The Girl who wrote to the King of Sweden

I'm not a Poet you know

His Majesty Carl Gustaf Folke Hubertus,

Drottningholm Palace,

Lovon Island,

Stockholm County,

Sweden.

2, Letsbee Avenue,

Wexford,

Ireland.

Your ref HRH/KCGFH/PA/BA/MA/PHD/ETC

Our ref MDM/GAA/AA/HARPERVALLEYPTA

JULY 2014

Dear King,

How are you?

I hope you and Sylvia are well and enjoying the beautiful summer weather.

I just wanted to drop you a line saying hey hey from a small Irish woman who has been mooching around in your country.

It's my own fault.

Some people in one of your tiny towns (that you may not have even heard of) called Tranås asked me to come and sent me a ticket.

In an attempt to foster creativity and connection they have created a residency in a giant house beside the train tracks that used to be a fur factory.

Apart from hallucinating on the first night (exhaustion and stress) that my bed was surrounded by small mammals with liquid eyes and flashing teeth, I have not seen any furs, unless one counts the coat I found in the second hand shop beside the 6 - 23 ,

and spying a dark shape flashing through a forest from the back window of a speeding car, driven by a deafened man, on the way to Ikea in Linköping

Being a group of arty types, made up of writers, poets and alcoholics, we have become objects of curiosity for the bemused townsfolk, who have seen us perched outside on the decking, drinks in hand, from sunrise to sunset, and on more than one notable occasion, only staggering upstairs to charge our phones, look longingly at the tiny beds, and trounce back down again.

Is THIS the way to bed?

I was pawed by a poodle named Ralph for so long on a speeding train

- as I stared at the red barns flashing by-

that I jumped off at the wrong stop and was proposed to by a small man named Alan in Norrköping

You may remember that town from where you had your "fender bender" a few years ago.

I can't remember if it was your Porsche or your Ferrari you were tricking around the roads in that day.

Alan is a chain smoker who is 61 years old, and bears a striking resemblance to Paul Newman, if he was tiny, 61, or alive.

In Tranas, there are so many Cadillacs, Corvettes, and Chevrolets cruising up and down the tree lined main street, driven by men with mullets, that I felt like an extra in Fargo and expected to meet Marge Gunnderson around every corner.

All of your subjects there say a – HAW , a –HAW, while nodding, with the pitch and intonation altered slightly to register surprise, agreement, amusement, or sorrow.

Ones subjects that are traumatised or outraged or shellshocked say a HOE a HOE through their nose.

I heard this many times.

A Cadillac that is not pink

The first person I met on the residency was a man sporting a t-shirt with a picture of Frank Zappa on the toilet on it. His name translates as Blessed Birch Grove, and he has the distinction of missing Woodstock by getting hurled into a Turkish prison for having a small nodge of hash on him.

It wasn’t all bad though, as he has been immortalised as the Scandinavian guy in a small film called Midnight Express.

You might like to rent it sometime between Scout Jamborees and flying around the world meeting people.

His most notable moment of the residency was almost choking to death on a piece of chicken outside a Thai restaurant, and being driven off in an ambulance to have a procedure done in Eksjo hospital after his pleas for help or a Heimlich went unheeded by a small Irish woman who had a big camera and a bigger thirst.

In fact she had a thirst you could photograph.

He was subsequently christened Papa Cass by an obese woman wearing a Kaftan without a trace of irony.

There was enough irony in the paint for the red barns.

It wasn’t all bad though as she wrote a hilarious poem about his misfortune called

“The Styckling Kyckling”.

He wrote a book called “I missed Woodstock”

I missed Woodstock

On my first diary entry I described the town as being full of Labra-doodles, home perms, and check shirts.

This may have been the heat and the fact that the Swedish sky was so high and so blue.

A man took me to a barbecue at a lake in a Jaguar, where I was served the first of 72 meals with Bearnnaise sauce on it.

Even if you get an ice-cream it comes with a side of Bearnnaise.

A restaurant had a framed certificate on the wall having been awarded the accolade of best Bearnnaise in the whole country.

I mean, really?

You could just TRY pepper is all I’m saying.

And maybe tell the lads in the off-licence that it is ridiculous to sell a wine called “Strawberry Blush” to an alcoholic when it is only 3 %.

I mean, really?

It may have been a mistake to ask the broad in the curry house to make it as hot as she could when it was 30 degrees and I had to go to someone’s flat to watch Germany scoring 8 goals.

I came over all unnecessary in a flop sweat and spent the night smoking camels on the balcony.

After swimming in a freezing lake, a Welsh girl, an Indian girl, and an Irish girl stopped for lunch at a Greek restaurant run by a Syrian man serving Italian food in Sweden.

I mean, really?

"We SAID take the picture, let's do lunch!"

I had to have a lie down on the bed that is only 4 inches off the ground, with the tissue thin duvet, and listen to the Punk bands tuning up.

There were a couple of the members of one of the aforementioned bands living in a black camper in the carpark next door.

Smoke was coming out of the chimney a lot.

Also the Ginger drummer wore only one shoe and no shirt.

Ever.

Like shooting fish in a barrel

Between all the workshops, interviews, podcasts, poetry slams, barbecues, lakes, and pubs I had to procure a tin of Snus for a friend.

I sourced one from a man with a head like a cue ball, and a big beard, dancing around in a bar and made myself ill trying it.

I didn’t know you could just buy it in a shop.

Or that your subjects ran amok when it was proposed that it be taken out of stock like the whole rest of Europe.

I wrote a poem about that too.

It’s called - “Oh don’t give me any more of that Snus"

High on Snus AND life

The Welsh girl had to go home as she had a viral infection that was playing havoc with her blood sugars.

We drove her to the wrong airport and I met the fly in the studios that evening.

When the interviewer asked me how I construct the narrative of my work, I proposed that he ask the fly that had landed on my colleagues face first, as his agent had only booked him for an hour.

He had to go and stand on a pot of Bearnnaise sauce at 8pm.

The fly, not my colleague.

HOW long is a Swedish mile again?

I tore the ligaments in my knee because of the infernal back brakes on the beautiful Swedish bikes, and had to be dragged up the 4 flights by 3 men to bed.

I had to be dragged back down again in the morning to attend the action man Doctor in the stone washed drainpipes who gave me a pair of crutches The Borrowers could have used.

When my colleague stopped laughing he extended them by 6 notches.

Also it is just not fair that a Swedish mile is in fact TEN Kilometers.

Which may explain my injury.

I am writing you all this to tell you stuff other people won’t.

And to let you know that I missed the last 4 days of my residency and all the gigs, parties, palaver, and rock concerts that I would have been like a *Mules Tool* at.

My other colleague was pictured waving sadly on the steps of the plane to Amsterdam and then turned around, fell up the steps and cut the 2 hands off himself.