A long time ago, a group of dissident Norwegian poets threw a barrel over the side of their sailing boat and decided that wherever the barrel landed they would make their home. Instead of drifting on to New York, or down to the Florida Keys - or beyond, even, to Rio - the barrel came ashore at Reykjavik.

Over the centuries, Reykjavik has proved to be such a poor choice as the starting point for a new civilisation that Icelanders have naturally developed a strong suspicion of anything in barrels. Hence the paucity of bars and pubs in the city, and the absurd price of beer and wine in the few establishments that exist. The Icelandic 'barrel tax' on beers, wines and spirits is so steep that Reykjavik has the only airport with a duty free shop on the way in to the country as well as out. The male population has become so annoyed with living in tin shacks (no wooden structures allowed - too potentially barrel-like), waiting around for the next volcanic eruption, and staying sober to boot, that they have left the running of the town to women. From the politicians right down to the taxi drivers and the park keepers, all are women.

Misty-eyed tourists with heads full of Beowulf fool themselves that the men are away at sea in their long boats (aka trawlers) in quest of the Mystic Cod. The truth is that Icelandic men are either hard at work in the many steam powered greenhouses that surround the city, growing bananas mainly, or they have become hairdressers.

In Reykjavik there is a hairdressing salon on almost every street corner. Sadly, in another demonstration of how all Icelandic male endeavour seems destined to come to naught, one is hard pushed to find a citizen of Reykjavik with a decent haircut.