They do drinking well. Really, really well. Columnist Kate Monson has experienced the Swedes’ way of drinking alcohol.
Helan går,
sjung hopp, faderallan lallan lej.
Helan går,
sjung hopp, faderallan lej.
Och den som inte helan tar,
han heller inte halvan får.
Helan går!
(DRINK)
Sjung hopp, faderallan lej!
For the non-Swedish speakers among you, this roughly translates to “whoever doesn’t finish their drink first is a loser” – with a lot of additional la la la-ing.
Let me set the scene. It’s 7pm. I’m sitting in an exceptionally well furnished, open plan living-dining room. Through the wide window I can see a smudge of sea, deep blue and calm. I’m surrounded by benevolent, fresh faces, both of my generation and the one above. And we’re singing a drinking song. Well, the Swedes in the room – of which there are 6 – are singing a drinking song. The Brits, of which there are also 6 – are humming, attempting to lip synch or simply smiling.
All of us are holding our Schnapps glasses aloft. I say Schnapps glass specifically, as before we sat down we had the three different drinking receptacles in front of us pointed out in a jovial, yet meaningful manner. The miniature wine glass with the funky design is for Schnapps; the large glass beaker is for beer (or water, the host kindly adds before looking sideways at me and saying with a knowing grin, but you won’t be having much of that here tonight). Finally, we have the wine glass. Round-bellied and long-stemmed. The type you know only good wine should be drunk out of.
Now, I’ve been to a baby-handful of dinner parties where there are multiple sets of cutlery in front of me – one for each course of the feast you are about to consume. But never have I been to one where there is a gaggle of glasses in front of me – all for booze. (At least not at the beginning of the evening. At the end, yes. For I do seem to be one of those people who, more through luck than design, manages to acquire glasses throughout the evening – generally those of other guests, and always ones that are fuller than mine.) And never have I sung a drinking song, sober, with people of my parent’s age. Dawn-time bawling of Beatles numbers, arms interlaced with my fellow musical marauders, elbows knocking uncomfortably together as we weave our way home from some dirty dive? Certainly. But this is excellently novel.
And to me, the experience sums up something very Swedish. They do drinking well. Really, really well. You might not be able to pick up a cold, cheap beer from a corner shop at 3am. But you can guarantee well-stocked, exceptionally well-ordered shelves of good quality alcohol at the System Bolaget. It might only be available at the specific times designated by the state, but where else would you find a G4S security guard who, alongside his peace-keeping duties, is able to wax lyrical on the merits of this particular type of whisky compared to that? And don’t even get me started on the adorably absurd chalked-circles on the conveyor belt at the checkout counter to tell you where to place the bottles you’ve purchased.
So I say “Skål Sweden”. Your extortionate alcohol prices force me to smuggle beers over the border from Denmark every time I visit Copenhagen and I definitely ask anybody who visits me from England to bring a large bottle of gin with them. But I’ll take that, at least for a while, in exchange for a drinking culture that is serious in the sober Schnapps-singing, three glasses at a dinner party way. (NB. For the purpose of this piece I have chosen to ignore the other, less illuminating, less unique type of ‘serious’ drinking Swedes partake in, which can be observed in one or other of the Lund University Nations any night of the week.)
