The Almost Nearly Perfect People: Behind the Myth of the Scandinavian Utopia

by Michael Booth

Scandinavia, though, really is terra incognita. The Romans didn’t bother with it. Charlemagne couldn’t care less.

Industrious, trustworthy and politically correct, the Scandinavians are the actuary at the party, five countries’ worth of local government Liberal Democrats, finger-wagging social workers, and humourless party poopers.

‘Other countries love their flags,’ a Danish dinner guest protested to me recently. ‘Look at the Olympics!’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s true. But the French don’t hoist the Tricolor on the cat’s birthday.’

‘Not even the Swedes would put camembert and Tandoori sauce in a burger.’

One key characteristic of Nordic cities is the lack of people. Queues, jams and crowds are a rarity in the North; even the capitals can have a semi-deserted air if you are arriving from London or New York. Where are all the people? But Helsinki made Oslo look like Mumbai.

Though the Finns’ taciturnity may work among themselves, problems arise when they travel or have to work with foreigners. The men, in particular, can be simply too frank, too direct, sometimes to the point of rudeness. They find it especially challenging to engage in the social lubricant of small talk, something even Norwegians can manage if they put their minds to it.

In some senses, the Finns can be considered über-Scandinavians.

It was so avant-garde that the fire alarm sounded for a good few minutes before the audience slowly began to realise that it wasn’t part of the performance.

The Swedish royal family’s legitimacy is even more tenuous. The current king of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, is descended neither from noble Viking blood nor even from one of their sixteenth-century warrior kings, but from some random French bloke.