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It’s 8.30 in the morning, and the city looks as though it’s been through a wild three-day bender without a moment’s respite.

Flagpoles lie strewn about as if after a naval battle, sausage wrappers dance in the wind like little greasy white doves, and the air reeks of burnt sausage, beer and collective remorse.

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I meet them by a bench down at Bryggen. Two brothers, let’s call them Olav and Terje, both in their fifties, each clutching a 7/11 coffee cup and sporting that classic Bergen expression that says ‘we don’t have time for this’. They’re probably wearing the same jumper from last year, and both look as though they’ve lost a war against their wives.

“No, this is absolutely bloody awful,” sighs Olav, pointing at a pile of smashed plastic cups. “17 May is supposed to be a dignified celebration of the Constitution, not a national rubbish fest. People have no respect anymore!”
Terje nods gravely, as if they were discussing the price of oil. “I said the same thing to my wife yesterday. ‘Look, we need to tidy this up,’ I said. But no. ‘It’ll sort itself out tomorrow,’ she said. And here we are. With a bin bag and a guilty conscience.”

They look at each other. A small, conspiratorial smile breaks out.
“But lord, that was fun,” says Olav quietly, almost as if he’s ashamed.
“Oh yes,” laughs Terje. “I don’t remember everything after half past seven, but it was good. And expensive… and good again.”
They sigh in unison, a genuine Bergen double sigh, before reluctantly starting to pick up the odd flagpole. After ten seconds, they’re already busy criticising how ‘young people these days’ can’t clean up after themselves.

I slip away round the corner before they can drag me into the discussion about whether there should be a compulsory clean-up session for marching bands. But I chuckle to myself all the way to today’s workplace.

That’s Bergen at its best. A bit of chaos. A bit of grumbling. And loads of love for both the party and, not least, the morning after.

RECORDED BY: Dave // BERGEN , 2026