The Swedish Midsummer: A truly heathen celebration of wanton booze and sex.

By: Kai Teo

Event: Swedish Midsummer Celebration – Secret Summer Cottage

Date: Saturday, 22 June ’13
Attendees: Goa family members and affiliations
Our rating: 10/5

The longest day of the year is celebrated in Sweden by dancing drunk, and sometimes naked, around a giant penis.

Apparently, the phallic structure symbolises a holy male organ that penetrates the womb of Mother Earth to fertilise her soil for a good harvest. So when Buddha Mag was invited to be part of a midsummer celebration in Stockholm, we kinda expected what was in store for us.

We arrived at an old, crumbling summerhouse just a little after noon. During the 2-hour drive there (I wasn’t the driver), we had already helped ourselves to the beer, wine and vodka stash. And it wasn’t difficult to imagine how the rest of the day was gonna turn out.

Slightly crossed-eyed, I look around and realised that we were in a lush, green and unkempt garden, isolated from the rest of the universe by tall overgrown bushes. The natural walls filtered out any outside activity and sound. It felt like we have entered another universe. It was as if what went on in here was not be seen by anyone else.

What were my friends planning? An orgy?

We took a little tour in the once-luxurious cottage and couldn’t help but imagine how grand and cosy it must had been ten years ago. Now, all we see were caved-in ceilings that shed themselves every time someone walked under them; peeling, faded wallpaper that suffered severe water damage; mouldy couches and beds that exploded with dust upon the slightest contact.

It didn’t matter. We weren’t here to sleep. We weren’t here to be indoors. We were here to dance around the clock, and around the cock.

But first, we have to introduce the lovers and friends who organised this little gathering. It was more than two years ago when we met on the golden beaches of Goa, India. Out of serendipity, or what the hippies would like to call divine fate, we stumbled upon one another and somehow decided that we should stay as family for life (I’ve left out a few details that might lie in the grey area of legality).

And today, on Midsummer, in Sweden, one bald Polish, one charming Swede, one lost Singaporean, and possibly the hottest French man on the planet, gathered again under the fickle sun, high as fuck and happy as larks.

Along with a few other new members that had dropped in, or dropped out, to our world. We were a bunch of young, hot-blooded, hot adults ready to waste this weekend away.

The sun was being rather lame. One minute it would scorch so hard that you’d feel that your skin was gonna split apart and combust into ashes. The next minute it would be hiding behind a humongous dark cloud that brought chilly winds. It was a lot of putting on sweaters, taking off sweaters, wiping off sweat, looking for blankets. Fucking schizo Swedish weather.

That must have been what got me. Because after a few hours, I was feeling a little nauseous and my mind was drifting into the outskirts of the galaxy. I was swimming among rainbow-coloured dolphins along the busy autobahn of the Milky Way, giving high-fives to miniature polar bears in penguin suits and hugging life-size cowboy bananas with magnum pistols that shot bubbles.

It was a little confusing.

Then I turned into a cat. You see, I brought these funny furry cat ears from a previous costume party. And the moment I put them on, I morphed into a ferocious kitten, ready to be petted and belly-rubbed, while at the same time always prepared to attack and mutilate my prey mercilessly.

And all this time I was just sitting on a sun-chair basking in the elusive sunshine. What the fuck was happening to my mind? Whatever was in the beer must have been good.

But in that state of mind, it sounded like a good idea to walk to a nearby field to join 30 other proper, middle-classed families in a traditional celebration of song and dance. You know, one of those child-friendly events that don’t condone any form of over-intoxication. Or at least the display of it.

We sat in a circle, pretending to be wholesome, young employees of a well-established accounting firm, taking a weekend off our busy work schedules to honour this occasion with a few bottles of wine and a good barbeque. But it was quite difficult to keep a straight face.

I kept staring at the giant pole that had been erected in the middle of the field and wondered how parents would explain to their kids about its origins.

“Oh my young child, it’s a giant penis. Like the one you have, just much more majestic. And it’s making sweet love to the ground so that Sweden will have more corn to eat next year.”


We gave up after a little while and returned to our drunken stupor. Repeatedly singing the chorus of “Jag ger dig min morgon (I give you my morning)” 800 times on our way back to the cottage. It’s such a beautiful song. I mean, what better present to give to someone than to dedicate an entire morning of goodness, sunshine, and enjoyment to one person?

More beers, more sun and more dubious role-plays later, we were frolicking in the lake, or sea, I couldn’t remember. But there was water, and the summer had warmed it to a nice temperature. I was still in cat-mode and believed I was a freaky swimming kitten, excited about water but still a little cautious about getting my head wet.


Then we once again journeyed back to the cottage. And here’s where things got a little hazy.

Among the things I remembered: psytrance and reggae, the Frenchman trying to work the turntable, yellow lighting from the porch, sandwiches, cat claws, new boxer shorts, moaning, shaking beds, lack of a place to sleep, beer.

Then I woke up. Curled up on a dusty couch. With a can of spilled beer at my feet. And if there was an orgy, I had definitely missed it. Fuck.

So that was it? The Swedish Midsummer? The traditional celebration of daylight? It’s all about the booze and boogie isn’t it?

Oh god. My head. It was still spinning as I reached into my can of Pringles and opened a new can of Blågul. Good morning.