Salmon run

I'm moving to London. Life as I know it won't be the same, at least not for the next 12 months. Having waxed lyrically about my love of all things Sheffield only a few months back, upping sticks and departing to the Big Smoke might be seen as one big fat contradiction. Some might say treacherous. Some already have. The political elite would be proud. Say one thing and mean something completely different, cause a massive fuss in one direction as a smokescreen for murky behaviour in another, look after number 1 above all. Guilty as accused.

This was clearly not in the script. For 17 years I've lived and prospered in Sheffield, almost, but not quite, half a lifetime. Being a quintessential northerner in spirit, a quintessential northern city was always going to be an easy fit and I've had very little inclination to relocate over the years, even during periods of unemployment and unsatisfactory employment. July 2015 however and somehow the stars managed to align themselves to provide a compelling argument for sampling a slice of London life. I'll be starting a 12 month secondment at our head office in September, and in my head I'm treating it as a well paid gap year. A temporary departure from normality. A chance to play in the biggest and most exciting playground in the world. A tiny fish in a huge pond. I'm like a salmon on a run to do a spot of spawning before heading back to more familiar shores to settle.

Things were very different when I first landed in Sheffield in August 1998 to take up residence at Hallam University's student halls. Tony Blair and his babes were in their pomp, Sheffield Wednesday played in the Premier League, no one was particularly phobic about Islam, record shops were aplenty, cameras had film in them, Madonna's artistic integrity was still intact, a tweet was just a sound birds make, a tablet a slab used for inscriptions, a selfie stick might've referred to something altogether more private and the concept of sexting, cankles, jeggings and chillax hadn't yet been portmanteau'd. Bluetooth, blu-ray, USB, micro-SIM, say what??

First impressions weren't great. Stepping out of the train station we were greeted by run down Hallam buildings to the front, Park Hill flats to the rear. Sophisticated urban landscapes all round. Sheffield had seemingly not moved at all since the 1960s.

Luckily this year's hoards of freshers can enjoy a vastly improved vista, although Park Hill flats will outlive us all. The past decades have seen huge redevelopment of the city centre and adjoining areas, mostly but not wholly for the better. Personally I would've kept the Yorkshire Grey rather than replace it with a funny looking multi storey car park. And I'm still most upset that I missed out on the mythical Hole in the road. Nevertheless, whatever the relative merits of modernisation, the things that makes Sheffield great remains.

Sheffield end edging closer, the countdown to London has officially begun. I eventually secured an optimal flat share in Globe Town, within touching distance of hipster Mecca, and I'll be living in hope that the mere proximity will stimulate my facial hair follicles to multiply like an aggressive virus. It's London, miracles do happen. I may well find myself on a collision course with London itself. Pretentious, expensive, ostentatious, obtrusive, these are a few of my non-favourite things. I am however planning to embrace the whole experience with open arms, and if all else fails I've located a chippy in Holborn that does chips and gravy. Nothing else matters.

Of course new beginnings call for new looks. I've ruthlessly discarded droves of clothing and footwear to create space and ease the removal load, round 2 to follow, but at the same time I've been busy purchasing. Yin and yang and all that.

 Purple skinny trousers from Topman, £9.60 in the sale. Great colour but may need to reserve these for standing up gatherings only to avoid groin splitting.

Teal tuxedo jacket (£21.60) and geometric patterned pocket square (£1.60) from Topman, again in the sale. White shirt and black jeans to complete the outfit, bob's your uncle.

Grey suede shoes with beige and blue strip along the top of the sole, £16 from Topman. Likely accompaniment to above sartorial styling.

Long sleeved light blue shirt and short sleeved lilac shirt, £4.60 in the Topman sale. Cheaper than Primark. Say no more.

12 months a Londoner beckons, time will tell if the schtick sticks or if Sheffield will out. I suspect the lure of cheap beer, steep hills and dee-dahs will prevail. And chips and gravy obviously. Chuck in some scraps and I'm sold.

Cowards in every county

I saw a film the other day that was the epitome of thought provoking. 'The Reunion' is the debut feature from director, artist and provocateur Anna Odell, and although a couple of years old was only recently given a UK release. I can whole-heartedly recommend the film so spoiler alert for anyone planning on watching it. Here's the trailer to whet your appetite:

The first part of the film depicts the titular party of a class of high schoolers, 20 years on from finishing their GCSEs. The jovial atmosphere quickly takes a darker turn with the arrival of Anna (playing herself) who stands up and delivers a frank, no holds barred account of the bullying she was subjected to throughout her childhood by a number of people present. Disbelief, dismissal, denial, anger and confrontation ensues before Anna is forcibly thrown out of the party.

In the second part we learn that the party scene was a fictional re-enactment of how Anna would've liked the reunion to have played out. In real life Anna wasn't invited to her reunion and in response decides to make a fictional film and document her former class 'mates' reaction to watching it. Some agree to take part, some decline outright, and some find a convenient excuse for cancelling. The general theme of the people she did get to speak to is unaccountability. Responsibilities are exonerated on the basis of fading memories, of being young and silly, of others being the main culprit. Few people acknowledge the bullying took place and fewer still make any gesture towards atonement.

Watching the film prompted me to revisit my conscience of yesteryear. To my knowledge I was never bullied, nor a bully. I was fortunate enough to have a group of mates who I grew up with, we went to school and A-levels together, played in the same football team from boys to juniors and beyond, hung out together and so on and so forth. I was nowhere near the popular clique nor a social outcast, a classic 'inbetweener', despite having massive glasses and a permed mullet.

Something my conscience couldn't be quite so decisive about though was whether I was completely free of guilt. 'The Reunion' shines a rather bright spotlight on the by-standers. Whilst not being the instigators of bullying they still allow it to happen, through ignorance, self preservation or insecurity. Can I be so certain that I wasn't part of the collective ostracising of X? Was I never concerned about what people would think of me if I was seen with Y? Can I categorically rule out that my actions, explicitly or implicitly, had a negative impact on Z? No, no and no.

Still it's easy to assume that everyone experienced the school years much in the same way as you did. You were all there in the same place at the same time after all, and you had a great time so why would others not have? You had your mates around you, all living nearby to each other. Surely everyone had at least a few friends? You were always invited to stuff. Everyone were no? You were just kids and didn't know any better. We're all alright now though right? Right? When some people would gladly recall 'the fantastic 9 years we spent together', others would recoil in horror at the mere mention of school or childhood, convenient shortcuts to self doubt and emotional regression.

Perhaps it's my muddled conscience, or simply an innate dose of schadenfreude, but few things give me more pleasure than finding out that the guy who everyone at my school branded thicko has entrepreneured himself to considerable personal wealth whilst the girl who everyone fancied is now looking haggered and unrecognisable. Who wants to trade places now eh?

As for me, I have happily remained an inbetweener. Although I've ditched the perm and the mullet for an altogether more dapper appearance. Age does have some benefits. In 1995 I would've jumped on the bus to Karlbergsgymnasiet, Åmål in a black Automatic For The People t shirt on top of a black turtle neck long sleeve. In 2015 I stroll up and down the two hills that separate home from work looking like this:

A pair of 'tobacco flannel' trousers from Montague Burton. £9 they were. Bar-gain. As a wee 12 year old I wouldn't have been comfortable wearing a pink cashmere jumper (£9.99) or a pink paisley shirt (£15.99), and the mere suggestion would've been met with a dark as tar stare. The merry 37 year old version is more than obliging though. Throw in a turquoise gingham shirt (£15.99) for a trio of winners from Zara. Just need to lose a bit of the weight gained in the intervening 25 years.

So whatever shape or form it takes, we should all stand up to bullying. Overwhelming evidence highlight the negative impact that childhood bullying can continue to have in adult life. So think again if you reckon it's just one of those things that kids get up to. If you get a sudden flash of guilty conscience for something you did, or something you didn't do, back then, at least do something positive to atone. Friends is a Swedish anti-bullying organisation who produce some of the best campaigns I've seen. Spread their message. This ad was soundtracked by one of my favourite bands ever, Kent, and for those of you out there who don't speak Swedish I've done the good deed by translating the lyrics below.



You'd think the loneliness would be the hardest part, but it's when you notice me that I get really scared.

Explain please so I can understand, why you go quiet when I'm there and giggle when I leave.

Tell me why it has be me with my back pressed up against the wall, no defence against the cruel words, who has to fight, scratch and bite because of simply existing.

There's no reward and I make no demands, other than never having to suffer in silence.

Ham and cheese

I'm just back from an early summer Scandinavian break, taking in south west Värmland and the most expensive place in the world Oslo. The former is clearly superior in every which way. Travelling on the hottest day of the year meant things got off to an unbelievably unpleasant start but once we landed on Scandinavian soil, with the balmy night in all its glory, everything was going to be ok. A merry gang of 8 set off in a hired minivan and it soon became clear that the rays of the midnight sun don't just stop at the Arctic circle. Having grown up on these shores I should've been accustomed to the light-as-day nights around midsummer but maybe I'm more of a naturalised Brit than I would dare to admit. Here's a pic taken at 3 o'clock in the morning.

The visiting Brits were treated to a vast array of quintessential Swedish fare: canoeing, midges, woodlands, lakes, the game of Kubb, the right hand rule (of driving that is, nowt sinister), Systembolaget, trolls, traditional snapsvisor, and of course tons of dill.

The distinctive, aniseed flavour of the Anethum graveolens herb defines Swedish cuisine and is pretty much unavoidable, particularly in the tastes of summer. Pickles, condiments, sauces, soups, cod roe, crisps, booze, they all come in dill flavours. Swedish new potatoes cooked with dill, pickled herrings, sourcream with fresh chive and rye bread with cheese pretty much sums up summer for most Swedes. Me included. And barbecues. We love a good barbecue.

As a purveyor of all food in great quantities, a visit home consists of eating a lot and doing very little of anything else. In the Thorén household a typical day starts with breakfast of porridge/yoghurt, ham and cheese on Polarkaka bread and coffee. Always ham and cheese. Then at mid-morning it's fika time: coffee with an assortment of cinnamon buns, cakes and cookies. A couple of hours later and a lunch of Swedish new potatoes cooked with dill, pickled herrings, sourcream with fresh chive and rye bread with cheese is gulped down with 3.5% lager. Then there's afternoon fika too of course. Löfbergs Lila coffee with an assortment of cinnamon buns, cakes and cookies. And come evening time there'll be a barbecue of marinated meat/spicy sausage/salmon, dauphinoise potatoes and a green salad. And some more 3.5% lager. Later on there may even be a cheeky Irish coffee on offer. My parents are always busy doing stuff so they work it off. I on the other hand have done my usual thing and returned to the UK carrying newly purchased Dressmann boxer shorts (pack of 2 for £15), salt liquorice and an increased body mass index.

As a homage to the ham and cheese breakfast, I recently bought this black t shirt, along with a short sleeved check shirt, from Topman:



They were both in the sale obviously, totalling £18, and I even got an extra 10% off thanks to the sewing escapades of @aimeehilton. Jambon et fromage to all.

Dr Tucker previously requested the recipe for Swedish meatballs, and risking upsetting the proper connoisseurs/besserwissers with a somewhat unauthentic creation, here's how I roll. As I don't tend to cook to recipes, far too much attention required - freestyling is way more satisfying, you'll have to take things with a pinch of salt. Literally.

Ingredients:
Approximately 500g minced beef or ideally a mixture of minced beef and minced pork
1-2 slices of bread, crust cut off and crumbed in a food processor
Enough milk to coat the breadcrumbs
1 small-ish onion, finely chopped
1 egg
A sprinkling of flour
Generous pinch of salt
Generous pinch of pepper
Pinch of ground allspice

Method:
Soak the breadcrumbs in the milk in a large bowl
Let the mixture stand for a few minutes
Add the mince, onion, egg, flour and seasoning
Mix to an even paste
Let the mixture rest for a few minutes
Take a dollop of mince and roll into a perfectly rounded meatball
Continue rolling til all the mince has been used up
Fry in butter/oil in a shallow frying pan for about 8-10 mins, finishing up in a warm oven if needed
De-glaze the pan afterwards with water and stock to make proper good gravy

Enjoy piping hot with boiled new potatoes, gravy, pickled gherkins and lingonberry jam. Or a dollop of slow cooked onions and some grated carrot. A-ma-zing! And not a dill in sight.