Stranger than fiction

And life goes o-on,
Filled with bizarre contradictions.
And life can be strange
But love can be stranger than fiction
Only love can be stranger than fiction.

(Joe Jackson: Stranger Than Fiction. Album: “Laughter and Lust”, 1991)

Ok, gentlemen, be honest. What does your misses say when it comes to any confessions that Agnetha has captured your heart with her voice? I bet the following plot will look kind of familiar to you. It’s not fiction, I swear. It happened, more or less exactly like this, on the evening of December 29th, 2005. And where would we be if we wouldn’t be able to laugh at ourselves? Enjoy and feel reminded.

The family is enjoying a collective TV evening between the years. Mum is scanning the TV-journal.

Mum: Hey, darling, they're airing a 20-Best-of-ABBA-Hits Show right now on channel three. You gotta see this!

Dad (hypocritically trying to show disinterest): Oh, this one. I already have it on tape.

Mum (zapps into the program, bumping into "I do, I do, I do, I do, I do". To the two boys, 11 and 7, sitting on the sofa): Hey look, guys, there's papa's blonde dream. Agnetha. Now tell me, do you also think she's that beautiful?

Dad (forboding no good, muttering to himself): I don’t have to see it. I’ve got it on tape.

Son 1, Son 2: (don't say a word, obviously they'd watch anything just for not having to go to bed.)

Dad (deciding in an audacious moment to reply instead): She is. An angel straightly from heaven. (Then, completely foolhardy, in a teasing tone) Sorry to say it, but you'd be without the shadow of a chance.

Mum (unimpressed): She's got an ugly nose. Too big. The other girl’s more beautiful.

Dad (embarrassed): An ugly nose, aha. What the heck is wrong with her nose, huh?

Mum: And always with this half open mouth pose. ‘Kiss me, honey!’ Look, how papa's mouth is watering.

Dad: God, you poor thing, it seems you're really jealous. Don't worry. She's a thousand miles away.

Son 1 (apparently unsure what is the right thing to say here, finally decides to jump on Mum's side): Eeeeh, uhhmm, I can't see as well why she's supposed to be that beautiful . . .

Son 2 (echoing): Not very beautiful!

Mum (with triumph): Ha, see? Thank you, boys.

Dad (beginning to feel uncomfortable): Listen to her. Hear her sing! You can't sing like this, admit that at least. You're just singing in the church chorus.

Mum (completely ignores her husband’s comment): And those costumes! Horrible!

Dad: That was in the seventies, darling!

Mum: And a fat bum. The red’s bum is much more sexy. What was her name? Annafrida?

Dad (rolls his eyes in pain.) Just call her Frida . . .

Mum: And she seems to need that eye shadows. Bet she'd be lost without the tons of make-up. Wouldn't be more than good average.

Dad (outraged): GOOD AVERAGE ??? You must be crazy!

Mum: Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman were much more beautiful. - Does she have children?

Dad (wonders once more how women can switch topics within a single breath): Two. A daughter and a son. They're grown up meanwhile.

Mum: Which one was her husband? The one with the beard?

Dad: The other one. Björn. The lucky bastard.

Mum: Oh, watch Daddy melt! (Imitating:) 'T-h-e  l-u-c-k-y b-a-s-t-a-r-d!' (Giggles.) But wasn’t she divorced from the lucky bastard? Why?

Dad: How the hell should I know? She must have been leaving him. No guy with a microgram of sanity left on his mind would ever leave her.

Mum (with evil grin): Who knows? Perhaps she tends to nag and complain and get on the man's nerves, like I do.

Son 2 (ignoring the ongoing battle): Is this English they're singing?

Mum (to son): Yes, dear. (To husband) Nice songs, though. We should consider to go to the Mamma Mia musical in Hamburg.

Dad (stubborn): I'm not interested. I couldn't stand it. I would miss Agnetha.

Mum: Now, do you admire the music or the sexy cutie, huh?

Dad (in a desperate attempt to stay calm): She's not sexy, according to your humble judgement. Too big a nose, fat bum, tons of make-up. Not more than good average. (Loud and scornfull snort. Dramatic pause.) Her voice. The songs are nothing without her voice.

Mum: Oooooh, Agnetha's VOICE. I get it at last. Hear boys, it's her voice. She's not THAT beautiful, but she can sing, the cutie.

Dad (still foolish enough to try to reason against a woman's arguments): Don't underestimate her. She's a talented composer and song writer. She wrote some wonderful Swedish songs before ABBA.

Mum: This schlager stuff you're listening to when we're away, huh?

Dad (now close to surrender): Yes, this schlager stuff. Sung by a lady with an ugly nose and too much make-up in her face. So annoying.

Mum: Now look, boys, dad's sulky. We're picking on his teenage love. (Giggles.) By the way, do you have an autograph of Agnetha cutie?

Dad (blushes): I got one. For 25 years. Send her a photo I took on the 79 concert and got it back signed.

Mum: Oh, how lovely, what did you do when you got it? Did you kiss it secretly because she had touched it? (Loud giggle.)

Dad (looks bewildered but for some unknown reason prefers not to answer that question.)

Mum: Hihi, I bet you did. (Meanwhile the “Summernight City” video clip is running) Hey, that's Stockholm! Look!

Dad (happy to switch topics): Must be at Slussen, Gustav Adolfs Torg.

Mum: Anyway she must be stone old by now. What does she do these days?

Dad: She's not ‘stone old’. She's 55 and I tell you, she still looks g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s. She lives near Stockholm on Ekerö island. Has got an estate with horses. She likes horses, you know, as you do.

Mum: Oh, she likes horses? Cool. Is she married again?

Dad (wonders what this question has to do with Agnetha’s horses): No, until now she has decided to wait for me.

Mum: Haha! She's 55, darling. You wouldn't want to take her anymore.

Dad (grinning): Don't feel too safe. True love doesn't depend on age.

Mum: Holy cows! I'd better pay attention and watch out! (Giggles again.)

Dad (thinking): Jesus, how did I run into that mess? (He now really feels relieved that the show finally is over, switches off the TV. To the boys): So far, so good. Time to go to bed now, boys. Hurry up, don’t forget to brush your teeth.