Getting official business done during summer in Sweden is like trying to lick your own elbow in school: it’s frustrating, makes you look stupid and everybody watching knows it’s impossible. So beginning my quest for citizenship in June was half-witted at best, but I wanted to vote in the general election and reckoned it was worth risking some mild social embarrassment.
In my defence, friends with dual citizenship had assured me the process would take six weeks at most. Once I had submitted my online application, the striking Nordic beauty we call home would cast a coquettish glance in my direction before welcoming me through the gates of a utopian kingdom where elk frolic in the forests, little frogs dance in rings, and tax officials ensure there are no silly names to upset the shimmer of relentless gaiety.
But my trailblazing new Swedish buddies had of course submitted their applications in the autumn or early spring. Not in June, when the great shutdown begins and a work-shy fog descends on the offices of every public employer for two whole months. It’s a time when interminable phone calls ring hollow in the cobwebbed offices of government agencies while hordes of absent clerks scratch their bureaucratic behinds in cloistered woodland glades.
By mid-August I was starting to get anxious. It is no exaggeration to say I say that I called the relevant agency twenty times in two days. Each time I was greeted with the same automatic reply.
”You have called the customer service department of the Swedish Migration Board. All our lines are bissy. Pleece call later.”
I slammed down the phone and unleashed a salvo of choice imprecations.
Bissy, bissy, bissy, every single time.
Eventually I changed tack and called the main switchboard. A rude woman informed me that I would have to call customer service.
“But there’s nobody answering there.”
“Not my problem, guv’nor,” she said, or words to that effect.
My appetite to participate in the looming election grew stronger still as party political posters began shooting up all over the country like enthusiastic heroin addicts. I hit speed dial, the Migration Board by now having assumed a status akin to a sibling or parent, and awaited the inevitable bissy message. But the hoodoo was finally dispelled when a different recorded voice informed me that my call would be dealt with if I held the line for 50 minutes. Strangely elated, I filled the best part of an hour sketching Swedish flags and learning the words of the national anthem.
I was humming the bit about wanting to die in Scandinavia when my call was patched through. A woman with a repellent desk jockey drawl told me I could expect to wait for “up to ten months”. Once my jaw had rebounded from the floor, I requested the name and number of the woman assigned to process my application. I then hung up and dialled the magic number.
“The person you are seeking is out of the office and will return on Monday.”
I wanted to die in Scandinavia. With immediate effect.
Monday came round and the farce gathered force. I called at 10.37. An automatic voice said my own personal bureaucrat would be back at 10.50. Fair enough, silly of me to have called at coffee break time.
I then forgot all about it for a few hours and called again just after four o’clock, fearing the worst.
“The person you are seeking has left for the day and will be back tomorrow.”
Of course. Next day I called just after three. “The person you are seeking has left for the day and will return tomorrow.” Scatter my ashes on a little red house and tickle me pink.
September arrived. Leaves were already tumbling from the trees outside my window when I finally got through. I almost expected this woman to inflict intense pain as she stuck needles in my voodoo effigy, but she was actually very nice and told me she had exceptional news: my application had just been approved and I was now officially a Swede. A little certificate duly arrived in the post to confirm my status as a dual citizen of the Republic of Ireland and the Kingdom of Sweden. Paradise regained.
All that remained was to phone the election authority and request that my name be added to the register ahead of polling day. My interest in the future of my adopted country grew overnight. How to vote? Should I choose to embrace our great shiny-pated leader for another four years (as a fellow follicle-shedder, I can say this without risk of being perceived as baldist), or should I harness my hopes to the three-headed red and green tax machine?
A woman picked up.
“Say what? You just became a citizen. Then you’re too late, mate. If you haven’t been a Swede for 30 days you ain’t got the right to vote.”
Just like that.
Suffrage is silenced.
Despite my disappointment, becoming Swedish has already led to some new behavioral quirks. I’ve become less inclined to make quick decisions, have developed an interest in the latest men’s fashion trends, and sometimes find myself desperate to get outdoors and sing rousing folk songs with hordes of like-minded amateur crooners. It’s just a shame my election dreams ended on such a bum note, with my chances of affecting the outcome now on a par with attempts to get amorous with my elbow. Still, can’t blame a man for trying.
Do you feel the need to be a Swede? Here’s where you can apply online.