Things I’ll miss… and things I won’t

Every time I decide I’m going to write a blog I get a little scrap of paper and start making notes. Usually they are incomprehensible scribbles that I either can’t remember their context for or just ignore altogether.

For example, on my notes while heading home from Amsterdam at the bottom it just says ‘Seagull stalking me’. I can’t remember why I wrote that…

Anyway, as I was sat in the port of IJmuiden waiting for my ferry, I became all sentimental and wrote down what I will miss about Copenhagen; and more importantly, what I won’t miss. Here goes…







What I’ll miss:

Friends: Surprising one, I know. But yeah, there are of course people that I’ll miss a lot. Others I won’t miss quite so much. That’s about as emotional as you’re getting from me today.





Bikes: What the hell has happened to the world? I come back to the UK and suddenly cycle paths don’t exist. Cycling in Copenhagen was wonderful. It cut down journey time while helping to develop a nation of thunder thighs.





FC Copenhagen: I really drew the long straw on this one. Although I’m still writing for them next year, I won’t be able to regularly attend the matches (a phrase I use in my CV, of course). No, sadly I’m resolved to the occasional pop over for Champions League games, or maybe another biggie if one turns up. The experience at the club this year was incredible, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to touch a national trophy ever again.

Language Acquisition: Well after living a year in Denmark, my Danish is naturally superb. I do believe however that two friends have really helped me develop my language skills further. One is Google Translate: I couldn’t have done it without you, man. The other is everyone’s favourite friend, alcohol!

Pretending I know what Europeans are actually saying: The Danes speak wonderful English, as do the Americans and Australians. Even the Irish give it a good crack. However, I will miss harnessing my translation skills to decipher whatever the hell most Europeans are saying. Be it the Spanish lisp, the French drone or the Italian put-a-vowel-on-the-end-of-every-word infliction, it was nice – especially as a northerner – to be the arbiter of the English language.

Herring: There’s nothing nicer than a pickled herring resting on a bed of rugbrød for breakfast. Yum yum yum.

5-a-side football: Living in Copenhagen can be dangerous for your health. I’ve found the diet and social life is very heavy on the stomach. I’ve put on 4 lbs since January – horrific I know! The only way to keep healthy is to find some sport to do. Well I found it, in an open-age football group playing at 7am on a Wednesday and 8am on a Saturday. I will miss playing. I won’t miss cycling up Gothersgade on a freezing December morning, dodging the drunks and bin men.


What I won’t miss:

The Cold: Bloody hell Denmark you seriously need to get this sorted. It wasn’t that it was so cold I couldn’t move, but it was a long winter last year. In the space of a week over October, Copenhagen became a frozen wasteland. The rains promised for November fell as snow, and it was ceaseless until early February. I truly hated layering up with seven jumpers, t-shirts and a massive coat, to cycle with two pairs of gloves on in the driving rain.

Apologising for being British: This was a common one. Often on a year abroad you are asked where you’re from. Some even tried to guess before I told them. I got France most times, once Argentina, and occasionally American. Thankfully, never Australian. Usually I would have to say “Sorry, I’m from the UK”. It sounds strange, but maybe it’s this British sense of crippling self-loathing that makes me apologise. For I know that when I say I’m British, what I’m actually saying is “let’s hold the rest of this conversation in my language”.

People using ‘party’ as a verb: Right, I have never, in my entire life, liked to ‘party’. I have never wanted to party, go party or even make party. I occasionally like to go out. I enjoy a beer. I even like to go to parties. But I do not party. I’ll dance (terribly). I’ll sing (even more terribly). But I will not party.

Pretending to take an interest in Australians: Bar two, I think the stereotype almost fits. They love it, and I don’t.

Carlsberg: Imagine my utter delight when my mother informs me she’s got some beers in to celebrate my return home. Oh, a nice English beer maybe? Nope: Carlsberg. You can’t avoid it in Denmark. It appears you can’t avoid it in England either.