Having followed Fulham’s fortunes from the Hammersmith End for the last nine months, I found myself full of football withdrawal symptoms when the domestic season came to a close in May. Cricket and tennis are suitable substitutes during an English summer, but never compares to that thrill of watching the teams emerge from the tunnel ahead of a football match – at least for me. A cursory internet search showed that the Swedish league carried on through the summer months and when Dan, the erstwhile editor of this site, disclosed that he was making his first return to Stockholm in two decades, I managed to join the Hammyend delegation to Scandinavia.

That the whistlestop weekender coincided with the conclusion of my year of teaching training was a bonus. I’m more accustomed to long haul faults, so the prospect of a two hour, twenty minute journey from Heathrow to Stockholm’s Arlanda airport appealed. That is, until, the powers-that-be saw fit to flash up the wrong gate in a different terminal, leaving us stranded twenty minutes before our flight. A sprint worthy of Kenny Tete took us through an access tunnel and down a never-ending corridor to our correct gate. We made it, dishevelled, sweaty and the subject of several curious glances from our fellow passengers. The only upside was that the tunnel, because of its cave-like formation, was cooler than anywhere else on one of the hottest weekends of the year. 

Arriving to Sweden at midnight in late June is a sight worth experiencing. Even in the south of the country, it doesn’t get properly dark. Instead, a dusky twilight dims the light providing a calming atmosphere after a long summer’s day, but one that doesn’t blanket the sky with a cloak of darkness. We decided to stay at Arlanda’s Comfort Inn for the duration given our crazy arrival and departure times, and it proved an inspired choice.

A step up from a pedestrian airport hotel, our hotel had a decent restaurant, late night bar and a 24-hour deli with superb sandwiches and a variety of hot local dishes and drinks. It also provided a lethal introduction to amazing and addictive Swedish chocolate in the form of Kex and Sport Lunch bars. I’m not going to say that chocolate was the highlight of the trip, but they were magnificently moreish.

Breakfast, accompanied by the joyful sounds of the neighboring ping pong table, was also right up there. It may be typical for Swedes, but I was slightly awestruck at the cornucopia ranging from the typical British cooked breakfast to more Continental offerings topped by Swedish staples of fresh bread, pickles, and yoghurt. I steered away, however, from the pickled herring and the liver paste.  The Swedes, like me, apparently love watermelon, judging from the piles heaped on virtually everyone’s plate – often next to their herring and liver paste.

The only downside of the hotel was the journey to town, but it could be easily remedied by taking the express train or getting a taxi into town. After that brilliant breakfast, we took a taxi into town, only for the Swedish card reader to initially reject three cards before one eventually got us out of what might have been a sticky situation. We met Nick, who founded this website, more than two decades ago, with his sister, Anna, in the middle of Medborgarplatsen and were swiftly joined by a man whose nickname was ‘Barf’ because he used to enjoy far too many beers on the FFC Sweden members’ trips. Kristoffer, as I was to discover later, was far from alone in that. He was remarkably restrained, as an AIK fan during an afternoon of Hammarby festivities, especially as I picked out a Hammarby shirt in a nearby shop, perhaps because his lovely partner, Marie, also a regular visitor to Craven Cottage, was just as barmy a Bajen fan as Nick and Dan.

I was delighted to learn that the Swedish enthusiastically embraced almost every English football tradition, including pre-match pints at the pub. We started at Hammarby’s answer to The Golden Lion, Gronejagarden, where the beer flowed whilst our four hosts regaled us with tales of their trips to SW6 and beyond. If you ever encounter Nick the Swede, you must ask him about what happened in Blackpool. If you haven’t heard all about the world hip hop dancing championships, you haven’t lived. I’ve not laughed so hard in years.

I’m not much of a beer drinker but I can now vouch for the fact that the Swedes know how to mix a gin and tonic. Feeling so uninhibited I almost forget to pay for my splendid schnitzel lunch, we stumbled into the street to catch a car to the stadium. Wearing my fetching green and white Hammarby home strip, I looked the part but I was slightly trepidatious amongst a big crowd outside the ground – particularly as every single Swede seemed to tower above me. As a female not gifted with height, I sometimes feel like a lilliputian explorer amongst a sea of giants at the Cottage. I worried a sea of Swedes, could completely engulf me, but those fears proved unfounded. The crowd management put Fulham’s to shame and we were quickly into our seats opposite the dugout on the halfway line.

No stadium can ever match the history of Craven Cottage, but the new Stockholmsarenan – now known as the 3Arena – combines character with comfort, mixing artistic exposed steel beams with well-designed seating. We had an excellent view of proceedings and and the extraordinary enthusiasm of Hammarby’s ultras, who never stopped singing and greeted the arrival of the teams with a terrific set of tifos, banners and noise.

Football in another language is a different experience. The rhythms (often literally) are the same, the chants are familiar, and supporters have the same fervour for their team. However, you don’t know the words (or in my case much Swedish), so you find yourself humming along loudly and shouting the few bits that you do know. It wasn’t entirely unlike my first Fulham visit before our songs became indelibly embedded in my mind. Oh, and the Swedish fans have flares, lots and lots of flares. I now know why FFC Sweden’s members bemoan their absence at the Cottage given how they are a constant in continental football. I’m really not a fan of them – and our capital’s air is polluted enough. Hammarby’s Ultras were enveloped in many-coloured clouds of smoke for much of the ninety minutes. You can certainly hear them, but their drums, banners and costumes are lost in the haze.

The Allsvenskan gets a bad rap in terms of quality, but I immensely enjoyed watching Hammarby’s easy on the eye style. Dan has written before about how he fell in love with Stockhom’s working class club after watching Bjorn Runstrom bag a brace to win the derby with Djurgarden. Sadly, the Swedish striker couldn’t replicate that feat when Chris Coleman signed him for the Whites, but otherwise a lot of emotions are the same as Kim Hellberg’s side initially struggle to break down relegated-threatened Halmstad. The supporters around us are frustrated with a slow build-up and the lack of ruthlessness in the final third, until Nahir Besara breaks the deadlock on the half hour mark. The hosts should have added more than Sebastian Tounekti’s incredible individual effort in the second half, but the three points kept Bajen in touch with Mjallby at the top of the table. If Marco Silva happens to be reading this, Hampus Skoglund could definitely do a job at right back whilst Markus Karlsson ran the game in central midfield.

We celebrated at a small bar around the corner from the stadium before arranging to meet Mattias, another old Hammyend correspondent, at Glashuset. When we arrive, we discover that his party have decamped to Honey Honey back in the middle of town. Despite sounding like a strip joint, Honey Honey is actually a popular and well-stocked pub (with an exotic cocktail list; I loved my cherry creation), and the company was even better. I’m still astounded that they are so many Fulham followers in Stockholm alone. Mattias, who had the misfortune to time his two years in England with Martin Jol’s tenure in the dugout, explained how he loves watching Marco Silva’s side but is conflicted by the club’s premium pricing policies, whilst his friend David knew far more about English football than me.

Kristoffer kindly invited us to join him at AIK the following day and we met up with the current chair of FFC Sweden, Hampus Petersson, and his Fulham-mad family. I did feel as though I was cheating on Hammarby by heading to one of their city rivals less than 24 hours after Bajen’s victory, but Nick assured me it was acceptable as an one-off. The AIK vibe felt different, with Scadinavia’s largest stadium situated out next to a Westfield on the other side of Lake Råstasjön. As a resident of Shepherd’s Bush a seven-minute walk from Westfield, the irony was not lost on me. Forgoing any retail therapy, we joined several Swedish Fulham and AIK fans on the rooftop bar for additional refreshment. Kristoffer now has a wallet full of British notes to spend on his next trip to London after the advanced payment systems once again rejected our British cards.

After quenching our thirst, we braved the wildest wind tunnel I’ve ever been through to take our seats. My pink hat perished on the way in. It survived the wind, remained perched on my head for four flights of stairs as we climbed up to the concourse, but somehow vanished within the confines of the ladies’ toilets. Not a natural place for a light-fingered thief, I think you’ll agree. I can only hope that my prized possession is now spreading the Fulham gospel across Sweden. If you see it, feel free to tell me in the comments section.

I was quite proud that my grief didn’t totally envelop the ensuing ninety minutes. It transpired Barf and Dan enjoyed meeting a family of Fulham fans at the precise moment that my hat disappeared. I should clarify that these former Hammersmith End regulars, who commented on Dan’s Mary Southgate shirt, are not suspects in the most serious crime committed in the Solna region over the past fortnight. I’ll even forgive them for the grievous sin of supporting AIK as Barf and Hampus, who has written previous accounts of his trips to London on these pages, were such superb hosts. This is evidence that the FFC Sweden is still going from strength to strength.

We watched from a great height inside the fantastically-named Strawberry Arena’s equivalent of the Hammersmith End. IFK Gothenburg were dreadful, a shadow of the side that threatened to rule Europe in the 1980s, but AIK cut through them with ease, making light of their own lack of a centre forward. Former Leicester defender Filip Benkovic stabbed the hosts ahead from close range at a free kick before sixteen-year-old starlet Kevin Filling marked an impressive debut with a wonderfully taken second. Norwegian winger Johan Hove made it 3-0 just after the hour mark, and AIK would have had a hatful, had they not taken their foot off the gas.

We committed the cardinal sin of leaving a little early – something I am loathe to do – in order to beat the traffic, only to remain in a crowd of thousands who all had the same idea. We were rescued by another taxi driver who also recognised Dan’s Fulham shirt, even if he hadn’t quite forgiven the Whites for scuppering the Gunners’ title bid a few years ago. Regular readers of this website will understand why we skipped a third game in three days when I tell you that would have involved watching Djurgarden take on Norrkoping.

As I wrote to Nick before leaving, I am now a Hammarby fan for life, but more importantly, my brief weekend in Sweden left me wanting much, much more.

Melissa is a season-ticket holder in the Hammersmith End