If it looks like Norway, and smells like Norway...

[Christopher DeBair]

Turns out Luke and Mark had it a bit easier than us, the twats.

They had woken up almost on the doorstep of some sort of torchlit pub or hotel, I’m not quite sure which, about five miles away from where Ross had saved me from becoming wolf shit almost an hour before. Anyway, my recollection of their story was that they had gone inside and asked the important questions:

1. Where were they?
2. And, err, where is that?
3. …err, a pint of whatever you’ve got then.

Then, for some inexplicable reason that eludes me to this day, they just sat at a table and drank. They had no money in any accepted currency (Mark had about five hundred euros stashed on his person, for whatever reason) and no real understanding of the local language or any of the demographics (Mark also concluded that they were actually in Scandanavia, and tried to converse with the locals in some bizarre norse dialect. I would love to have seen that). They also had no idea where they were or why. They just drank, hoping the promise of Mark’s useless euros would be enough to cover the tab until they figured out what was going on.

When I think about that, it worries the shit out of me.

Anyway, so, there we were. Me and Ross, trudging down an icy pathway that we’d managed to navigate to after an hour of wading through Santa’s fucking Christmas tree and wolf emporium.

“Chris, how the fuck did this happen?” Ross asked, looking at me with the same bewildered expression as I was giving him.

“I have no idea, mate.” Was the only response I could muster. Neither of us spoke again for a short while whilst we tried to conserve energy to fight the freezing cold. I remember watching documentaries on Netflix that taught me that Norway could reach temperatures of nineteen degrees Fahrenheit; the same temperature as my ex’s heart. Luckily, my jacket was nice and warm, and both me and Ross had considerable stores of fat for just this type of situation.

Eventually, just as we were about to lose the will to live, we saw lights on the horizon under the ebbing afternoon sun. A building.

A pub.

“Pub?” I asked Ross. We knew the pub to be a universal place of refuge, a place to rest weary feet and fill bellies. A place to watch the news and ask for directions. A church in the religion of good, old fashioned hospitality.

“Pub.” The big lad affirmed.