Saturday night in Stockholm in March. Night has descended. The remnants of the winter snow are melting away leaving gravel and sand on the pavements and in the gutters. The wind whistles along the facades of the buildings, round the corners and away into the sky.
The streets are empty. They echo with isolation. Like a post-apocolyptic landscape, all sign of humanity is wiped out. It’s like the bomb has dropped. It’s as if all Stockholmers have died from a mysterious disease and all that is left is an abandoned shell of a city, the diffuse lights in the apartment windows and the blinking neon of the local pizzeria.
Stockholm is eerie like a ghost town.
But this vision is not unique to Stockholm. All over Sweden, in every town, on every street, the sight is the same. It’s Saturday night in Sweden. In March.
And it’s the final of the Swedish Melody Festival on the telly.
Watching the Swedes 