YE HOLY SCRIPTURES OF THE WISE MAN REDMOND
YE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ROBSON
And it came to pass, in the fifth year of the reign of King Blair, that the holiest of holies, Redmond, Lord of Mersey and mentor of the minds of Liverpool, annointed his prophet. He chose a simple maiden to propagate his Holy Word.
Yea, he annointed her with sludge from ye barren docks, admonishing her to go forth into the homes of millions (well, 2 million or so, to be precise)and to preach to the benighted in tongues which many will come to understand - errrm, if they oney would, errrm, listen, like, y’know.
And the Lord Redmond commanded that the maiden, with the name of a rustic flower of the North and the surname of two great Northern heroes, should preach ye gospel, verily, as a parable. And yea, though we of the benighted South may walk through the valley of the shadow of Scousers, we may fear no evil from the parable of Brookside, for we have only to listen to ye venerable Sage, who has the wisdom of a madman, but who speaks the holy truth and mouths the words of the Lord Redmond for all of us to listen and to heed and to believe.
And the Lord deemed that the Sage should clasp unto his bosom, a disciple, and in his wisdom, the venerable Sage did chose the self-perpetuating virgin of light, touched by the hand of Redmond, a handmaiden of the Lord Sage, who speaketh wisdom, yea, even unto the great King Blair, in the forth year of his reign therein. And she was blessed with untold knowledge, this virgin of light (which, errrrm, cooms from a reelly, reelly boss bottle o’ hair colour, like, y’know), and she speaketh in tongues, knowing better than her elders, and she leadeth the Sage into wider wisdom and understanding, and yea, she be given unto her lips the words of the Lord Redmond, by his maiden disciple, Heather Robson.
Yes, folks, it’s another socio-political diatribe from the arrogant, yet untalented, ignorant, yet seemingly favoured pen of Heather Robson.
Now, you don’t have to read it, if you didn’t see the episode; but hey, it’s good for a laugh, even though it’s not supposed to be funny - but then that’s the way Heather’s episodes are. Shallow, ignorant, and unintentionally funny. Ta-ra, Heather, babe, if you’re reading.
And if you DO read it, bear this in mind: The shows for this week, after this one, DO get better. I promise.
(Somewhat).
Nisha the Naughty Nudie Nurse moves about the flat like a whirling dervish. She’s frantically packing her belongings, and she’s followed by a rather guilty and forlorn-looking poor, pitiful, stinky, smelly, dirty, filthy Katie.
The young Antichrist is descending the stairs at Sitcom House, when he hears a noise below. Scurrying like the little rat that he is, he reaches the bottom and approaches the door leading into the sitcom kitchen. Through the glass doors of the conservatory, he hears the crash of something falling and sees an unfamiliar figure moving clumsily about.
At this moment, a white builder’s van careens onto the street, its driver laughing maniacally, as Ray stands outside the bungalow and waves frantically. We see a ‘Sold’ sign prominently displayed at the front of the Johnson house.
Scenes all set ... Let the show begin properly.
Nisha’s finished packing and is preparing to go to work. Brusquely and without stopping to make small-talk, she curtly informs Katie that she’ll leave her keys when she returns for her packed suitcases at the end of her shift, and that she was due deposit back from the landlord.
Poor, pitiful, stinky, smelly, sorry Katie is heaped with guilt, mingled with a hefty dose of self-pity. Nisha doesn’t have go, she pleads. Katie didn’t mean any of what she said to Nisha the day before. That was only the vodka talking, she swears. (Er, don’t they say that a person’s true personality is revealed via drink?)
Nisha snaps that Katie had no right to disclose to Sammy what Nisha told her about Nisha’s family. That was a confidence, and Katie breeched it. (Don’t worry, Nisha. Confidence means nothing to Katie, and professional confidence doesn’t exist at all - just ask the Musgroves or Jacqui Farnham).
She’s so very sorry, whines poor, pitiful Katie, REALLY turning on the pity now. Please, she doesn’t want Nisha to go, and she’s so sorry about telling Sammy that. It’ll never happen again, she promises.
‘So it’s all over until the next time,’ quips Nisha, coldly. ‘No, thanks. I don’t think I want to hang around to see it.’
Suddenly, Katie makes a dash for the kitchen sink and pukes heavily into it. Nisha looks on with disdain. Her days of pity and compassion are over.
Raising her head and wiping her fetid mouth, Katie continues her abject pleading. Sammy didn’t mean what she said either, says Katie. After all, this IS Nisha’s flat. (Er, what she’s REALLY saying is if Nisha goes, then THEY’LL be liable for the rent, the food, the utilities etc. And that’s something Katie’s NEVER done, if she could help it. She’s the arch scrounger, as she did for years when she lived off Jacqui’s earnings. Why should she want to see Nisha, the provider, go now?)
At that moment, Sammy issues noisily from her bedroom, one of the countless many in the flat (this flat has more bedrooms than Southfork Ranch), wearing a Jackie Corkhill Original bathrobe. She’s got a headache, she moans (albeit she doesn’t credit the headache to last night’s drinking session). She’d love a tablet, she says, speaking deliberately loudly and glaring pointedly in Nisha’s direction, only Nurse Nightingale, there, has swiped all the painkillers.
Why doesn’t Sammy ask her sister? Retorts Nisha, tartly. Katie has a horde of them.
Katie affects the classic demeanor of a person wrongly accused of something - wide eyes, mouth agape in horror, hand delicately placed on her chest. Why, she hasn’t done anything of the sort, she protests, vehemently.
Hasn’t Nisha learned anything from the night before? Sammy snarls, jumping to Katie’s defence. She’s fed up with Nisha, she says. She’s going to the garage and buy some painkillers. (Better get dressed first, Sammy).
Meanwhile, back at Sitcom House, Ant stands motionless for what seems like an endless moment, in abject fear of the unknown person in the conservatory. He looks as though he’s pissed his pant, and he probably has, at the thought of maybe this is Imelda come back to haunt him.
Turning on his heel, he dashes up the stairs, screaming for Dire (and now calling her ‘Mummy’). Someone’s come to get him! He wails. As Dire flings open her bedroom door, Antony asks where Marty is, and Dire remarks that Marty’s already left for work. (HA! That’s a first! Marty at work before anyone in the house is out of their pyjamas! Pull the other one!) There’s someone in the conservatory, babbles Ant, looking increasingly panic-stricken. He saw the person, he heard the noise.
Dire pushes past Antony and bounds down the stairs, with the lad in her wake. Making a beeline for the conservatory, she’s met by a shame-faced Roosle, who’s holding a begonia, which he’d clumsily knocked over and whose pot he’d broken. Adele stands beside him.
Dire reacts in her typical fashion. She’s highly offended to find a young lad had stayed overnight at Sitcom House, and had stayed, in fact, with her step-daughter. But then, she’s more offended than surprised, because she knows deep within her Sacred Heart of Hearts, that Adele is a wanton slut - and doubly cursed because she’s fertile.
‘WHAT IS ‘EE DOIN’ ERE?’ She bello weathers.
He’s been here all night, Adele explains, in a rush.
‘BEEN’ERE ALL NIGHT?’ Big Dire repeats in disbelief, turning to Adele. ‘’E’S BEEN’ERE ALL NIGHT WITH YOU?’ (Unspoken, but inferred: ‘You unwashed slut.’) ‘AND WHADDYA BEEN DOIN’ ALL NIGHT?’
Talking, answers Adele, as Roosle opens his mouth to speak and can’t manage to find a voice. Talking, she repeats, as this seems to be becoming an epidemic. She swears that all they were doing is talking.
‘WELL, ‘E SCARED OUR ANT HALF TO DEATH!’ Dire retorts.
Roosle manages to find his voice, which isn’t a very strong or good one for an actor. In fact, he speaks so rapidly, in such low tones and addresses his shirt-collar in such a way (not to mention the excess saliva inherent in wearing braces), that he’s almost unintelligible. Crikey, and I thought Gobby and Flint were bad actors. Well, Brookside have scored again THIS time with this one. What did he do before? Serve at McDonalds, work the till at Woolworth’s, or is he trying to get some good money for a uni education by doing a little acting work on the side. God, Mersey TV must be the best employer of the unemployable in Liverpool - and that said, I feel another flame war about to start on the Official Forum, which is what it’s known for, you know.
‘Soddy, Missus Muddy,’ he begins, ‘boot it’s me moom an’ dad. They’re gettin a divorce, like, an’ they was fightin’ awful -’
‘You know how it is when you and me dad fight,’ interjects Adele, smugly.
‘Anyway,’ continues Roosle, ‘it was bad, like. Me dad threw a whole carton of eggs at the wall, like. An me moom hit him with a salmon,’
THAT STILL DOESN’T EXPLAIN WHY HE WAS AROUND HERE! Exclaims Dire.
‘It was doin’ me’ead in, like,’ Roosle explains. ‘And it was a frozen salmon an’all. Soddy, Missus Muddy, -’
‘Don’t call her "Mrs Murray"’, cheeks Adele, ‘call her "Diane".’
‘Adele’s been a ge-dreat sup-poort ter me, trew all dis, like, y’know, Roosle promises, ‘boot it won’t’appen again, like, I promise, like, y’know.’
Ah, the eloquent voice of the illiterate Scouser!
The white builder’s van, emblazoned with ‘Howard & Son’ pulls to a halt in front of the bungalow where the red builder’s van, emblazoned with Shadwick & Son’ (note the similarity) used to sit. A handsome young man (what else on Brookside?) emerges and is greeted with scepticism by Ray. Is this lad the boss of this outfit? He asks, dubiously.
The young man smiles cockily and affirms that this is so. Actually, it’s his dad’s firm, he says; and he’s the ‘Son’ of Howard & Son. Only the old man’s in hozzy at the moment. Done his hip in and having surgery.
Ray’s still not confident about this. How old IS this young man, exactly?
Twenty-seven, the young man smiles, and assures Ray, teasingly, that he runs a really tight ship when he’s in charge - tea breaks at 11 et al.
Ray starts to minge about the state the builders have left everything in. Why they dumped that cement mixer three weeks ago and left without a dickie bird. Ray had been on the phone incessantly to the firm since then and hadn’t had a satisfactory reply.
Ah, well, that would have been when the old man did his hip in, young Howard explains, smoothly. (Does this remind anyone eerily of the early appearances of Greg Shadwick? Never finishing something before moving onto another? Hmmm ... Wonder if this one will end up naked and dead in a shower with Gaby the Grin?)
As Ray haggles with the builder, Jacqui and Max are leaving Chateau Farnham to go to their respective jobs. Max is gazing about the place and wondering aloud if he should get on the mailing lists of a few more estate agents in order to view other houses.
As a matter of fact, replies Jacqui, looking like the cat that ate the canary, she’s arranged a viewing for that very afternoon.
Well, Max is impressed, he says, smilingly. Where exactly is the property?
Jacqui slyly replies, telling him that she’s paid Rachel some extra money to take the kids out for the afternoon, so they could view the property in private, with no distractions. And, seeing the puzzled look on Max’s face, she expansively points to the Dixon house. She’s arranged to view Number 8, Brookside Close.
Then she explains the plan to Max. Ron was finding living in Number 8 intolerable at the moment, and after Ray and Jessie return to the bungalow, there would really be no need for such a big property for him. Er, Ron had approached Jacqui with the suggestion that the Farnhams and he swap houses.
What a good idea! Remarks Max, with false enthusiasm overlaid with heavy sarcasm. In fact, let’s do it this weekend! And HE thought Jimmy Corkhill was the only person around here with a mental health problem!
And he stalks off in the direction of The Parade, leaving Jacqui doing an apt impersonation of a fly-catcher with great consternation.
Ray still argues with the builder about not having got in touch with him to advise him of Howard pere’s mishap; but he shuts his gob long enough to give the young man a tour of the place to let him know what he wants done. As he starts off, the builder’s mobile phone sounds - just like Greg Shadwick’s.
And speaking of Shadwick, the elder female fruit of Greg’s loins stands at the breakfast counter at Hotel Corkhill. As the SuperSage enters, decked out in a spiffy new shirt, Dr Nikki reminds him, dutifully, that they need a fresh granary loaf - not any old pre-cut loaf of bread from Tesco’s but a FRESH GRANARY loaf - the expensive kind. Now I wonder. Jimmy has no job. Do we hear of him claiming benefits (and surely he must be entitled to a few?)? No. The only income he seems to have is the minuscule rent received from Timily - assuming that Nikki and Jerome, impoverished, designer-clad students that they are, pay nothing (not that Jerome would offer to, anyway). So how come he’s so flaming opulent? THIS IS UNREAL!!!
Noticing his new togs, Dr Nikki asks the reason Jimmy’s so decked out. He’s put on a new shirt, he explains, because he’s off to see the woman he reckons is Helen’s mum, Sylvia Morgan of Tewbrook. He’s keen to make a good impression, he says.
Dr Nikki’s brows knit together with concern. So Jimmy’s going to VISIT this woman? She asks. Is he absolutely certain that she’s Helen’s mum?
Jimmy falters a bit. Well, er ... The odds are 60-40 against it, actually, he admits.
Nikki looks sceptical.
But he’s got this FEELING, Jimmy insists. He KNOWS this woman is Helen’s mum. So he’s going to see her first to make sure. Call it a ... Romantic gesture. He had a plan, he explains. He’ll check out the woman and make sure she’s the right Sylvia. Then he won’t say a thing until he’s certain he’s found her.
Dr Nikki’s brows knit even further together, making her look like a Scouse version of a bleached Shirley Temple. She doesn’t think it’s such a good idea that Jimmy visit this woman at all, she cautions.
Jimmy looks at her quizzically.
This is someone’s lost relative, Nikki reasons, it’s not a game of treasure hunt. What if he finds that this woman IS Helen’s mother and that she’s not exactly waiting with open arms and wanting a tearful reunion. It’s not that show fronted by Cilla Black, she points out. Jimmy COULD be opening a door of this woman’s past that she wants firmly closed. If that’s the case, then how would he explain that to Helen - ‘Sorry, Helen, but yer moom doesn’t want to know yer.?’
Of COURSE, Dr Nikki’s right, as Jimmy points out - she’s always the voice of reason.
Nikki smirks knowingly at Jimmy’s correct assumption of her abilities. Why doesn’t he just tell Helen that he’s traced a woman who MIGHT be her mother.
Ray wants Jimmy to stay away from Helen, Jimmy tells her.
Then Jimmy should tell Ray about this, Dr Nikki advises.
Nisha is rummaging furiously through drawers and shelves in the flat, followed frantically by poor, pitiful Katie in her wake. Nisha is looking for something, which she can’t find, and talking to Katie over her shoulder at the same time.
Katie is pleading desperately for Nisha to reconsider and stay at the flat.
Why is Katie off work? Nisha demands.
Because she’s depressed, whines Katie.
Then why does she drink? Snaps Nisha.
Because the booze makes the depression goes away, says Katie.
Nishs stops her search momentarily and faces Katie, her arms akimbo and looks disdainfully at the girl. Did Katie realise how SELFISH she was? Did she really know? She sneers. Nisha knows that Clint’s dead; she knows it’s been a year since he died. In fact, she says brutally, she can’t help but know anything else, the consequences of his death having been rammed down her throat for the past year. But did Katie ever stop and think of what Nisha was going through in her own life? No, of course she didn’t. Did she realise that how much Nisha missed her own parents, how much Nisha was hurt by not seeing them or her sister? Of course, Katie didn’t. Because she never thought to ask.
Yes, she continues, as she begins again to rummage here and there, she knows Clint’s been dead a year, and she’s done her best to do well by Katie. She’s distanced herself from Katie’s problems, and she’s tried to deflect any criticism of Katie’s behaviour; she’s listened to her rantings and her unreasonable behaviour towards the Dixons and Jacqui, in particular. She’s even picked Katie off the floor and cleaned up her vomit, and not once in that entire time, did Katie EVER think to ask if anything were bothering Nisha in her own life.
Sammy enters, having returned from the garage, and witnesses the last few moments of Nisha’s search and rant. And that’s not all, Nisha continues, moving into the kitchen area around the breakfast bar, where Katie’s handbag sits. She’s actually gone as far as hiding drink from Katie and making excuses for her numerous absences at work. And yet all Katie’s done is push her away and hide the truth from her.
She says this last sentence and she suddenly prises open Katie’s handbag and begins to rummage through its contents, to the futile protests of Sammy and Katie. What did Nisha think she was doing? Sammy demands.
As Sammy asks this, Nisha suddenly pulls a bulging white envelope from the handbag, holds it up triumphantly and removes some scissors from the kitchen drawer. Cutting the envelope, she empties its contents onto the counter. The missing coproximal tablets. Nisha stands vindicated. She shows the tablets to Sammy, who’s astounded and ashamed.
Sammy asks Katie if Katie were serious about using these tablets.
Poor, pitiful, smelly, sneaky Katie drops her gaze and admits that she was thinking about it.
Nisha shows no sympathy at all. She shoves her own face just inches from Katie’s and roughly tells her to get over Clint and think about trying to help herself. Get active again, go to work, see people. Go through the motions, if she has to at first, but get back into some sort of life.
‘Now get dressed and go to work!’ Nisha orders her.
Instead, Katie pushes past her, in the direction of her lair. She needs to sleep it off, she mutters. But she turns at the door of her lair and demands that Nisha give her a painkiller.
‘Coproximal isn’t for hangovers,’ Nisha remarks, acerbically, and Sammy tosses the bottle of over-the-counter tablets at Katie, who catches them.
When Katie disappears into her lair, Sammy looks reluctantly at Nisha. ‘Cheers,’ she mumbles.
Meanwhile, back at Sitcom House, Big Dire’s calmed Antony’s fears the best way she knows how. She’s fixed him his favourite, high-colesterol brekkie, as Ant sits expectantly at the sitcom table, which seems to be in a different part of the sitcom kitchen each time we visit it.
Adele and Roosle enter from the conservatory, Adele asking Big Dire if Roosle could have a sarnie.
‘I’m’oong-ry, Missus Muddy,’ confirms Roosle. ‘Specially since me folks was fightin’ when me moom was s’posed ter be fixin me tea, like, y’know.’
Dire reluctantly relents, warning Roosle that there should be no more surprise visits.
As Adele and Roosle leave the sitcom kitchen, Dire remarks that when Ant discovered a stranger in the house, he was screaming to Dire that someone was after him. Who did he think it was?
Ant lies quickly, as most good Catholic boys are taught to do, especially those who want to be priests, saying he thought it might be burglars, y’know, like those blokes Adele had in her room that time.
Roosle catches the end of this as he and Adele walk toward the sitcom front door. Who were those guys in Adele’s room? He asks, but Adele shushes him by saying they were two burglars who cleaned the Murrays out.
Roosle wants to treat Adele, for helping him through the night. There’s a good film on, he suggests, a real chick flick, if she wants to go.
Adele doesn’t seem that interested in Roosle, considering the off-hand manner in which she treats him - or maybe she’s just playing hard to get.
She has to work, she tells him, shortly. And Roosle is NOT to come round the garage pestering her, or else Leanne would only have a go at him and her. And she packs off yet another EMASCULATED Brookside male. How original.
OMIGOD!!! WHAT’S HAPPENING?!!! Back at NNT, poor, pitiful, stinky, smelly, greasy, fetid, slovenly Katie is doing a clothes-wash. (Now THAT’S a step in the right direction - personal hygiene comes next).
She kneels by the washing machine to put an article of clothing inside. It’s none other than her NHS receptionist’s uniform, bearing her name on the name-tag. She looks at it, pensively.
Jessie and Brigid arrive on the Close, from separate errands and bump into each other. They immediately put their heads together over a brochure of some sort that Jessie appears to have. They whisper excitedly about an excursion of sort proving to be a treat.
Brigid glances over at the commotion taking place at the Hilton bungalow, with the sound of the cement mixer and the sight of Ray waving his hands and arms about giving directions to the young builder.
Jessies follows Brigid’s gaze with a dubious one of her own.
Brigid asks Jessie if she’s got a completion date yet for the bungalow renovation. Jessie screws her face up disdainfully and quips to Brigid to chose a date at random and them double it.
At that moment, Dr Nikki, clad in tight jeans, steps onto the doorstep of Hotel Corkhill to put an empty milk bottle on the stoop. Instead of just leaning out of the front door and depositing the bottle, Dr Nikki, for some reason, known only to God and Heather Robson (who COULD be one and the same, I suppose), Dr Nikki has to descend the stoop, turn around and bend over, thus providing the young builder with a full view of her pert, up-turned arse (which in relation to her acting ability, as our own Dr Dave has mentioned, has about as much use and relevance as a chocolate teapot).
Obligingly the ‘Son’ bit of ‘Howard and Son’ issues a wolf-whistle.
Brigid and Jessie put their heads together and twitter appreciatively, as Dr Nikki, scurries into the safety of Hotel Corkhill in high dudgeon.
Once inside, Dr Nikki rants about the behaviour of the young builder, which she, being the politically correct mouthpiece character of Mersey TV these days, finds offensive. The sexist scoom! She exclaims, to the SuperSage, who’s otherwise occupied and only half-listening. Is he sad or what? She continues. Her Jerome never once treated her like that, she says. (Ah, but who’s to say Jerome hasn’t been likewise appreciative of other women from a distance? Lads together and all that ...).
Hmph! She snorts, derisively, she bets that builder fella wouldn’t behave like that if his moom or sister had been a victim of rape? She only wishes he could suffer as much as she had.
The SuperSage, without even disdaining to look at his disciple, calmly informs her that hers was not the only gender that was harassed. (Oh, what an INTELLIGENT remark, considering that there are only two genders in the world).
Changing the subject, Dr Nikki asks the SuperSage if he’s managed to talk to Ray yet.
No, Jimmy replies, shortly. Talking to Ray would do no good. Ray simply doesn’t want Helen to see Jimmy. He thinks Jimmy is a liability, he remarks, morosely, with more than a hint of self-pity.
But Dr Nikki, who’s full of absolutely FABULOUS original ideas (which is why she doesn’t EVER have to attend university lectures), suggests that the best thing Jimmy could do is use Ray as a middleman. (Into using people, are we, Nikki?). Why doesn’t Jimmy give Ray the address he’s found on the Internet and tell him to give it to Helen? THAT way, if this is the correct Sylvia Morgan, then Helen will call Jimmy.
(Oo-er, she IS clever, that Dr Nikki!)
Brigid has entered Sitcom House and sits in the sitcom lounge, with Big Dire, who’s stuffing her big gob with lunch. Brigid talks at her daughter’s stuffed chipmunk-like face, going on about her OAP friends at the Bingo club - not the sort whose hair Dire would condescend to do at her salon, she remarks deprecatingly.
SPEAKING OF THE SALON, Dire says in her naturally booming voice, SHE’LL HAVE TO START TAKING HER LOONCH THERE, IF THIS NOISE IS ANYTHING TO GO BY! She indicates the racket coming from the direction of the bungalow. (Funny, how the noise from the cement mixer fails to drain out Dires BIG voice).
Dire tells Brigid about the Antichrist’s discovery of Roosle in Sitcom House in the early hours of the morning. TURNS OUT, she delights in informing Brigid (anything to detract Adele’s character), ROOSLE HAD BEEN THERE ALL NIGHT WITH ADELE.
The two were together all night! Huffs Brigid, in pious disbelief. Under the same roof?
DIRE DOESN’T THINK THE LAD’S THAT TYPE, Dire hastens to add.
ALL lads that age are ‘that type’, pronounces Brigid. And didn’t Dire say that the first time they’d met the lad, he was drunk? Well, she didn’t like the sound of this Roosle - not one bit! And frightening poor Antony like that and all! The poor lad’s hardly over that bullying ordeal - it’s left its mark on him.
Across the Close, meantime, Ray is teaching the young builder how to suck eggs, giving him instructions on how to do a job he’s been trained to do, probably from infancy.
The builder listens to him with droll tolerance, remarking at the end of the elaborate instrutctions, that Ray sounds exactly like his dad.
Well, if that’s what his dad is like, Ray jokes, he likes the sound of him.
Jimmy approaches the two men, tentatively, clasping the precious piece of paper bearing Sylvia’s address, in his hand. He greets Ray, but Ray, sussing the reason for Jimmy’s appearance, attempts to avoid any issue of Helen, by grabbing the first bit of damaged wood from the bungalow fire and studying it intently.
Does Jimmy realise, he witters, that a lot of this damaged wood could actually be salvaged? He shows him the piece. Look at that, he motions. Nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, he was of a mind to gather all the salvageable bits together and make something for the new place - sort of like a memento of the old - maybe some wind chimes, eh?
Jimmy keeps trying to get a word in edgewise, and suddenly he manages to do so, shoving the bit of paper into Ray’s hand. Would Raymundo mind passing that onto Helen? He asks. Only it’s Sylvia Morgan’s address. He’s managed to trace her through the Internet - at least, he thinks it’s the right Sylvia.
Ray gazes at the paper with a dazed look on his face. This is fantastic, he says, slowly and reluctantly, looking up from the paper to meet Jimmy’s gaze, but Jimmy is already in retreat.
Tell Helen not to build her hopes up, Jimmy warns, walking away. It’s really a shot in the dark. As he departs, he admonishes Ray not to let this matter slip his mind.
Ray is left looking at the paper and fearfully gazing after Jimmy.
Poor, pitiful, stinking, smelly, sad Katie lies woefully on the sofa in NNT. Sammy enters the flat and stands over her apparently sleeping sister. Sammy prods her gently. Is Katie dead or alive? She asks, apparently fearful that Katie’s taken an overdose.
‘Living dead,’ mumbles poor, pitiful, sad, stinking, filthy Katie, full of self-pity.
Sammy rounds the sofa and plops herself down beside Katie. Whatever was Katie thinking of, she scolds, hiding those painkillers? Didn’t Katie realise how much she would hurt all the people who loved her if she did something that stupid - people like Sammy and Louise?
Why, just look, says Sammy, pulling something from her handbag. Look what Louise has sent her? Louise has made a necklace for Sammy and a bracelet for Katie. And guess what? Louise was actually coming to spend half-term with Sammy - and bringing her friend, Tanya. That’s one up on Richard, she gloats, Louise choosing to spend this half-term with Sammy. Why, Katie has a lot to look forward to!
Katie asks Sammy desperately if she thinks Nisha really will move out (and leave them with the responsibility of paying the rent).
Well, if she did, quips Sammy, then there would be room enough for Tanya -
Katie reprimands Sammy’s selfish remark.
Sammy suggests that Katie write a thank-you note to Louise for the bracelet that she made her, but Katie demurs. She’s got another job to do first, she says, looking pointedly at Nisha’s packed luggage.
OMIGOD! We’ve seen something else we haven’t seen in ages at Sitcom House. Adele’s computer!!! Is it ALWAYS in the sitcom kitchen-diner? Or is it dismantled and moved about the house as it’s needed? And where, pray tell, is the poor dog?
Brigid stands over Adele, who never seems to be at school these days, as Adele talks to her grandmother about buying cosmetics for her holiday in Ayia Napa.
As Adele continues to witter about the up-coming holiday, Brigid turns and mouths to Dire, ‘Is she REALLY going on this holiday?’
Dire furiously frowns and shakes her head, as Brigid approaches her daughter, who’s incapable of whispering. When Brigid gets close enough, Dire mutters that Adele is far too young to go on such a jaunt.
The doorbell rings and Brigid goes to answer it, finding Roosle, holding a new begonia. Brigid calls over her shoulder that there’s a young man who’s arrived for Adele. Adele ushers Roosle into the sitcom kitchen. Roosle offers the new begonia to Dire and apologises for scaring Antony and staying over without their permission. Oh and he’s brought the new begonia to replace the one whose pot he broke, like. He doesn’t mean to take advantage of the Muddy’s hospitality.
Dire asks if Roosle planned to stay for his tea, but Roosle demurs. He’s planning on staying in with his moom tonight. She’s a bit down because of his parents’ divorce.
Dire and Brigid exchange impressed looks.Max and Jacqui, meanwhile, are taking a ‘tour’ of a house they know very well - Number 8. But they’re viewing it in a way they’ve never seen it before - as prospective buyers.
Jacqui eagerly shows him the spaciousness afforded by the new downstairs extension, as Max affects not to be impressed with what she’s doing. In fact, he distinctly suspects Ron’s behind all this.
‘Where is he?’ Max asks, with tired suspicion.
‘Who? Mike?’ Replies Jacqui, equally affecting ignorance of Max’s attitude. ‘He oopstairs in bed.’
No, Max says, he means Ron.
Jacqui ignores the jibe, gesturing about the place and twirling the end of her hair. Just think about it, she urges Max. Look! They’d actually have TWO reception rooms - one for the kids to play in and one for the grown-ups to be able to get away from the kids. (I must admit, I’ve never seen the Dixon house, portrayed in such a way. It positively looked like another house. I hadn’t realised that such an extension had been added, as all the viewers see are the two pokey rooms downstairs.)
AND ... They’d still remain close to their local amenities (i.e., The Parade). They’d still be able to walk to their respective jobs.
AND ... There would be two perfectly good cars going to waste in the drive-way, argues Max.
Well, if they DID move elsewhere, Jacqui says, they would either have to bring the kids back here every day to Rachel, or else fork out and pay Rachel higher wages (heaven forbid!) in order for her to make the journey to their house for baby-sitting duties.
Listen, Jacqui continues, she and Ron spent nearly the entire weekend drawing up a list of pros and cons about the idea of swapping houses. And the pros far outweighed the cons.
So this has all been going on behind his back, Max surmises.
As poor, pitiful, stinky, smelly Katie sits forlornly on the NNT sofa, Sammy replaces Nisha’s CDs in their appropriate places, having unpacked the Naughty Nurse’s belongings without her knowledge. THAT should do the trick, she says, with finality, turning to face Katie.
Sammy admits reluctantly that Nisha was basically right, even though what she said managed to upset Katie. It IS time for Katie to move on. Sammy was just put out that Nisha seems to know Katie better than Sammy knows her own sister. And Sammy felt terrible that she wasn’t here for Katie when Clint died.
Actually, Sammy continues, Nisha doesn’t REALLY have what she and Katie have, as sisters - and maybe that’s why Nisha had a cuddle with Dr Parr.
Katie’s curious enough to ask Sammy if she thinks that there’s really something going on between Nisha and Dr Parr.
Sammy honestly doesn’t think there’s anything romantic between Nisha and the doctor. Nisha is a professional to the ‘T’, she emphasises. Oh, Sammy admits that privately Nisha’s often led by her loins and has the morals of an alley cat, but she didn’t SERIOUSLY think Nisha would break up a marriage. She’s certain that the friendship between Nisha and the doctor is purely platonic.
Back at Sitcom House, as Brigid sets the sitcom table, which seems to have moved YET AGAIN to another position in the room, she remarks to a passing Adele, that it would be nice if she would invite Roosle for Sunday lunch sometime.
The doorbell sounds and the Antichrist leads Jessie into the room, announcing to Brigid that Jessie’s come to see her.
Jessie holds some papers out to Brigid, excitedly, informing her that the leaflets for the excursion had come in the post today. Brigid snatches the leaflets and the two women giggle and laugh about their contents.
Nosey Dire moseys up to Brigid’s shoulder, asking what all the amusement’s about; and Brigid informs her daughter that she and Jessie were going on an excursion to London for the Jubilee weekend.
WHO ORGANISED THIS? Demands Dire.
Oh, they were going with the Bingo Club, Brigid blithely informs her, and now Dire’s really put out. WHY DIDN’T THEY SAID ANYTHING TER HER? SHE WOULD HAVE LIKED A GIRLS’ DAY OUT IN LONDON. AND MAYBE ANTONY WOULD HAVE LIKED TO GO TO LONDON TOO.
Ant, passing through the room, stops long enough, upon hearing this remark to say that London is the last place he wants to go at the moment.
Dire won’t be deterred, however. SHE’S NOT AT ALL SURE ABOUT BRIGID AND JESSIE SWANNING OFF FOR AN EXCURSION TO LONDON WITH THAT BINGO CROWD.
Adele chips in to ask the women if they planned a go on the London eye, but Brigid laughingly doesn’t think they would. Still, there were plenty of other things to see during Jubilee weekend.
Dire continues, unabated. SHE WAS RIGHT TO VOICE HER CONCERN. A BODY COULDN’T BE TOO CAREFUL IN LONDON THESE DAYS (and Liverpool, too, I daresay). AND A COACHLOAD OF PENSIONERS - WHY, ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN.
Jessie manages a deadpan quip, assuring Dire that they would all wear name badges and walk crocodile fashion, so no one would get lost; but Brigid’s clearly had enough of Dire’s jealous attitude and shouts at Dire, over her shoulder to ‘take a chill pill’.
Nisha returns from her shift to find her packed suitcases have been removed. Where’s her stuff? She asks.
Oh, replies Sammy, nonchalantly, she kept tripping over it, so she unpacked the bags and put Nisha’s belongings away. Then, seeing the dubious look on Nisha’s face, Sammy begs the woman to give the flat one more go. Put Sammy on a trial period, if she wants to, but please, don’t leave.
Nisha grudgingly agrees to remain.
The Farnhams are still debating a move into Number 8. Jacqui points out to Max that Number 8 has a utility room as well (not that Jacqui would ever use it). Besides, she argues, maybe it’s time Max ditched all the bad memories inherent at Number 7 and made a fresh start with his new wife in a new home. Jacqui admits to Max that, even though they got new bedroom furniture, it still felt weird for her to go to sleep every night in the same room Max shared with Susannah.
Max actually admits that the days when he didn’t think of Susannah as he left the house each morning were few and far between.
Then what better idea, says Jacqui, than for them to have a fresh start in the home where she grew up.
And there WAS room for expansion, Max says, when the Farnham family expanded.
Maybe, agrees Jacqui, coyly, sitting on his lap.
And Jacqui would still be able to keep an eye on Ron, Max says.
Jacqui agrees that was her prime reason for wanting to swap houses, especially with Ron in and out of this depression. And truthfully, Ron couldn’t live any longer at Number 8.
(Er, question here. Jessie MUST have entered Number 8 to collect her post and she must have been there long enough to have seen Max and Jacqui and to have wondered what they were up to. Loss of concentration, there, Heather).
As Jessie leaves Sitcom House, with Brigid and Dire in attendance to see her off, she encounters Dr Nikki and SuperSage standing outside Hotel Corkhill. For some reason, Dr Nikki can’t take her blue eyes off the comely form of the ‘Son’ bit of ‘Howard & Son’. (OF COURSE, IT’S SO EASY TO TELL THAT NIKKI AND THE BUILDER WILL FALL IN LOVE. IT’S SO OBVIOUS. IT’S THERE FOR ALL OF US TO SEE. BUT WE’RE SUCH SHIT-STUPID VIEWERS, WE NEED THE OMNIPRESENT GUIDANCE OF UNCLE PHIL VIA THE AUSPICES OF HIS NUMBER ONE DISCIPLE HEATHER TO GUIDE US ALONG THE INTRICATE ENTRAILS OF THIS STORYLINE).
Jessie notices Dr Nikki’s interest, and plays upon this, suggesting that the po-faced girl should get the builder to show her the plans for her new bedroom. (NUDGE NUDGE WINK WINK).
Brigid gazes openly and with unfeigned admiration in ‘Son’s’ direction. She opines that the lad has the look of a young Gregory Peck about him.
Jessie turns to Brigid briefly to discuss the sort of food the two of them should bring for the coach trip, which sparks the Sage’s instant curiosity.
Planning a holiday? He asks, pleasantly enough.
Oh, yes, answers Jessie, eagerly. They’re off to London for the Jubilee.
THE QUEEN’S JUBILEE? Exclaims the Sage, with disapproval. Are Jessie and Brigid BONKERS?
No, retorts Jessie, offended by his tone. They happened to be travelling to London to celebrate their Queen’s 50 years on the throne.
‘Do me a favour!’ Says Jimmy, with disdain. ‘Do yer honestly think it’ll matter ter Liz that yer’ll be there!’
Have some respect, huffs Brigid. It’s been a difficult year for the Queen. After all, she has lost her mother and her sister.
‘And what has the Queen ever doon fer the like of oos?’ Jimmy wants to know.
‘We’re showing solidarity for our Queen,’ lectures Jessie. ‘She’s British and she’s what keeps this country British.’
BRITISH! Booms the omniscient SuperSage. THEY’RE A BOONCH O’GERR-MANS AND GREEKS!
Jessie ticks Jimmy off about his comments. The Queen does a good job by this country, she opines.
Dr Nikki, who also knows more than anyone else in the whole, wide world, chips in, remarking that the Queen hasn’t done a day’s work in her life.
AND WHEN WINDSOR CASTLE BERR-NED DOWN, WHOSE TAXES PAID FER ITS RESTORATION! Booms the SuperSage. HE’D LIKE TO SEE SOOM O’THIS SO-CALLED WORK THE QUEEN DOES.
The Queen hasn’t put a foot wrong in fifty years, Jessie reminds the would-be socio-spiritual rulers of the Close. That’s more than she could say for a lot of people, she adds, pointedly.
‘FIFTY YEARS!’ Repeats the egocentric SuperSage. ‘I’M FIFTY YEARS OLD! WHO WAVES FLAGS AT ME? IF THERE’S GOIN’ TER BE A JUBILEE, IT SHOULD BE TER CELEBRATE THE PEOPLE!’
And immediately, Jimmy hits upon another screwball idea, which is REALLY the idea of all those wonderfully politically correct people at Mersey TV. He’ll stage his OWN Jubilee celebration. And it wouldn’t be to celebrate the Queen either. HIS Jubilee will be the PEOPLE’S Jubilee, where everyone could celebrate their own lives and achievements for the past fifty years.
‘Let’s hope this doesn’t involve another arch,’ Jess remarks, acerbically.
No, says Jimmy, excitedly, but people could bring all their mementoes of anything that was important in their lives for the past fifty years -
‘You’re forgetting,’ interrupts Jessie, archly. ‘’I HAVE no mementoes of the past fifty years. They’ve all gone up in smoke.’ And she turns to walk away from the self-loving screwball, but turns around to face Jimmy once more. Maybe Jimmy should get together with Ray. HE’S on about planning a street party. Maybe Jimmy should chip in with him.
The young builder suggests to Ray that he pack up for the day, as he wants to visit his dad in hospital. He also tells Ray that he plans all his building work, so that he’s able to take three months off during the winter months.
Jessie approaches and the lad flirts with her a bit, as Ray primly chips in to remind the lad that he wants to set some house rules. It’s OK for the lads to pee against the construction at the back of the bungalow, but not when there were women present.
Jessie admonishes Ray not to be so picky. It’s better the lads did their business there, than to traipse mud all through the Dixon house in their big boots and such.
As he gathers his equipment of in preparation of departure, the young builder promises Ray that the plumbing would be a priority task for the bungalow.
As the young man leaves, Jessie remarks admiringly that th e lad hadn’t stop work all day. Ray, however, isn’t so convinced by this builder’s attitude and ability. He’s got an eye for the ladies, all right, he does admit.
Ray has an eye for the ladies too, Jessie says. Then she remarks to Ray about Jimmy seeing him about the street party, although, she must admit she finds that Jimmy has some strange ideas about the Jubilee. Anyway, she finishes, tea will be in an hour.
As she turns to leave, she suddenly turns back to Ray. She KNOWS that she and Ray are going to be happy again, she says, with confidence.
(Cue music of impending doom - especially since Margi Campi and Kenneth Cope are BOTH leaving the show).
Nisha and Sammy sit on the NNT sofa, with poor, pitiful, stinking, foul-smelling, fetid Katie placed between them. The two women are trying to convince Katie that it’s in her best interests to return to work - and sooner, rather than later.
Katie will soon be off for more than a week, Nisha reminds her, ominously. She’ll need a doctor’s note if she’s off sick for more than a week. Besides, she continues, Katie was already skating on thin ice with Gary Parr. He’s already expressed his concern that she’s not up to the job - AND he’s seen her drunk.
The wretch STILL doesn’t think she’s up to returning to work and facing the public.
She’s also got a written warning against her, Sammy adds.
If Katie’s off for more than a week, Nisha warns, it won’t go down well with Dr Parr. Katie knows what Gary Parr’s like about hangovers.
Katie still refuses.
Look, Nisha argues, unsympathetically. It’s time to put the past in the past. What Katie has to do now is simply turn up and respond. They’d take it from there.
This episode has been crafted by the timelessly accurate and politically correct pen of Heather Robson. BOLLOCKS!
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002