Cock-eyed

What a lovely Christmas. Good company, good food, but most importantly, a fresh stack of Mrs Nunn anecdotes, with which to regale you. Here is Snippet #1.

Mrs Nunn giggled, "Tell your grandma about your friend whose boyfriend had a very big cock."

This was - sadly - a normal conversation in the Nunn household.

"Well," I said to my grandmother, "my friend Cookie dated a guy whose penis was so huge, she described it like a baby's arm holding an apple."

My grandma laughed.

"One thing I don't understand though," Mrs Nunn said. "Shouldn't it be a baby's arm holding two apples?"

I have not been able to look at Mr Nunn the same way since.

Nonsense Noel: Part III

And finally, the one you've all been waiting for - number one on the ridiculous carols list...

Away in a Manger!

"But Laura," you might say. "I can see your point with some of the other carols you've picked out. There are some odd lyrics there. But Away in a Manger at least kind of makes sense." Does it? I ask you. Does it?

Away in a manger,

Away where exactly? I think "In a manger" would have sufficed entirely. Except it doesn't scan so well.

No crib for His bed
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down His sweet head

We're talking about a - what - two-hour old baby here? Little Lord Jesus, at the grand old age of two hours, had the autonomy to lay down his own head? Unlikely. Babies can rarely support their own necks until at least a month old. But again, "The Little Lord Jesus was burped, spewed a bit and was eventually settled down by his postnatally-depressed mother, before cacking himself all over the hay" doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

Brilliant. We need more anthropomorphic stars, that's what I say.

The cattle are lowing
The Baby awakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

Now, I'm no midwife, but I think it's a bit dangerous if the kid won't cry. In fact, I'm fairly certain it's a sign that there's something wrong with their breathing. Try slapping him on the arse and see if that helps.

I love Thee, Lord Jesus
Look down from the sky
And stay by my bedside,
'Til morning is nigh.

Ooh, weird. Who is the sudden "I" who has crept into this? This freaks me out a bit, because assuming the "I" is the person singing the song, they appear to have delusions of grandeur ("Yeah, Jesus, come and visit ME, I'm dead important. Not important enough to stay awake whilst you visit me though, obviously. Just sit by my bed until I wake up, K?"), but they also expect the invention of a time machine to be imminent.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

"Stalk me, Jesus!"

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

"Kill all the children and we can all be together for ever and ever and ever..."

I genuinely cannot believe they make children sing this sinister, sinister song, involving an inaccurate, if not traumatic birth with the child not breathing, and overtones of stalking and infanticide.

And on that note, Happy Christmas, Ploggers!

Nonsense Noel: Part II

Continuing the countdown of ridiculous festive lyrics. In at number two, it's that old favourite, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

That said, the first verse isn't too bad. It mostly makes sense:

Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With the angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

It's verse two where things start getting a bit... funky.

Christ by highest heav'n adored
Christ the everlasting Lord!

OK, all making sense so far. Heaven adores Jesus (not that impressive if heaven created him. That's a bit like me making a mince pie and telling everyone how good my own mince pie is). Everlasting Lord sounds a bit like a battery that won't run out, but OK, at least it makes sense.

Late in time behold Him come
Offspring of a Virgin's womb

What does this mean? "Late in time..." is Jesus a bit on the tardy side? "Offspring of a Virgin's womb". This makes sense (well, of course it doesn't biologically, but we all know the story: "The angels done it, Mum, I swears I is a virgin...")

My main problem with this line is the terrible, unforgivable attempted rhyme of "come" with "womb". So much so that every time I sing it, I have to force myself to be grown up and not sing "Offspring of a Virgin's womm" just to make it rhyme.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see
Hail the incarnate Deity

What's a Godhead? Anyone? I think this is about fleshy God again. "Incarnate", I think, literally from the Latin means "made of meat". So this couplet is all about saying hello to the meaty God. Hello meat God!

Pleased as man with man to dwell
Jesus, our Emmanuel

Jesus likes living with men? Or men like living with Jesus? No idea. Everyone seems quite smug though.

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!

More smugness here. He must be a pain in the arse at dinner parties. "Hello, I'm Meat God, Son of Righteousness. Nice to meet you, root of Jesse. How's that lion?"

Light and life to all he brings,
Ris’n with healing in his wings

Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa. Jesus can fly? THAT is news to me. To be fair, it doesn't specifically detail that he can fly, but it does say quite categorically that he has wings. So he could be like a flightless bird like a penguin or an emu. Jesus the emu. Jemu.

Mild He lays His glory by

Huh?

Born that man no more may die,
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth

Just to offend anyone I haven't yet managed to... I heard a Bible reading earlier this week that talked about Joseph finding out Mary was up the duff and intending to cast her aside until an angel appeared to him. They then went on to Bethlehem to be counted or something along those lines, and they still - at this stage - weren't married. Firstly, should they have been sharing that cattle shed at all, unchaperoned? Secondly, did they ever get married? I don't remember hearing anything about their wedding. I think we may have uncovered some sort of scandal here... Anyway, I digress. Second birth, off to heaven, we get it. I've always been a bit foggy about how Jesus' death actually meant my soul was saved (well, OK, not mine), but everyone else seems to understand, so perhaps that was an RE lesson I missed.

Tune in tomorrow for the number one, most ridiculous carol lyrics.

Nonsense Noel: Part I

As we're feeling festive, let's talk carols. I sing in a choir, and have done, on and off, since the age of 7. I reckon I've sung O Come All Ye Faithful at least 400 times in my life. I know all the words off by heart, including the verse which you're only supposed to sing on Christmas morning. I know the Alto part blindfolded. Admittedly, it's a fairly unusual carol service that insists on blindfolding its choristers, but I'm not here to judge.

So yes, cursed with something of a photographic memory when it comes to song lyrics, I know pretty much every word of every verse of every popular Christmas carol. And yet barely three of them make sense. I give you - as a countdown until Christmas, the worst offenders of festive nonsense.

In at number 3: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Verse One:

O come, O come, Emmanuel!
Redeem thy captive Israel
That into exile drear is gone,
Far from the face of God's dear Son.

OK, accepting that Emmanuel means God made flesh, or some such guff, the first sentence is OK. Basically "Hello fleshy God!".

"Redeem thy captive Israel"? Well, my knowledge of early Middle Eastern politics is about as strong as my grasp of current Middle Eastern politics, but let's make a basic guess that Israel is under rule by the heathens. Those pesky heathens. Never mind! God is on his way!

"That into exile drear is gone, Far from the face of God's dear son". Sorry? Let's unpick the crappy grammar and word order. Basically, I think it means "dreary stuff has gone into exile, miles away from Jesus." Essentially, Jesus has banished the drear. Jesus is bringing us a massive party. Great. Kind of makes sense so far. Roll on verse two.

O come, thou root of Jesse! draw
The quarry from the lion's claw;
From the dread caverns of the grave,
From nether hell, thy people save.

I have genuinely no idea what the "root of Jesse" is. It's either a person or a type of mathematical calculation. Let's go with a person. Jesse. Sounds American. No self-respecting Brit would be called Jesse. Anyway, Jesse's root (his or her son or daughter, perhaps?) is about to attempt something a bit dangerous - apparently stealing food from a lion. Not advised. Unless "draw" in this case means put pencil to paper and do a pretty sketch. But I don't think so.

"From the dread caverns of the grave, from nether hell, thy people save". Jesse's root, whoever he or she is, is going to raise the dead. Possibly in a zombie-esque way. I wonder how this will go down with Jesus and his big party. I'm sensing conflict. Stay tuned, this one's getting exciting. Actually, it isn't. There are about six hundred verses to this*, each one slightly duller than the last.

Translations welcome. Tune in tomorrow for more festive foolishness.

* slight exaggeration

Christmas Story

Ploggers, I have been absent, but I have returned. "What have you been doing?" you ask. Lots. Lots and lots and lots. Four choir concerts, three work dos, two turtle doves and one good friend to stay the weekend.

However, the Christmas spirit is in the air, there is snow on the ground and it is mere days until Father Christmas loads up his improbable method of transport with presents. Huddle close then, Ploggers, for I have a Christmassy tale to tell. It is a tale so special that Mrs Nunn threatened to visit violence upon me if I were to retell it, as she fears embarrassing the people in question. However, two years have passed since this time and I am hoping she has a) forgotten or b) will be overcome by the Christmas spirit and forget her threats of beating and instead buy me extra presents. More than my brother anyway.

A number of years ago, as is the tradition at Yuletide, my family and I attended the local church for a Midnight Mass service.

"Church, Laura?" I hear you say. "But you are a confirmed atheist!"

And you would be right. But everyone loves a good Christmas carol, so Midnight Mass it is each year to sing carols and giggle at the prayer where you're supposed to say you're unworthy to gather crumbs from under the table.

The vicar was apparently new and a bit nervous. The sermon started. I hate sermons. Even as a child in the church choir (my parents were trying to get me into a local Catholic school; I'm not sure how they thought singing in a Protestant church choir was going to help. It didn't.), I used to take a book to read, much to the disgust of most of my fellow choristers, who quite rightly surmised that I was not heaven-bound, even at the age of 10. So yes, I hate sermons. And I was beginning to wish I'd brought along my new Nintendo DS, but thought this might be even less acceptable for a 28 year-old than it was for a 10 year-old. So I twiddled my thumbs instead.

My old English teacher from my high school sat to my right. Mr Nunn sat to my left.

The sermon was patronising and pants:

"Once upon a time there was a residential centre for people with special needs. No-one was quite perfect - whatever perfect means. Gary lost his temper often. Sarah would scream if anybody used her mug and Daniel hated having his hair touched. One day they all went out on a lovely trip. Everything was going really well until Sarah accidentally touched Daniel's hair. He snatched her mug from her and threw it on the floor and she screamed. Gary started trying to punch the bus driver."

I wondered where this was going.

"Then suddenly, they came upon a church. 'Can we go in?' pleaded Sarah. In they all went. It was nearly Christmas, and the Christmas tree in the church left all three of them speechless. A hushed quiet came over the group. Near the altar stood a lady holding a baby. Gary bounded up to the woman, limping and twitching slightly, like he always did. 'Can I hold your baby?' Gary asked."

The vicar's voice went quiet and meaningful at this point.

"The lady looked at Gary. And she passed her baby to Gary. And Gary took the baby, and was holding him. Then Gary..."

(pause for meaning)

"Then Gary... lifted the baby up, and killed him. KISSED him. Sorry. KISSED."

I was helpless with laughter. My English teacher leaned over from the right and whispered, "Well, I didn't see that coming."

Mr Nunn leaned over and said, "I thought the slaughter of the innocents came later?"

We all shook with laughter for the next half an hour. Best. Sermon. Ever.

No energy

Ploggers, Ploggers, you thought my gas story ended there, didn't you? My naive little friends.

Two days later I was working from home. The doorbell rang. Ding dong! Actually, it doesn't go ding dong. It does a very naff impression of Big Ben, but we don't need to go into that now.

A man stood at the door with ID round his neck that a) didn't have a recognisable company name on and b) had no photographic ID. "I've come to read the meter," he said.

"Where are you from," I asked. He checked his PDA. This confused me. He didn't seem to know which company he worked for. "I am from Southern Electric," he decided. "Mrs Rogers?"

Mrs Rogers was the previous owner of our house. I said, "We don't have our power with Southern Electric, and I'm not Mrs Rogers."

He turned on his heel and stormed off. "Fine!" he said. "Fine! I'll just tell them you refused a meter reading and you'll get a letter!"

I am literally quaking in my boots.

Gassing away

Ding dong! The doorbell rang just a few minutes after I got home from work. I answered it. A bedraggled-looking Asian man stood on my doorstep, wielding ID.

"Scottish Power," he said, and looked at me expectantly as if I was supposed to know how the rest of the conversation went. We looked at each other blankly for a few seconds. Then I remembered I'd changed the energy suppliers to Scottish Power just a few weeks ago.

"Oh," said I, "have you come to read the meter?"

"No," asserted the man, in - let's be honest - not very good English. "Who you currently have power with?"

"Scottish Power," I replied.

"Yes, that is right," said the man. "Who is your current energy supplier?"

"Scottish Power," I repeated.

"Oh!" said the little man. "What tariff are you on?"

"I don't know," I said. "But look, handily, here is my latest bill."

"Can I come in?" asked the little man. I didn't really want him to but I felt I couldn't say no. He looked at my bill with the comprehension of someone not comprehending very much. A little bit how I look when I receive anything from the Inland Revenue. "How much is your monthly payment?" he asked.

I told him it was £46 and showed him the bill. I told him I thought this was quite expensive, particularly as this was only the standing charge and didn't include any electricity or gas actually used.

"No, is very cheap," he said. "Is definitely the best tariff."

We stood and looked at each other a bit more. He broke the awkwardness. "Can I have a glass of water?" I didn't want him to have a glass of water, but I got one for him anyway. He drank it. Whilst we looked at each other awkwardly. Monty cat ran past him and he tried to touch his tail.

"OK, I will go now," said the man. I think we were both a little bit relieved.

Ikea: The Cunt-clusion

Reader, I complained to Ikea. I detailed the fiasco with the out-of-date flyers, the slat-free bed and the Ikea-only sized bedframe. I relayed my experiences with their helpline (cut off - twice). I explained to them how the "contact us" link on their website didn't work. And finally, out of desperation, I found an email address for their CEO. Reader, complain I did. And this was the response I got.


Dear Laura

Thank you for your email.

I am sorry to hear about your bad experience with IKEA.

In regards to the bed slats they are sold separately which is indicated on the tags in store and also mentions this online.

The beds we sell are european sizes due to IKEA being Swedish hence you will need one of our mattresses to fit the bed.

I will feedback to the store regarding the pricelist but if you went to a member of staff they would of printed off a list with everything you require so no mistakes could be made.

In regards to returning the bedframe we have a 90 days returns policy and without the packaging you could incur a 30% reduction but the store will make that decision once they see the bed frame.

If you had delivery and decided you no longer want the bed then you would also incur a recharge as they would class this as change of mind.

If you still want to go ahead and have it collected then please reply with you full address, convenient contact number and the ST,RG, TR and the date and article number on the receipt.

Kind regards

Lee

They "would of", would they, Lee? Lee, whom I am guessing, is NOT the CEO of Ikea. So I am supposed to telepathically know that the information you're handing out in store is guff, and really I should be queueing to speak to your gormless colleagues? Additionally, if anyone knows what the ST,RG and TR are, I'd be delighted to know. I'm going for Stupid Tossers, Right Gits and Total Rejects.

OK, let's do the math, as they say in the States. I liked the idea of doing math rather than maths. Sounded like there was less of it for a start.

So, the Ikea bedframe cost £47. The slats cost £20. The non-refundable delivery cost £35. Total cost = £102.

They are suggesting I can have it collected (an additional £35), and then I would forfeit 30% of the product costs (£20.10). This would mean a total refund of £11.90. Genius.

In short, Ikea are a large bunch of illiterate, muddy gits, incapable of working a telephone, a pricelist or knowing the difference between "would have" and "would of". And also, if you want to buy a bed, there's a never-used one for sale on Ebay.

Ikea Part Three

So, off we went to Ikea to get some bed slats. They were put on the bed frame. The bed frame now looked something like a bed. The wardrobe doors fitted the wardrobe. The new handles even allowed us to open the wardrobe. I had even got the worst of the muddy Ikea footprints off the stair carpet. Everything was tickety boo.

Well, almost everything.

We ordered a double mattress from John Lewis to go on our new Ikea bed (now with new, improved slats!). "But Laura," I hear you cry, "I regularly read your Plog, and I heartily agree with almost everything you say. But John Lewis is a different supplier! You can't blame Ikea for another company's poor service."

I say hush. Hush, hush, hush. Listen up.

The John Lewis mattress was booked to arrive on a Thursday. Ten minutes before delivery, John Lewis called to make me aware. The delivery men wore "carpet protectors" on their shoes. My stairs remained unmuddied. They asked to use the toilet. The toilet seat was carefully left down after they finished.

I revelled in the knowledge that finally, FINALLY the bed was ready, and we would never never never never never never never never never never have to go to Ikea ever again.

Until TheBloke (TM) got home. And put the mattress on the bed. And we noticed that the mattress was about 20cm too small for the bed. I swore. I shouted. I stamped my little feet. Actually, they're fairly average-sized feet, but I stamped them anyway. I checked the John Lewis website. I'd definitely ordered a double. I checked the Ikea website...

It was at this point we realised that Ikea beds are totally different sizes to normal-sized beds. And - surprise surprise - the only place you can buy mattresses to fit is... wait for it... Ikea. And - surprise surprise - their mattresses are about three times the price of anywhere else. And then of course you have to buy special Ikea bedding, special Ikea duvet covers etc. etc.

Ploggers, this was enough. I wrote to Ikea. Tune in soon to find out just how brilliant their customer service is.