About 18 months ago, my only notion about the existence of Oslo was that it was filled with incredibly friendly people and expensive beer. The account came from my parents, who travelled around the fjords a few years ago. I had no burning desire to visit, having been relatively ignorant of its history and culture.

Having missed out on Radiohead tickets for the Manchester Arena, I was resigned to the idea of a Glastonbury Red Button big night in. Between intervals of feeling sorry for myself, Rob called and said there were tickets available for other legs of the tour. After a quick consultation and check of funds, we were destined for Oslo. Dependent on Jake’s open-mindedness, he was dutifully notified that a gig ticket had been purchased for him, and he would need to start reading up on affordable Norwegian drinking dens.

June rolled around fast and before we knew it, we found ourselves in a faux-anglais airport pub, waiting for our gate to be announced. As the number on the big board popped up, Jake told Rob and I to go ahead while he bought some contact lens cleaner. No more than 10 seconds out of sight, an announcement came over the PA system, last call for Gate 39. “Christ! They only announced it a minute ago!”

The two of us shot off to find the gate, which was handily at the other side of the terminal. We arrived at the now cleared lobby to be greeted by an impatient looking hostess and another couple who had also been caught out. We explained that Jake was hot on our tail (lie) and that they probably shouldn’t leave without him. We asked if they were waiting for anyone else. “Just one more couple”.

We rounded the corner onto the plane and silently took our seats with a hundred piercing eyes watching our movements. Every seat was accounted for apart from the isle seat for our forlorn friend (and the ‘other couple’). We anxiously watched the hatch for signs of relief by the cabin crew, and began to weigh up our options in the event of total abandonment. We were always of the opinion that Jake would ‘find a way’, and that Scandinavian Airlines were probably one of the more diplomatic flag carriers. “We’ve lost our friend. He has an honest face, and was last seen going to buy contact lens solution.”

Cabin crew heads turned to welcome a passenger. We looked up hopefully… it was the other couple. Jake was now the last man standing, and the PA called out again, this time for a ‘Mr. Lawson’. He picked up our call and was mid-dash, flying for the gate. “Fuck, he’s not going to make it, what are we going to do?” About a minute later – which felt like ten – the grinning, red face appeared from the hatch to our collective exhales, bobbing down the isle and sitting next to us in a waterproof coat. He gave us an unruffled glance that seemed to ask what the problem was.

Touching down, we carried our gear in search of the Oslo Specktrum where Radiohead were performing, got our bearings and set off for the accommodation in the Grønland region, previously home to the area’s lower-classes, but nothing a few gentrified coffee shops couldn’t sort out. Dumping our bags, we opted for ‘The Scotsman’ for the Champions League final, still cautious of the surroundings and reverting back to our Wetherspoons-esk natural habitat of vomit-inspired carpets and compact seating.

We found a seat in the courtyard with a good enough view of the match, and conversed with some locals on the youth pastime of ‘snus’, the act of pushing tobacco between your upper lip and teeth. The activity is much more popular than smoking, and is decreasing the demand for cigarettes in a big way. The tobacco comes in circular tins and is wrapped in small rectangular white parcels, which you then can’t help notice strewn from street to street. We left the pub having seen Mario Mandžukić score a wonder goal, before Ronaldo and his mob dismantled Juve with a scary efficiency, leaving Buffon and the rest of the Old Lady licking their wounds.

The first real experience of a typical Oslo lifestyle came earlier in the day at Grünerløkka Mikrobryggfestival, translated to a collection of microbrewery-filled warehouses acting as a magnet for every 6 ft 5 beardy bloke in the district. The scene was similar to what you would expect from a Manchester street food gathering, albeit a little more homespun and effortlessly Nordic.

The beer festival also gave us our first taste of Oslo prices, where we figured that a token exchange for thirds of beer worked out more financially-friendly than what was in store for the rest of the trip. Price disparity is mainly reflected in the drinks, enforced by a government who said enough is enough to alcohol abuse with heavy tax impositions. The average price of a pint is 80 Danish Krone (£9.50), and in some cases it’s two-thirds. Pubs were few and far between, and the ones we did stumble upon hit the £30 mark for a round (for three beers, might I add).

The one glimmer of hope came with a small honest pub in Grønland called ‘Stargate’. Popular with Oslo’s immigrant community (we assumed), Stargate had a proud, everlasting stand and pricing structure to boot – a mere £18 per round. Charging anything more simply would have been implausible. It had its place in the market, and we were rewarded for our boldness on this occasion, commandeering the jukebox and filling the regulars with an insidious sneering towards the three foreigners polluting the airwaves with The Cure and New Order.

We lasted over four hours in Stargate, playing Blackjack and watching men forgetting how to walk. A picture on the wall depicted ‘The Scream’, but with an East European soldier in place of the famous agonised figure. Before long, we realised that the barmaid has overridden our jukebox playlist from behind the bar, in favour of something a little heavier.

Coming out of The Scotsman after the final, we settled for fast food, looking for cheap eats but realising that the processed products here were as costly as a gourmet offering back home. This is no better illustrated than The Economist’s ‘Big Mac index’, and we had never felt so far from Indonesia.

I found the Big Mac index through Peter Hess, who summed up the wider context perfectly:

…but the bread at the store was expensive as well. As were restaurant food, train rides, hotel rooms, and books. And the list goes on. Most surprisingly, gasoline is expensive, too. Norway is the only oil-producing country with high gas prices. In fact, Norway has the highest gas prices in the world. Yet, the government through heavy taxation seeks to convince Norwegians to keep their cars at home and use public transportation instead. And it also subsidizes alternatives to fossil fuels, like this recharge station for electric cars in central Oslo.

Electric car spotting became a bit of game whilst walking the streets, insofar that you could rename Oslo ‘Tesla Town‘. Apart from the distinctive hum of a zero gas engine, they can be easily spotted by the ‘E’ placing at the start of the number plate. We went through a phase of standing at crossings and seeing how many we could tot up before the light changed. The Norwegian government effectively coerces its residents into opting for a greener, cheaper, faster accelerating car than the alternatives, largely through perks and tax deductions.

There’s no shortage of rain in Oslo, and an abundance of museums. The Munch Museum was five minutes up the road from our accommodation, and after a brief look around, quickly realised that it didn’t actually house The Scream, but did have some fantastic Scream printed tea-towels in the gift shop as a bizarre form of redress.

The object to our desire actually hung in the National Gallery. Between Skrik and Madonna, they were the most attended pieces in the gallery, and I had to bide my time to get an undisturbed look, waiting for a break in the tide of tourist groups. Eventually it came, and I got a good 10 seconds viewing time, before a gradual swelling of the next group formed around me. I turned 180 degrees into a forest of selfie sticks and a dozen viewfinders, before heading to meet Rob and Jake at the military museum.

The regular ferry – which was surprisingly cheap given the rest of our expenses – delivered us to Bygdøhus, a pastoral peninsula resembling American suburbia. Housed here was the Fram Museum (big Viking boats) and the Holocaust Centre, the latter which was far hidden from the public gaze, possibly on purpose. The centre was located high up in the suburbs at the end of a long, winding footpath, leaving plenty of time for contemplation before and after the visit.

The boat ride back to the mainland was breezy and featured an eccentric captain who bid farewell to every passenger with such exuberance that you’d have thought he had just won the Norsk Tipping.

Radiohead were calling, and there was enough time for a couple of drinks at the apartment before heading out to rediscover the Oslo Spektrum. Across the road, a faint overture of In Rainbows emanated from one of the nearby windows, arousing suspicion that everyone around us was here for the same reason.

We entered the arena and I broke off for drinks, receiving the full experience of Oslo beverage prices coupled with standard concert prices. I came back onto the arena floor holding three plastic pints and suddenly realised that I had no idea where I was, and no idea where Rob and Jake were in the crowd. Thinking the best of a bad situation, I had none of the company but all of the beer. I walked aimlessly into the standing section and somehow stumbled straight into the other two after half a minute. I tried to explain how fortunate this was, but they took their beers and showed little interest. Perhaps it was down to the fact that the gig had already started, and were in the middle of ‘Daydreaming’.

It was only my second time seeing Radiohead after a mixed outing at Old Trafford Cricket Club in 2008, where the set was incredible but the venue lacking. Yorke stopped mid-Faust Arp as people were moshing at the front. The Spektrum was a stark contrast. Dark, moody silhouetted figures and a silent audience (almost silent, I was fairly lubricated and couldn’t help signing along to ‘All I need’). Behind us, the seated section sloped up to the rafters and the camera lights from phones mimicked stars. During Exit Music For A Film, you could hear a fucking pin drop. Two encores later and we were finished, out into the cold night and to an underground club which played questionable 90’s British tunes. A teary local offered his sympathies for the Manchester Arena attack.

Radiohead’s Manchester venue was relocated, and all of a sudden I found myself back at LCCC, once again having a moan at the unsuitability of it all – the corporate chatterers and overcast sky. The sound escaped into the night too easily, and was at the mercy of the wind. They did however play The Bends, which was an unexpected treat.

Going abroad to see a band is something I’d like to make more of a habit of. On combining a gig with a visit, much like a travelling football fan will do with a match in Europe, is more appealing to me now than it ever was. To think that it came from being too slow off the mark on TicketMaster can only be put down to a blessing in disguise.