Why are Scandinavians so happy when they should be so sad? 

As I sit here in my Sarah Lund Fair Isle sweater, polishing my boxed sets of Borgen and nibbling on a small piece of herring, it briefly occurs to me that perhaps I too have fallen victim to the prevailing mania for all things Scandinavian. Just about the only person who’s stayed resistant, it seems, is Michael Booth, the author of this book.

At home in Copenhagen — he’s married to a Dane — watching the incessant drizzle falling through the perpetual twilight, Booth begins to think he’s losing his mind. How come every survey ever commissioned into human happiness puts the Scandinavians at the top of the list?, he wonders. It doesn’t make sense — especially not when all the Scandinavians Booth meets are frosty, charmless and even more emotionally constipated than the British.

And that’s not all. Their food is filthy and their telly — with certain notable exceptions — rubbish.