. Humanity mainly consists of idiots and the taste is said to be surprisingly good. Like chicken, they say.

An average man has 33 kilos of muscle, and a woman 21 kilos. Then many innards shouldn’t be underestimated as food either. So let’s settle on 35 kilos of edible male flesh and 23 kilos of female flesh. At the same time, we don’t want to exceed the new Swedish health rules of 350 grams of red meat per week. That amounts to 18.2 kilos in a year, which means we could manage with about half a butchered male body or a whole female body. That should fit in most Swedish freezers.

I also believe that the origin of the human flesh will become an important factor. The liver of a church pastor who has never drunk alcohol. The fillet of a figure skater in the prime of her life. So the remaining question is how we choose the people who will become food for the rest of us. Perhaps the death penalty could be reinstated to provide us with endless food. Chops from a serial killer, anyone? Otherwise, we can rely on wars or the lunatics in traffic to sort it out for us. All these tragic deaths could suddenly gain meaning and bring joy to everyone. Yes, now we’re getting somewhere. I can see all the new, colourful cookbooks in front of me with sustainable food and exciting recipes: HEALTHY IDIOTS, DESSERTS OF THE AFTERLIFE, and MAN, THIS IS GOOD. I also see a heavily tattooed waiter in the hip quarters of Stockholm who keeps squatting down to confidentially ask me what kind of food I like.

—I like velodrome cyclists in their thirties who have happened to run off the road during a cycling holiday in Zermatt. Preferably with a mushroom sauce!

Adapt and live.

-It feels as if we’re moving into our final disposal, I told my wife with my unfailing sense of the melodramatic. Is this the place we’re going to die in?

As you can hear, I was sceptical about moving from our 280m² villa with a large garden to an 87m² flat with a balcony. But adaptability is what makes a species viable, and now six weeks have passed without any of my fears being realised. I’ve neither had a breakdown nor completely lost my mind. On the contrary, I’m more content with life than ever and haven’t missed our house or garden for a second. It’s as if that time has been erased from my consciousness. And yet, we raised two children there, had two dogs, and spent tons of money and love on that house. Is it possible that I’ve adjusted this quickly, or am I just lying to myself?

For a while, I thought my turnaround was because our new flat is just a kilometre from where I was born and spent my first 18 years. All my old schools are still there, the sports field where I learned to skate is within walking distance, the villas where my friends lived have changed owners and look better than ever, and the library in the centre is as hopelessly outdated as ever. I can see my 12-year-old self cycling to and from school on the same streets that I now dreamily walk along. He’s not wearing a helmet, of course, and has a jacket that’s far too thin because it’s cool to act as if you’re not freezing your ass off.

-You could get cystitis! I shout affectionately to myself from a distance.

-Shut up, you bloody paedo, little Anders shouts back, cycling for his life.

I’m not going to let this pass, so I run after him at full speed to teach him a lesson. Children need clear boundaries; otherwise, they might end up as mime artists or junkies. He looks back from his bike and makes a silly face at me just as a lorry pulls out from a crossing street ahead of him.

-You’re not so cocky now, are you? I say, looking under the lorry where little Anders is wedged between the bike frame, spokes, and the lorry’s driveshaft. He’s having trouble speaking because the handlebars have gone through one of his cheeks. But there and then, I have a life-changing insight. I realise that my adaptability has nothing to do with nostalgic memories, but rather with the future.

-I’m debt-free, I say lyrically to little Anders before I skip along the streets of my childhood.

The Gang School.

A new private school has been established for secondary school students who want to pursue a career as gang criminals. I am hired by a newspaper that doesn’t want to expose its permanent writers to life-threatening situations, so I’m sent out to interview the headmaster.

-There’s been a lack of a school that teaches the basics of how to become a gang criminal, explains headmaster Urban Zetterlöv in a broad Gothenburg accent. He promises comprehensive teaching in everything from handling weapons and explosives, drug knowledge, money laundering, and basic criminal law to argot.

-Argot? I wonder.

-Being well-acquainted with the terms and concepts that are prevalent in the industry is crucial for being able to act credibly and rise through the ranks.

-Where do the students come from?

-Everywhere. Previously, it was just the youths from the suburban slums, but now we see a clear trend that even native Swedes from affluent areas long to become part of the criminal world. And that is truly positive.

-How so?

-I see it as a process of democratisation. Nowadays, all parents, regardless of socio-economic factors or demographics, have given up on trying to raise their children. No one bothers to take parental responsibility anymore. Some even hide behind the old cliché from the 60s that it’s society’s fault when children choose a criminal path, laughs Urban, pouring himself a bit more coffee.

-And you have no issues with starting a school that fosters crime and trains murderers?

-I see record numbers of young people longing for community and a purpose.

-And gang crime offers this?

-Oh yes. There is camaraderie, entrepreneurship, and big money for everyone.

-And violence and substance abuse…

-That exists in all workplaces, Urban interrupts me brusquely. Here we teach the youths to use Tramadol judiciously, so they can execute someone with both emotions and weapons under control.

-What a relief…

-I know. There’s a snobbery in the education system that has always irritated me. People dismissed the two-year vocational programmes when they came along too, but look at how many mechanics and nurses we got because of that. And this hunt for private schools continues despite the fact that most of them offer a better education than the municipal ones.

-So who owns the school?

-Two gang leaders who believe so strongly in this school that they have set aside their rivalries and are financing it together.

-So it’s blood money?

-Blood money? Urban says, looking at me wistfully. What is that? All revenue for criminal gangs comes from ordinary, decent Swedes who buy a bit of relaxation. It could be drugs, smuggled spirits, prostitutes, or other things that add a bit of sparkle to life.

I watch Urban as he comfortably starts devouring a blueberry muffin.

-But doesn’t it concern you that young people are dying in gang violence?

-Oh please, spare me, Urban says, licking his fingers. There are plenty of professions where the career is short. Ballet dancer, circus artist, astronaut, elite athlete, etc. The youths choose our school because they are passionate about becoming gang criminals; they are fully aware of the risks.

I conclude the interview by photographing Urban posing with an assault rifle in the teacher's room.

-What do you think of the headline: A GANG BANG SCHOOL? he says, laughing so hard that he accidentally fires a round into the plaster ceiling.

Mordor is just outside of Stockholm.

We were in the car, having just sold our house and moved into a new flat, when my wife looked at me thoughtfully and asked a question she hadn't asked in over 20 years.

-Shall we go to IKEA?

We'd agreed that I'd never have to go to IKEA again, because every time I did, it threatened our marriage. There was an exception to the rule last winter when I accompanied her to IKEA in Miami. I acted as a human forklift for my wife, who was furnishing a house in Florida, and I was a little tempted to see what the chipboard temple looked like in the USA. The experience was exotic, and strangely I felt a little proud as I wandered around looking at all the products with Swedish names, staff in Swedish colours and a pleasant homely feel. My wife noticed that I didn't have to take beta-blockers or wear a muzzle during the visit and must have thought I was cured.

-We need drawer inserts for our new kitchen, she continued, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Perhaps I agreed because we were debt-free and my body felt light as if it had been pumped full of helium. Maybe my judgement had been altered by the Miami experience, or maybe it was the promise that we would just go there to buy some drawer inserts and then head straight home.

-Okay, as long as we have the measurements for our drawers?

-Of course.

We made our way to Barkarby. Not very Miami, but more like a standard Swedish shopping centre on steroids. We parked in the IKEA car park and strolled in to do our business. Now, everyone knows that IKEA not only has a system for assembling its flat-pack items, but also for herding customers like cattle through the stores on their terms. So I was pleased to see the large signs generously indicating shortcuts to get us to our destination faster. Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that these shortcuts were impossible to find. I began to sweat profusely in the bedding section and clenched my fists so tightly that my blood stopped circulating in the kitchen section.

Even the staff struggled to give us clear directions on how to get straight to the kitchenware. Apparently there was a lift somewhere that would take us straight there, but where? My guess was that the lift never existed. I explained to my wife that these were Ingvar Kamprad's last words on his deathbed.

-No shortcuts, no lifts…

Trying to keep her spirits up, my wife led me through the store as if we had eaten bad oysters and were desperately looking for a toilet. Then suddenly we found ourselves in the kitchenware section. Eagerly, we started rummaging through the boxes and quickly realised that our new kitchen had completely different dimensions from IKEA's. Not a single tray fit. My blood pressure rose to the point where the veins on my forehead and neck were protruding like earthworms. We left as quickly as we could, and when I looked in the rear-view mirror on the way out of the car park, I could swear the whole place looked like Mordor from The Lord of the Rings.

-Never again, my wife said firmly.

I smiled, glad that my wife was on my side.

-Never again will I go to IKEA with you, she added.

The gay-card.

I belong to a generation that grew up when military service was compulsory for men in Sweden. Few of us looked forward to it, and those who were overly enthusiastic should perhaps have been weeded out just for that reason. Some felt a strong resistance and could apply for conscientious objection and still be of use in the Armed Forces. If the resistance was more ideological, you could refuse altogether and end up in prison instead. So the more convenient choice was to present yourself as a completely incompetent and useless human being. So hopeless that the Armed Forces would spit you out like a bad oyster and have you exempted. You could underperform at the physical test or buy a fake medical certificate for disabilities that made military service impossible. If that failed, you could try your luck with the Army psychologist.

-I dream of indiscriminately shooting into crowds and think genocide has gotten a bad reputation. By the way, can you electrocute the enemy's testicles during interrogation?

If you lacked the acting talent required to play the moron, there was one last resort. A foolproof way to avoid defending your country in the event of war: The gay card. At the time, it was considered completely unthinkable for a homosexual man to do military service. Almost as unthinkable was the idea that someone would voluntarily claim to be gay to avoid doing military service. I don't know, it's possible they thought that sexual orientation impaired the ability to shoot anti-aircraft guns, blow up bridges or fly fighter jets. But it's also possible they envisioned a soldier in a pink tutu, high heels and a grenade launcher slung over his shoulder, humming a Barbara Streisand song.

Or perhaps the Armed Forces assumed that an entire generation of soldiers would rather do prison time than national service together with homosexuals.

-How the hell are the lads supposed to shower in peace if a bunch of sissies are gawking at them?

We live in a time when almost nothing is going the right way, so we must cling to the memory of the small advances that civilisation has made. Nowadays, another hopeless group is also allowed to do military service - women.

The end justifies the means.

A group of environmental activists have asked for my help. After vandalising artworks with spray paint, throwing cakes at politicians, storming live TV broadcasts, gluing themselves to road surfaces in the city centre and on motorways, they're feeling a bit despondent. We meet in a basement in Gubbängen, where I arrive wearing Elvis's final stage outfit from Las Vegas. I bought it on eBay and felt this might be my first chance to wear it. The cape rests elegantly on my shoulders, but the sequinned jumpsuit is several sizes too large and is flapping about like excess skin after an extensive liposuction procedure. It's unclear whether the silence in the room is from embarrassment on their part or breathless admiration.

-What democratic avenues have you tried? I ask, straddling a chair backwards. The one who seems to be the group's leader clears his throat a bit.

-All of them. Petition-gathering, demonstrations, legal action against the state at various levels, writing opinion pieces, and participating in debates. Nothing works.

-You realise what that means, don't you? I say, taking off the tinted sunglasses. No one replies.

-That you don't represent the majority of the people.

A disgruntled murmur goes through the room and a woman raises her voice.

-But that's because people are blind and deaf. They haven't grasped the seriousness of it.

-Perhaps. But they may also think that you don't have the solutions to the problems?

-If no one gets involved, change will never happen, a young irritated man says.

-So a strong conviction trumps democratic rules?"

-Civil disobedience is sometimes necessary to get politicians to act.

-Okay. Have you considered shooting someone?

-Shooting? Are you out of your mind?

-I'm just trying to understand where you draw the line.

-No, we're not going to shoot anyone.

-Kidnap a person in power and post severed body parts to the media?

-No, you're so creepy, we don't do violence.

-Okay, then. Up on Fulufjället in Dalarna stands the world's oldest tree.

-Old Tjiko?

-Exactly! It's 9,550 years old and has been there since the Ice Age. It's seen mammoths, sabre-toothed cats and the first people to set foot on Swedish soil.

-So what does that have to do with anything?

-Cut it down!

Everyone looks at me in stunned silence as I stand up in my flapping outfit, pretending to hold a chainsaw and mimicking the sound of the engine.

-Just fell that thing.

-But that goes against everything we stand for, says an upset young man, rising to his feet. We can't kill a tree.

-That's what makes it so powerful. The world is falling apart, so you're just giving this old tree a merciful death. Old Tjiko shouldn't have to watch as humanity destroys itself and everything around it. Old Tjiko should be able to go with some dignity left. Maybe you can build a fire with the wood afterwards and stand in a circle, singing a song.

Here, I stand up and put one leg on the chair, bursting into song at the top of my lungs:

-We can't go on together, with suspicious minds. And we can't build our dreams on suspicious minds.

On my way home from the meeting, I felt exhilarated and pleased with my contribution. Like I finally filled out my stage clothes.