Beware of the Blonds

Half-a-bag of cheese doodles (ostbågar) and half-a-bottle of wine do not a healthy dinner make.

I digress.

After splitting a bag of cheesy goodness and washing it down with some red wine, Miz Cold Feet and I once again ventured out to grace the cafes and pubs of Södermalm with our presence. We ended up in the club that has quickly become The Usual, mainly due to its proximity to Casa Curiosa, as well as the absence of an entrance fee (not to mention the fact that it is frequented by some very nice specimins of the Strong, Silent, Nordic type).

The middle of the club features a circular bar, surrounded by what can only be termed a "man pit." As opposed to the typical scenario in the US or UK, where the women sit around the bar, casually sipping their drinks, batting their eyes, and flipping their hair, in Stockholm, it's the men who do this. Or, they would be flipping their hair if it wasn't encrusted in so many layers of styling products that is essentially unmoveable. Anyway, it was a pit of men, around a circular bar. Cold Feet speculated that the bar was round because it enables women to do continuous 'laps' until somebody talks to themthey see somebody they want to talk to. Kind of like a conveyor belt, Yo Sushi style. Except if it were a real conveyor belt, we would be the ones standing there as the men go round and round.

After fortifying ourselves with pear cider, we began to casually wander, attempting to strategically place ourselves in an Optimal Position for Attack, as well as to survey our potential victimsconversation partners. Cold Feet wondered outloud, "How do we impregnate the man pit?"

"You want to impregnate the man pit? Isn't it you who would end up impregnated, my dear?"

"Infiltrate, I mean. INFILTRATE."

"Well, that's something else entirely. We can do that at once."

We started chatting with the Godfather, the Moustache, and the Beard.

The Moustache and the Beard were both donning denim shirts and wifebeaters (white, ribbed tanktops), complete with a little bit of chest hair sticking out. The Beard seemed a little miffed at the comparison when we asked if they had coordinated wardrobes before going out. "My outfit is better," he muttered. "It was much more expensive."

Well then.

Then the Moustache announced that he knew that his moustache made him unattractive, but apparently January is the time to make yourself unattractive if you are ever going to do it, because you're not going to get any anyway, as he put it.

Well then.

We took our leave, and left alone, but nonetheless amused.