The Year of Living Danishly (11 page)

I talk to Peter Sandøe, professor of bioethics at the University of Copenhagen and former chairman of the Danish Ethical Council for Animals, to get his take on this. Peter was a key commentator on Marius-gate and in common with The Viking and all the other Danes I've met, he struggled to see what the fuss was about.

‘Denmark was an agricultural society only two generations back, so we think of animals as
animals
,' he tells me. ‘Most people with an agricultural background would feel the same way [about Marius] – the giraffe was a breeding male who was not going to be used in breeding, so then you slaughter it. It would be the same with sheep – you can't have more than one ram in a flock, otherwise they will fight. It was the practical approach,' says Peter.

He was surprised by the international media furore (‘I even got a letter comparing me to Adolf Hitler after one BBC interview, which I felt was a bit much!') and suspects that it was the graphic aftermath that non-Danes found particularly shocking. ‘People from overseas felt squeamish about the fact that the giraffe was cut up in front of an audience including children and that his bits and pieces were fed to other animals. But people should be able to face these things. If they don't like to see an animal being cut up but are happy to go to Marks & Sparks to pick up a packet of plastic-wrapped meat, then they're hypocrites.'

I tell him I'm guilty as charged on this one (though I'm also delighted by his cultural reference to my mother country's favourite fancy supermarket and pant purveyor). Danes, it seems, are happy to watch their animals be butchered before they eat them, and vegetarianism is practically unheard of. ‘Most people eat meat here,' admits Peter, ‘and there are significantly fewer vegetarians in Denmark – around 3–5 per cent – than in the UK, where the figure's 10 per cent.'

Danes don't feel guilty about eating animals, and their carnivorous diet may also contribute to their happiness levels. Vegetarianism has been linked with higher rates of depression and anxiety according to research from the Medical University of Graz, Austria.

‘We don't tend to get as sentimental about animals here as people in, for example, the UK,' says Peter. I wonder whether this psychological distance protects Danes from distress when creatures inevitably get hurt or die.
If you don't feel pain when Bambi's mum gets shot or Simba's dad carks it in
The Lion King
, then of course life's less upsetting and it's easier to be happy
, I think. And if you can eat your beef burger without concerning yourself too much about how happy the cow was during its lifetime, well, then you've got one less thing to worry about.

But not all meat eaters in Denmark are cock-a-hoop. In 2014, Denmark's agriculture and food minister Dan Jørgensen decreed that all animals used for food should be stunned before they were killed. This effectively banned ritual slaughter as prescribed in Jewish Orthodox and Muslim laws, which both require animals to be intact and conscious when they're killed. In practice, the rule didn't change much. The final Danish slaughterhouse allowing animals to be killed without pre-stunning closed in 2004. Ever since then, Denmark's estimated 7,000 Jews have imported kosher meat from overseas. Most of the 210,000-strong Danish Muslim community still view animals stunned before slaughter as Halal, providing concussion wasn't the cause of their death (population figures from US Department of State – the Danish government doesn't officially record religious affiliations). But the principle of the case riled Jews and Muslims, who united in protest. They claimed that the legislation was less about animal welfare and more about the politics of immigration and integration.

For many Danes, the issue was clear: killing an animal should be done as quickly and as painlessly as possible and it's their belief that this can't be done if the animal is conscious when it's killed. Jewish and Islamic media outlets internationally accused the Danish government of Islamophobia and anti-Semitism, but high-profile figures from both faiths within Denmark avoided using either phrase. The Danish response was more measured, perhaps due to an understanding that a secular bias is just ‘
The Danish Way
'.

‘It was an easy law to pass,' says Peter, ‘as ritual slaughter without pre-stunning had not been practised in Denmark for about ten years anyway, so it was more about sending a signal without really getting into trouble with religious people. It was a clever political move. Like Tony Blair banning production of mink for fur in the UK – there wasn't much mink production in the UK anyway anymore so it just made him look good.'

Ah yes, fur.
The Danes' relationship with fur has been another thing I've been wondering about, and I was surprised to see a few grande dames in ankle-length animal pelts when we first arrived in bleak midwinter. I've since learned that Denmark is the largest mink exporter in the world and Copenhagen is at the centre of the fur trade, with China and Russia as its biggest clients. But surely this goes against most Danes' principles on animal welfare?

‘Actually, fur production is quite sustainable,' says Peter. ‘The mink have the same breeding cycle as they would in the wild, they're not transported anywhere [which can be distressing for animals], and they're fed fish leftovers and chicken pulp from old laying hens. Once the mink fur is removed, their flesh is used to make biodiesel.' This is used to power buses in The Big City. ‘Not a bit of the animal is wasted,' Peter assures me, ‘plus the industry creates a lot of employment, so the government isn't going to shut it down.' Denmark's 1,500 mink farmers can charge 20 per cent more for their pelts than for those bred elsewhere because of the prestige attached to Danish fur. This is credited to a carefully controlled diet producing a more lustrous fur and Danish designers championing skin in their collections. There aren't animal rights protestors attempting to shut down production in Denmark, as there would be in other European countries, and most Danes don't mind a bit of fur. As a liberal Brit raised during the era of Peta-inspired paint-chucking, who was once cautioned to ditch leather shoes and refrain from eating tuna before interviewing Stella McCartney (true story), this all comes as a bit of a shock.

Hunting, too, is perfectly acceptable and is a popular pastime in Denmark for folk from all walks of life. ‘It isn't a class thing here like it is in other places,' Peter tells me, ‘and people accept hunting provided the animals are shot and die quickly before being taken home and eaten, so there's no cruelty. I think fox hunting with dogs and horses, which was never practised in Denmark, has been an issue in the UK because it's considered an upper-class thing and the way the fox dies is cruel.'

Peter tells me that he thinks animals get ‘put into boxes' in the UK and the US (metaphorically speaking), ‘so that people care very much about a lost puppy or an animal at the zoo, but then they go home and eat pig. People get a bit touchy-feely and feel very strongly about kittens and giraffes and things. In Denmark, this tendency to divide up animals is less pronounced. The majority of people think that it's important to look out for an animal's welfare and we don't like them dying for no reason but we're not going to humanise them.'

Cruelty to animals is illegal in Denmark, but interestingly, bestiality is not. ‘Anyone who engages in sex with an animal where this will hurt the animal physically or psychologically can be punished,' Peter explains, and so to date, Danish politicians simply haven't seen the point of going through the hassle of writing up a new law to ban bestiality outright. ‘However,' Peter tells me, ‘it should be said that opinion polls show that a majority of Danes want a ban. So this may eventually come.' (In fact, as this goes to print I learn that the Minister of Food and Agriculture, Dan Jørgensen, has announced that sex with animals will be banned in next year's Animal Welfare Act.)

There aren't many places left to go once you've covered hunting, fur and getting biblical with a bull all in the space of an hour, so I attempt to bring things back to the rather more pedestrian by asking for his take on dog ownership in Denmark.

‘Not sex with them,' I add hastily, alarmed to be in a situation where this even needs clarifying, ‘just training and things…'

As someone with a vested interest and a poorly behaved pooch, I'm keen to find out how Danes feel about dogs and whether they're the one animal that my new countrymen and women might get ‘touchy-feely' over.
Kristeligt Dagblad
newspaper recently reported that Danish households have more four-legged members than ever before, with 600,000 dogs owned by Danes and 70,000 new ones registered each year. There's also been a 300 million DKK (around £34 million or $58 million) rise in the amount Danes spend on their pets, according to Statistics Denmark. There are proven psychological benefits to having a dog, with owners having lower blood pressure, lower cholesterol and fewer medical problems than other pet owners or the rest of the population, according to research from Queen's University, Belfast.
Which must make Danes happier
, I think. I see a lot of dogs where I live and the whole of Jutland seems perfectly tailored for them, with handy hooks for tethering leads and regularly replenished water bowls outside many local shops and cafes. There are also designated beaches and 200 so-called ‘dog forests' where you can let your dog run unleashed.

‘Many Danes have dogs,' Peter tells me, ‘and of course they care for them very much and they are part of the family. I suppose they may get “touchy-feely” about dogs. But a difference to UK and North America is that it is less fashionable to acquire a dog from a shelter. Most Danes still buy a pure bred or even a pedigree dog. People seem to like to know where their dogs come from.' And when Danes have invested in a pedigree pooch, they like to make sure that it's well-behaved, apparently. Training, it has now become clear, is key for our mutt – as well as for our standing in Danish society.

I ask whether Peter counts himself among the happy Danes I'm researching and he tells me that he's very happy indeed: ‘I think people in Denmark generally are, although we do like to moan – we're spoilt! Personally, I'd say I'm a nine out of ten. Maybe ten out of ten professionally.' And there you have it. Even a man who spends his days defending giraffe deaths and getting hate mail comparing him to Hitler is happy in Denmark. Now that's job satisfaction.

Still bemused by all I've seen and heard over the past few days but determined to get my own animal behaving a bit more Danishly, I come home intent on finding a canine camp to teach him some manners.

‘You're going to school,' I tell him.

‘
yeowungggggg
,' he protests.

‘It's not just me who has to give this living Danishly thing a go. You do too. We're four months in and I haven't seen any evidence of Danish integration…' I scold. ‘It's time you started evening classes as well.' I sign him up and training starts the very next week.

Our first class involves a shouty woman in a utility waistcoat trying – and failing – to teach our dog how to fetch, sit, rescue a child from a forest and stand on top of an upturned washing-up bowl. No one's quite sure why. The next morning, I stumble out of bed to find that Lego Man has given the dog our washing-up bowl. The dog still isn't interested in using it as a podium. Instead, he's chewing it.

‘The dog seems to be eating our washing up bowl,' I remark.

Lego Man looks at the dog, then points to the pile of envelopes that have just been delivered: ‘Yes, but he's not eating the postwoman. Baby steps…'

Things I've learned this month:

1. Danes don't do squeamish
   
2. Animals are just animals in Denmark, unless they're dogs (and they're well-behaved)
   
3. The Danish Way
   is
   The Only Way
   
4. …and outsiders will have a job on their hands convincing Danes otherwise
   
5. Cows can't dance
   

5. May

Traditions & Getting Told Off

Against a drizzly sky the colour of bleached slate, several strapping men are busy erecting white poles at regular intervals along the street as we make our way to the bakery. The dog takes the trouble to sniff a few of them before marking his territory on as many as he can manage. This makes for a far longer, wetter, walk than usual.

By the time we've selected our Sunday morning pastries (yes, this is our gluttonous life now –
snegles
all round…) and untethered the hound from the handy dog hook outside, we see that a Danish flag has been hoisted to the top of each pole. White crosses suspended on blood-red rectangles ripple and buckle in the breeze, transforming the road into a majestic sweep and making the place look far grander that we'd ever imagined it could.

‘What d'you reckon's happening? D'you think we're in for a royal visit?' Lego Man asks, hopefully.

I can't help thinking that however down-to-earth Denmark's Queen Margrethe is reported to be, a Sunday morning jaunt to Sticksville-on-Sea probably isn't top of her list of royal engagements.

‘Maybe…' I wonder how to let him down gently.

We start walking and the dog gets busy bothering my jealously guarded brown paper bag of baked goods. The rape is flowering all over Jutland this month and the fields around us have turned a vibrant yellow. As we round the corner and come closer to home, we're greeted by the familiar sight of our local church: a beautiful, stark, typically Scandinavian building surging up like a bright white rocket against the grey sky and citrine fields. The place is all lit up from within, despite the fact it's 10am, and there are several dozen cars parked in the field next door. This is not normal. Usually, the church is just
there
. Looking nice but not doing much or showing any signs of activity or purpose. Like a well-designed Scandi-style ornament. Only now there are signs of life. The dog stops in his tracks and lifts a paw, ears pinned back, tail straight out behind him, alert.

‘I haven't seen anyone go in there since we arrived,' Lego Man observes, as the dog strains at his leash to get closer to the action. We're just contemplating the strange arrival of
actual human beings
to our village, when a low growl starts up, quiet at first, then getting louder. For once, it's not the dog. I can make out the sound of an engine, combined with pumping music and a throbbing bass. It grows to a deafening crescendo until we see, droning into view, an enormous, buffed, black Hummer. The windows are tinted, gangster-style, and it's followed by the long, glossy nose of a stretch limousine, edging its way around the corners of our country lane.

We're used to seeing tractors in these parts, or family cars towing trailers or boats. Once, Lego Man spotted a Beetle (a thrilling day…). But never, since our arrival in Denmark, have we seen anything like this. A few American muscle cars, a Cinderella-style horse and carriage, and another couple of limos arrive, looking incongruous in such a bucolic setting. The church car park starts to look like a snapshot of Leeds city centre on a Saturday night, or a hen do convention. Teenage girls in prom dresses plus a few boys in suits spill out and onto the grass, struggling to avoid getting mud or grass clippings on their finery.

The dog is beside himself. (
New people! To play with! Who might possibly have food! This is BRILLIANT!
) It's the most excitement he, or we, have had since moving here. With a small whimper and a shimmy of his tail, he makes a break for it, surging forward so forcefully that his lead is wrested from my pastry-laden hands. Before I can say, ‘Well so much for sodding dog training…', he is gone.

In cinematic slow motion, we watch him bound gleefully towards the group of teens. It's like a miniature version of the opening credits to
Black Beauty
, only with a far messier outcome all-but-inevitable. Lego Man leaps into action like some sort of highly impressive dog-owning super-hero, dropping his bakery bag and starting to give chase, hands slicing the air Usain Bolt style. I try a different tactic, inspired by our dog training classes. I tear off a morsel of pastry and hold it out, calling: ‘Here boy! Come!' in the hope of luring him back.

But the dog is oblivious. Lead trailing behind him, tail wagging, tongue flapping out of the corner of his mouth, he bounds up to the petite blonde who's just stepped out of the latest limo. She makes the mistake of greeting the dog with what he takes to be encouragement and so he reciprocates. By leaping up and planting two muddy paws on the front of her pale, pink,
silk
dress.

‘
Nooooooo!
' Lego Man cries out in horror.

But it's too late.

Limo Girl and her friends do some shrieking. I do some shrieking. Parents of Limo Girl remain astonishingly calm and do some patting down of the pink dress to assess the damage. There is much confusion as to where the dog has come from until the crazy English couple wearing wellies and clutching baked goods finally arrive on the scene, panting, perspiring, and muttering ‘
Undskyld!
' (‘Sorry,' in Danish), over and over again. We're just trying to work out how to say something along the lines of, ‘
We are mortified! Please, let us prostrate ourselves, here in your fine Danish mud, and buy you a new dress, or at least pay to have that one dry-cleaned…
' in Danish, while getting the dog back on his leash, when Limo Girl's mother seems to magic a suit carrier out of the back of her car. The girl nods and unzips it to reveal an identical dress in pale blue. Holding the dog firmly by the collar now, we watch in amazement as the girl is then ushered into the back of the blacked-out limo. She emerges, seconds later, resplendent in baby blue following a quick costume change.

‘Did that just happen?' Lego Man is asking.

‘I think so,' I answer, unsure.

‘Did she have a
back-up
dress? Just handy? In case of emergencies?'

I shake my head in general confusion as the girl gives us a friendly wave and turns to make her way into the church followed by her friends and family. The surprisingly understanding crowd appear to dismiss us, and once there's no one left to apologise to, we start walking, slowly, back to the road as well.

I have no explanation for what we have just witnessed. It is bonkers. Along the rest of the route home, we notice gazebos and marquees being erected in different neighbours' gardens. Catering vans seem to be arriving in convoy and people in white chef coats begin to unload trestle tables and large crates of food.

‘Is there some sort of enormous party going on that we're not invited to?' I wonder out loud. At this moment, a mobile DJ van drives by as if to confirm my suspicion.

‘I'd say that's a fair guess,' Lego Man nods.

As we near home, we spot Friendly Neighbour. I say ‘hello' and ask if there's something special going on today.

‘Well yes! It's confirmation season! You don't have this where you're from?'

I explain that while we have confirmations, there isn't so much of a ‘
season
' for them, debutante-style.

‘Oh, I see,' she says, pityingly, her head on one side in a look I've come to recognise as ‘
feeling rather sorry for anyone not fortunate enough to have been born in Denmark
'.

‘We don't tend to go all-out on the cars, either,' adds Lego Man.

‘The cars? Oh but that's
tradition
,' Friendly Neighbour tells us. ‘You have to have a nice car for your special day!'

Of course you do,
I think
, because everyone knows that Jesus loved a pimped-up limo…

After assuring us that confirmation is ‘kind of a big deal around here', Friendly Neighbour excuses herself. She's double-booked and has to wrap presents and get ready for not one but
two
confirmation after-parties that she's been invited to today: ‘So there's a lot to do!'

After-parties? Gifts? Limos?
The whole thing sounds light years away from my own experience of confirmation – a quick daub with oil and ash in the local Catholic church, aged twelve, before a ham sandwich at my gran's. I wore an ill-advised pair of floral culottes along with a matching scrunchie. There were no caterers, mobile DJs, or marquees. And my mum drove the three of us there and back in her navy blue Renault 5 (Turbo, mind).

Back at home, the rest of the morning is spent washing the dog while surreptitiously spying on the confirmation goings-on all around us. Floral displays get delivered. Balloons arrive. Lego Man even thinks he spies a chocolate fountain being wheeled in to the gazebo in our elderly neighbour's garden for some lucky grandchild or other. Consumed with curiosity and realising that I'm unlikely to score an invitation to attend a confirmation myself (this ‘season', at least), I get back in touch with cultural expert Pernille, who helped us get to grips with
hygge
in January, to find out more.

‘Confirmations are huge,' she tells me. ‘It's tradition!'
Ah, that old chestnut again
. From dressing up and eating special cakes at ‘
Fastelavn
' in February to DIY paper doilies and special cakes at Easter and woven hearts, ugly elves, marzipan pigs and special cakes at Christmas, there's a ritual (and a special cake) to go with everything in Denmark. Traditions and the faithfully repeated customs and behaviours that go with them seem to give Danes a sense of security, stability and
belonging
, even. Having recently read a study from the University of Minnesota that found having rituals could make things more enjoyable, I can't help thinking Danes might be on to something.
It's like the hobby clubs
, I think,
only here it's not just your evenings and weekends that get planned in advance – it's your whole year!

Danes find it reassuring to have these things taken care of – and the numerous traditions mean that things are done in the same comforting way, year in, year out. The unknown becomes known. ‘It's like
tradition
is our religion,' says Pernille, ‘something that's really important to the majority of Danes.' Confirmation, then, is no exception and comes with its own set of rules and rituals.

‘Most Danes will get confirmed when they're around fourteen in a big church ceremony with up to 40 other teenagers. It's a really fun day for kids. Everyone gets new clothes, there are flags everywhere, and it's often standing room only in the church for friends and family,' says Pernille. ‘Afterwards, there are a lot of photos taken, a big three-course meal with songs and speeches, then there's a party with entertainment and loads of presents. Danes get rather materialistic when it comes to confirmation these days – it was a different story twenty years ago when I did it!'

‘Same here!' I tell her. I recount scrunchie-gate, we both agree that we were horribly deprived and that the youth of today don't know they're born. Then I get back to business: ‘And how much gets spent on confirmations in Denmark now?'

‘A lot,' she replies. ‘With both parents working full-time and a lot of couples divorced these days, there's often an element of guilt spending involved as well. It's like, “
we can't spend much time with you but here's a big party! Here's a virtual plaster, let's patch this up
!” Plus a lot of Danish parents have a problem saying no. These kids are showered with presents, like it's a wedding or something.'

She tells me that it's traditional to give money as a gift – at least the amount that will be spent on entertaining you (including food and drinks). The closer you are to the family, the more you'll be expected to shell out. If you decide you'd prefer something you can gift-wrap, you'll still have to dig deep. Items topping teenage wish lists for the soon-to-be confirmed in Denmark include iPhones, laptops, watches, jewellery and holidays, and the average Danish teen will receive confirmation gifts worth 17,000 DKK (£1,980 or $3,200) according to a survey by Nordea Bank.
So much for Danish equality
, I think. The high streets capitalise on confirmation season with many stores putting up posters that read, ‘
Don't forget, you can exchange your confirmation gifts up until 1 June!
' and advertising confirmation cards, suits, dresses, shoes and, of course, special cakes. Any cold, hard cash gifts get put to use immediately by Danish teens on ‘Blue Monday'. No, not the New Order song, but the day after the church service when the newly confirmed take the day off school to go on a shopping spree. Most buy clothes and gadgets before comparing hauls with their friends and drinking a lot of cider, I'm reliably informed.

‘And what about,' I hazard, ‘well, you know, the whole “God” bit? Does He (or She) come into this?'

‘Well…' Pernille starts, in a tone that implies ‘
not so much'
. Confirmation in Denmark is, I learn, about God confirming His (or Her) promise to the individual – a promise to watch over them that was first made when they were baptised. In other words, a Danish confirmation service is God saying ‘yes' to you, and not the other way around. Looking at it this way, it doesn't seem to matter too much whether or not you plan to be a committed churchgoer, or even believe at all.

‘A fear of God isn't included in the Danish version of the Protestant religion,' explains Pernille. ‘Confirmation's not a sacrament in the Evangelical Lutheran Church, but a rite of passage from childhood to adolescence – so everyone's included.' I can almost hear my grandmother tutting in her grave. ‘Most Danish families view confirmation as a coming-of-age celebration. We aren't a very religious country on the whole. There isn't much pressure from parents [to be confirmed]. Some families say to their children, “if you don't have a confirmation, we'll throw you a big party anyway so you'll still get presents”. This way, they can make sure the kids only get confirmed if they really want to.' This gets called a ‘
non
firmation' and involves just as much fanfare and gifting as the traditional version. Despite this, many teens opt for the church part. ‘I think this is because it's an exercise in autonomy,' says Pernille. ‘It's one of the first choices a Danish teenager can make for themselves, and encouraging children to make choices as individuals is considered very important in Denmark.' More important, it seems, than religion, at least for most Danes.