The Aged Ps Go Berserk

Dad has joined a Swedish drinking society. No, you have not misread that sentence.
"It's called the BVs," he tells me.
"Sounds, ah, interesting," I say.
"Yes," says Dad. "I get to dress up as a Viking, drink Swedish beer and eat Swedish food. And the best of it is, we get to sing songs - in Swedish!"
I open my mouth to respond, but am at a complete loss.
I needn't worry, as Mother has already piped up in my other ear. "It's all bloody ridiculous, of course," she sneers. "But it keeps y'father quiet and gives me a night off, so I suppose that's something."
A night off from what? I wonder. Singing Swedish in the kitchen?
"So," I speak tentatively into the silence that crackles expectantly down the line. "Who are all the other people in the group?"
"Oh, I can't tell you," says Dad gleefully. "It's a secret society, you see. We are known offically as the Berserkers and Vikings and each of us has a name. There is a hierarchy too," he goes on. He is sounding more and more like an excitable ten-year-old who has just been admitted into the popular kids' gang at school. "You can progress from one stage to another once you have learnt the correct responses to certain questions."
"And the special handshakes," Mother guffaws. "It's like the Swedish Masons."
For once I have to agree with her.
(I Google it while I am on the phone to discover that the website is blocked and that I have to have a special password to be allowed to read anything about it at all. "Nytt anvandarnman och losenord" it tells me, sternly.)
"I'm going tonight," Dad continues, ignoring Mother. "And I've learnt all the questions and answers and if I get them right, I become a Hirdsmen."
"A herdsman?" I say.
"No," says Dad with infinite patience. "A H-irrrrds-men," he repeats in his best Swedish accent.
"Can anyone join?" I ask, breathing hard to supress my giggles.
"Absolut inte," says Dad, who seems to have gone into full-on Swedish mode now. "Sallskapet Basarkar et Vikingar genom inbjudan enbart. Och inga kvinnor ar tillatna."
"OK," I say in my fake Swedish accent. "Vell, I vould laik to buy some deorrrdorrant."
"Oh?" says Dad, playing along. "Ball or airsole?"
"Needer," I answer. "I vant it for my arrrmpits."
We fall about laughing and Mother slams her phone down in disgust.
"It's a shame that kvinnor aren't allowed in the BVs," I say, wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. "I think I'd make rather a good Berserker woman."
"Ja," squeaks Dad, "Jag tror du skulle!"
Indeed.
God Jul minna vanner!

[The editor would like to apologise to any Swedish readers for grammatical and orthographic errors, which are no doubt legion ... Mainly because Blogger doesn't like writing in foreign.]