A SIMPLE SOAP FOR SIMPLE PEOPLE
Picture this. A couple of weeks in the future. The World Cup is over, although it got nary a mention on Brookside, and the Gordons have just finished moving in. Alan Gordon polishes up his Phiw Mitchell Number One head and heads down through the alleyway in the direction of Bar Brookie. He enters, to find Bev serving behind the bar.
Alan: Ehm, ta, luv. Can a fella get a brew here, like?
Bev (eyeing him, suspiciously): Well, I dunno. And who might YOU be when yer at home?
Alan: Me? Oh, I’m da new fella, see? Me’n me fam’ly’s joost moved in on da Close, like, Noomber 5, Brookside Close, dat’s me.
Bev (still sneering): Oh, so that’s yer name then, is it, Mr Noomber Five? Could be werrse, I s’pose. Yer could be Mr Sixty-Nine.
Alan: Ehm, don’t take me fer bein’ rude, like, luv, boot, like I’m gaspin’. Could I have a pint o’ yer best, please?
Bev (raising her eyebrows): Dunno about that. Are ya simple?
Alan (horrified): You what?
Bev: You heard! Are you simple?
Alan (exasperated): Bloody Nora! What’s dat got ter do wid me wanting ter down a pint?
Bev (haughtily): This is a simple bar fer simple people. If yer not simple, yer don’t get served. Now, do one!
Alan, in a puzzled state, staggers down the Parade. He approaches the Clinic and figures that, since he’s here, he may as well get the family registered. He enters. As usual, it’s empty, except for Katie, who’s drunk on reception.
Alan: Erm, ‘scuse me, luv, boot ... Like, I’m new here, see, me’n me fam’ly. Could I, like, register oos wid one o’da docs?
Katie: Ye got ter answer a coopla questions ferrst. We doan joost take anyone here at dis clinic, ya know. We’re a quality place, we are.
Alan (obligingly): Sure, luv, like.
Katie (squinting her eyes and peering at the questionnaire): Right, like. Ferrst question: Are you simple?
Alan (disbelievingly): You what?
Katie (shrieking): You heard! Are you simple?
Alan: What the hell - ! No! Look, I had da woman in da bar oop the Parade ask me da same question. No! No! I ain’t simple.
Katie: The soddy, yer can’t be registered here. This is a simple clinic fer simple people. Now, do one before I call da bizzies!
By now Alan’s truly baffled, but he carries on walking down the Parade until he comes to the entrance to The Shelf. Feeling a bit peckish, Alan enters the restaurant. At first, he’s a bit put off by the poshness of the place, but soon he attracts Max’s attention.
Max: Good afternoon, sir. Table for one?
Alan (dubiously); Errrm, yaz doan haveter be simple er anythink ter, like, eat here, does yer?
Max (in an offended tone): I beg your pardon?
Alan: Oney, I went inter the gaffe oop the Parade fer a brew, like, and the berrrd be’ind da bar said she couldn’t serrrve me if I wasn’t simple. Den I goes inter da clinic, right, and - oh, she was a right miserable cow, she was - she said da same, like I couldn’t register if I wasn’t simple.
Max: Well, I can assure you, we make no such discrimination here. Table for one? Lance will attend to your culinary needs.
I’d love to continue this, but it’s too much. But, get the drift? No matter how complex Brookside tries to present either its storylines or its characters, nothing is ever sussed, until only the simplest and most moronic aspect of the soap appears. That’s due, in a great part, to the type of people it’s attracting now - dullards of the lowest common denominator, whose tastes are spoon-fed by Dr Redmond.
Take the character of Dr Gary Parr, for example. This is singularly the most promising, most complex character to appear on the show in donkey’s years.His character is well-written, and Brookside is lucky enough to have a top-notch actor to portray him. But try to discuss him in depth on the Official Forum and what do you get?
‘I fink Ben Hull is fit.’
Need I say more, except to say that I think Brookside is fit at the moment - fit for the scrap heap. Five months until November. Tick ... Tick ... Tick.
Another day of promise and happiness begins on Brookside Close ... Not.
The first thing we see is Mike’s ugly, frowning, low-browed gob peering determinedly into the camera and filled with open hate.
Marty Murray is still digging in his back garden. No matter how big the hole is, it won’t fit into Dire’s humongous gob either.
Jimmy is looking decidedly smugger. I wish someone would smack the shit out of him, good and true.
Mike enters the ward where Rachel sits with Beth, who now looks the picture of health. She tells M-eye-ke that Beth slept a lot better the previous night. Oooh, Rachel seethes, hit joost doan seem r-eye-ght bowt M-eye-ke’s job havin’ go-ah at M-eye-ke bowt havin’ time off cuz Beth were sick.
Mike frowns even harder, so hard his face almost cracks. He’s through with that job. He’s packed it in and there’s no going back now. As far as he’s concerned, it was all Dr Parr’s fault that Beth got ill in the first place and the fact that Mike lost his job because of this is just another nail in Dr Parr’s coffin.
(Now, here’s Mike, with no job and two kids and a wife. Is he worried? No, why should he worry? He pays no rent, he buys no food. Daddy’s there to care for his every need. He makes me sick).
Marty Murray is putting the final touches on the new pond in his back garden, being watched by Dire and Antony. Dire has a sceptical look on her hard face; Antony looks like he’s continuously shitting his pants. Marty is hopeful about his new venture. He just needs to check the pond out.
JIMMY CORKHILL RECKONS THEY’RE DEATH TRAPS, PONDS! Bellows his big-mouthed wife. HE LEANED ACROSS THE FENCE TER TELL HER SO JOOST THE OTHER DAY.
Well, responds Marty, rightly, that’s none of Jimmy’s business. (Go, Marty!) Besides, his kids are big enough not to be in any danger.
Marty stands up and wipes his hands. He’s got to get to school, he tells Dire. He’s got to do some extra work to make sure the school’s clean tomorrow for the police re-enactment. Mrs Plummer wanted the place to look its best.
What’s the use of a re-enactment anyway? Antony asks, sullenly. Imelda’s in London.
There’s no definite proof that she was sighted, Marty replies, which is in direct contradiction to what was originally said about her disappearance. There was a DEFINITE sighting of her in London. The police reported it. Hmmmm ...
SOOMBODY WOULD HAVE HEARRRD FROM HER BY NOW IF SHE WAS ALIVE, bellows Dire again. ANYWAY, HIT’S GOOD TER HAVE A RE-ENACTMENT THING. WHY, THERE’S THIS FOONY FELLA BEEN HANGING ROUND THE PARADE THE PAST FEW DAYS. ALL THE GERRLS IN THE SALON ARE DEAD FRIGHTENED OF HIM.
Tim’s making a flypast of the Hotel Corkhill lounge, as he’s in a hurry off to another ‘legitimate’ job for which he pays no income tax or National Insurance. He pops his head into the Sage’s inner sanctum where he finds the venereal (pun intended) wise man, seated before his computer oracle. The Sage stops Tim, eagerly.
Ooh, ooh-ooh! Did Tim realise, that Jimmy’s ONLY gone and found that fella what maddied Sylvia Morgan to Iceland.
Tim feigns admiration for the feat. Is that a fact?
Jimmy nods smugly. Seems the feller was there during the 70’s. Maybe he and Helen are still there. (Uh-oh. Does this mean that Brookside is going to visit Ayia Napa AND Iceland? Don’t tell me. Laura, Emily and Adele will get on the wrong flight with their spare tits and bikinis and end up in Reykyavik (sic)? Oo-er, the Brookside Wank Brigade should have a lot of nipple shots then!)
Jimmy’s hot with effusive compliments for himself. Why, he was a regular Sam Spade, he was.
Sam Spade? Asks Tim, curiously. Who’s he?
Sam Spade, repeats Jimmy, with frustration. A private dick.
Well, quips Tim, as he leaves, he wouldn’t know about the private bit, but the rest of the description was apt.
*** HINT: (THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE WITTY. HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)***
Dire, Marty and Adele are in the sitcom kitchen. Adele is studying the calendar on the wall. Five more weeks of school, she calculates aloud, and eight more weeks until her holiday in Ayia Napa.
Standing where she’s always found in the sitcom kitchen, which is in front of the sitcom counter, Big Dire folds her arms and sets her hard mouth in a truculent line. Didn’t that bitch of a stepdaughter realise she wasn’t entitled to have any fun? She’d committed merr-derr, Holy Mother. She should be on her knees, flagellating herself for the rest of her pitiful life.
STILL PLANNIN’ ON YER HOLIDAY, ARE YE? Booms Big Dire in her big voice. ONLY HOW MOOCH MOONEY HAVE YER SAVED?
Adele admits that two more girls have dropped out, and she might have to pay a bit more money, but, not to worry, she adds confidently, she’ll get it saved.
HMPHH! Snorts Dire, viciously. SHE BETS MICHELLE’S MOOTHER WON’T LET HER GO! SHE WON’T EVEN LET MICHELLE GO OUT OF A SATURDAY NIGHT.
Adele glares back at Dire, bitchily. Michelle’s mother wasn’t about to let Michelle waste a deposit either.
Marty appears in the door to the sitcom lounge and announces with finality that Adele won’t be going to Ayia Napa. She’s too young, and that’s that.
At that moment, the doorbell rings. As she’s expecting Laura, Adele scampers to answer it.
Once she’s out of the room, Dire does a rare thing: she whispers. ‘What if all her mates CAN go?’ She hisses to Marty fearfully.
Marty shakes her head, smiling confidently. Their parents will simply never let them.
Dire muses about the old days when the whole family got on with one another just fine. Marty jokes that the last time that happened was some Sunday in 1998.
Adele enters with Laura in tow, as Dire finishes preparing a cup of tea for the lazy Plank, who’s still upstairs in bed. Dire asks Laura if she’d like to take the cup of tea up to Plank and Laura rises to the bait like a bitch on heat. As she hungrily holds her hands out for the mug, Dire pulls it away and laughs maniacally at her own joke.
***ANOTHER HINT: (THIS IS ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)***
When Dire leaves the room, the two girls sit down at the table, in order to add variety to the scene, because it gets a bit boring with two characters standing up and reciting their lines to one another. Adele asks Laura if her mother’s given her permission to go to Ayia Napa. Laura nods, but adds that her mother says that she can go, but only if her father pays the balance owed. What about Adele’s parents?
Well, Adele hesitates. They didn’t say ‘yes’, but then again, they haven’t said ‘no’ either.
Laura confirms that it’s almost certain that Michelle’s mother won’t let the girl go. (And that’s the end of Michelle’s days on Brookside. She was simply too ugly, like the first Louise). But don’t worry, Laura hastily adds, when she sees Adele’s face drop, they’ll get there.
(ANOTHER HINT ... WANT TO BET THIS LITTLE JAUNT WILL CONCERN TIM, EMILY, NIKKI, JEROME, LAURA, ADELE, PLANK AND THE GIRL FROM THE NEW FAMILY WITH THE BIG TITS AND THE SMALL TOP? OH, IT ‘S SO OBVIOUS).
Meanwhile, Mike and Rachel are still at the hospital, discussing their current pitiful plight. Oooh, realises Rachel. What they goin’ ter doooo? M-eye-ke quit job’n cain’t get no do-al. Oooh, ne’m-eye-nd. M-eye-ke get good job soon, ‘e’s so cle-veh.
Mike’s mouth turns down harshly and he glares at nothing. It’s all that Dr Parr’s fault. He knows what HE’D like ter do. He aims ter fix it so that snotty doctor loses HIS job!
Oooh, Rachel worries, she cain’t wait ter get Beth’ome. Mind yew, it’s a real mad’ouse there now.
Well, suggests Mike, ever the coward, maybe Rachel could ask Ron to hurry up and ditch Ray and Jessie out. (And Annabelle thinks Jacqui’s hard and selfish!)
Back at Hotel Corkhill, Jerome has awoken and stumbles unconvincingly into the lounge. I say, unconvincingly, because, like other Brookside characters, Jackie Corkhill being the exception, he looks remarkably clean and fragrant for one so freshly out of bed. His cornrows are immacculate, he doesn’t have a foghorn sound to his voice, he isn’t sweaty and he doesn’t have a morning erection, as most men do.
He glances around the living room area dubiously, wondering aloud about the whereabouts of Dr Nikki.
Oh, she’s gone out, mate, Jimmy informs him, helpfully. He tells Jerome that Nikki left early that morning and didn’t want to wake Jerome.
At that moment, the front doorbell rings, and - surprise, surprise! - Happy Smiling Helen has arrived. Jimmy greets her effusively, leading her toward the extension and telling her he has a surprise for her. (Any normal woman being led to the lair of a maniac like Jimmy would be in fear of her life, or something similar, but not Happy Smiling Helen. And, do my eyes deceive me, or has Kerry Peers got decidedly FAT in the past few months?)
He leads her into the extension and bids her take a seat near the computer. He directs her attention to the screen, where there’s a formal picture of a group of men taken in the 1970’s. Jimmy informs her that the picture is one of the Icelandic Delegation to some sort of Council function held in Liverpool. He points to a blonde man with a large moustache, seated in the middle of the group. That’s Bard Johannesen, he informs Happy Smiling Helen, who smiles happily and nods her head in acknowledgement. Sylvia Morgan’s husband.
Happy Smiling Helen giggles excitedly and bobs her head frenetically with glee. How EVER did Jimmy, who’s so clever and creative, discover this?
Patience and persistence, replies Jimmy, with modesty so false a normal viewer would want to puke. Actually, he confesses, he came across the picture on the website of some ex-councillor.
Oooh, gasps Happy Smiling Helen, bobbing her head in admiration, it simply must have taken Jimmy absolute ages to find this. Then she begins to giggle about the wide shirt collars and ties the men in the picture are wearing, as though she never experienced styles of that sort. And those Mexican moustaches!
Hey, jokes Jimmy, he had one of those.
***HINT: (THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. WE’RE SUPPOSED TO LAUGH. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA)***
Rachel and Mike have virtually taken up residence at the hospital, where Beth, who appears to have recovered remarkably quickly from a disease as serious as meningitis, is being held in Rachel’s arms. She babbles baby talk incessantly to her real mother, who’s off-screen.
Oooh, Rachel tells M-eye-ke, blinking, oooh, doc-teh wan’ter see Beth. Doc-teh wan’ter let oos know’ow she is.
Meanwhile, it must be as slack in Bar Brookie as it is in the Salon, because Dire and Bev, two of the biggest gobs on Brookside, are having a chinwag in the bar. Bev’s bemoaning the fact that she’s turning 30 on Sunday. She’s getting old. (A lot of people of lower intellect on the O F find it difficult to believe that Sarah White’s character is just 30. Sarah White, herself, is only 32).
Dire tells Bev that ON HER THIRTIETH, MARTY TOOK HER FER A QUIET MEAL, BOOT WHEN THEY GOT TER THE RESTAURANT, THERE WAS A BLOODY GREAT SURPRISE PARTY HE’D ONLY GONE AND ORGANISED FER HER. She encourages Bev to celebrate the occasion - organise and throw herself a big birthday bash. But Bev insists that she doesn’t feel like celebrating.
They put their heads together over the bar and have a gossip about this possibility, and therefore, don’t see Jacqui enter the premises.
Jacqui approaches and asks Bev if she’s particularly busy that morning.
Bev gives an exaggeratedly startled jump when she hears Jacqui’s voice, but Dire diffuses the situation by asking Jacqui if there’s been any news on Beth and asks if Jacqui’s two kids are OK.
Jacqui curtly replies that Beth is on the mend and that Harry and Emma are OK, and - by the way, she warns Bev, she’ll be in the office if she’s needed.
As Jacqui moves toward the office, Bev lowers her voice and begins to grumble about being treated like a schoolkid, which is essentially what she’s behaving like.
Dire brushes Bev’s reaction to Jacqui aside, instead drumming up business for the Salon, by encouraging Bev to book herself into the Salon for a make-over - that way, she adds, Bev would be in a fit state to claim a birthday kiss on Sunday.
‘COOM ON,’ Dire urges, ‘ALL’S YER NEED IS A MAKE-OVER AND A PLAN.’
Happy Smiling Helen and her Sage are still staring square-eyed at the computer screen. Finally, he admits to Happy Smiling Helen, that, beyond this ex-councillor’s website, the trail on Sylvia Morgan and Bard Johannesen grows cold.
Well, bobs Happy Smiling Helen, couldn’t they search some more? In fact, why not search all day? Never mind the phone bill, Jimmy seems to have money growing on trees in the house he doesn’t own and doesn’t rent from his ex-wife. Besides, she doesn’t have to be at work until 7pm, and Stephanie conveniently is staying over at a mate’s.
Jimmy suggests that Happy Smiling Helen stay for tea - although, it would have to be a takeaway tea. In fact, the local chippy does a nice meal - and the two start to simultaneously recite their favourite Northern chippy meal, which sounds utterly revolting.
***HINT: (THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE CUTESY-CUTE AND TELL US ALL THAT JIMMY AND HAPPY SMILING HELEN ARE ABSOLUTELY MADE FOR EACH OTHER)***
Jimmy just HAS to find that Bard one, he vows, determinedly. Suddenly, an idea occurs to Jimmy. We know this because his eyes widen and his mouth opens with surprise. ‘I know!’ He exclaims. ‘We’ll e-mail the Icelandic Embassy!’ (And WHAT? Ask them to trace a citizen in a country of umpteen million people? Do you honestly think that they would oblige? At the drop of a hat? Like that? With a cock and bull story about tracing someone’s mother? Oh, pull the other one, Brookside, this story gets more deeply enmired in shit every week. DO PULL THE PLUG!)
As Tim’s filling his white van up at the petrol garage, he runs into Jerome, whose not in the best of moods. Tim’s just finished a job, and he’s earned more in the past few hours than he’s earned in the past couple of weeks. Apparently, the owner of a sporting shop wanted to clear the premises of some of the more valuable gear before setting the place ablaze deliberately in order to claim insurance. (Nice place, Liverpool. Seems as if everyone’s on the dodge. WHAT AN IMAGE TO CONVEY!)
Tim pulls his trouser legs up and shows Jerome his feet, clad in the newest, most fashionable trainers. Look, he says. He even got some new trainies from the gear. As a matter of fact, the bloke even put Tim in touch with a mate who had some work for him.
Jerome, however, wants a word with Tim - about Nikki.He’s fed up, he tells Tim.
Tim wants to know why.
Jimmy Corkhill, replies Jerome, sullenly. It seems that Jimmy knows everything about Nikki these days. In fact, it seems that Nikki tells Jimmy everything before she even considers consulting Jerome. And when Nikki DOES talk to Jerome, all she ever talks about is Jimmy Flaming Corkhill.
Rachel enters the ward carrying Beth, to tell Mike that the doctor says that the child can be allowed to go home in a few days.
That’s the best news he’s had in ages, Mike admits, happily. And as soon as they get Beth home, he intends that they make a new start as a family. He’s tired of whingeing about money.
Oooh, Rachel begins, excitedly, she reckons packin’ job in were best think M-eye-ke coulda doon. Wh-eye, there lo-adsa jobs M-eye-ke could do, ‘e’s soo-ah clev-eh.
Oh, yeah, Mike replies, sarcastically. What good’s a degree if you can’t get a good job? (Oh, put a sock in it! Brookside’s been singing this song since 1982, and for the past decade with Mike Dixon. TIMES HAVE CHANGED. IF MIKE REALLY WANTED TO, HE COULD FIND A JOB EASILY.)
Anyway, at the moment, he continues, all he’s concerned about is getting even with that nasty, sneaking, little Dr Parr. He’s of a mind to report him, he says. And that nosey wife of his too! The gall of her lecturing him about neglecting his responsibility with Josh! It’s none of her business. Well, HE wants that doctor to accept responsibility for his part in Beth’s illness.
Happy Smiling Helen’s just returned from the chippy and implores Jimmy to take a dinner break from the computer. He’s been at it all afternoon, she says.
But he can’t stop now, Jimmy insists. It seems that the Icelandic Embassy has nothing better to do than to answer immediately all barmy e-mails it receives wanting information on citizens of that country, because Jimmy informs Happy Smiling Helen that he’s got a reply from the Icelandic Embassy.
Happy Smiling Helen skittles across the room, bobbing her head, to stand behind Jimmy and peer at the screen.
Apparently, the Icelandic Embassy has promised to help Jimmy and Happy Smiling Helen, who could be anyone off the street and making up any lie. Whilst they won’t divulge Bard Johannesen’s address, they would be willing to pass on any letters to him. (I’ll BET they would. Is this for real?)
Happy Smiling Helen dips her head and suddenly shyly admits to the Sage that she’s been doing some research of her own. She’s actually been doing some reading up on bipolar manic depression.
The Sage’s eyes keen over with self-satisfied glee, as Happy Smiling Helen confesses that she wants to understand his condition.
Well, offers Jimmy, smugly. He’d be happy to fill her in on all the myths and misconceptions about that condition.
(WHY, WHY, WHY HAVE BROOKSIDE MADE THIS ARSEHOLE FUCKWIT SUDDENLY ARTICULATE? IT IS IMPLAUSIBLE AND THE MORE I WATCH THIS PUKEY PROGRAMME THE MORE I WANT DEAN SULLIVAN TO EAT SHIT AND DIE AS JIMMY CORKHILL!)
Marty Muddie is putting the finishing touches on his piece de resistance, his pond. Dire’s peroxided gob appears at the Muddie back door and shrieks to Marty that his tea will soon be on the table.
Marty waves her away, concentrating on getting the pond just right (the better to drown you in, my dear). He’ll be another half hour tops, he assures her.
Not one to be fobbed off with the wave of a hand, Big Dire ventures forth into the back garden to inspect Marty’s handiwork. She IS impressed. As she stands examining the water feature, Adele’s liver-lipped gob appears at the back door and sweetly informs her stepmother that she’s set the sitcom table.
Dire and Marty exchange the typically exaggerated looks of surprise one used to see in 1950’s American sitcoms, the sorts of looks parents always exchanged when children did surprisingly altruistic deeds, usually for a purpose. Think Robert Young and Jane Wyman in Father Knows Best; think Barbara Billingsley and Hugh Beaumont in Leave It to Beaver; think Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in I Love Lucy; or closer to home, think Sid James and the woman who played Auntie Maureen on Eastenders in Bless This House. You get the general idea.
The Antichrist, assuming the typically sitcomish role of the pesky youngest child who precociously knows everything, duly informs his parents that Adele’s only doing these extremely Catholic good deeds in order to be funded the balance of her holiday cost to Ayia Napa.
The penny drops with the Muddie parents, and they discuss the Ayia Napa situation, whilst Antony is curiously attracted to the bubbling water emanating from the pond.
As far as Ayia Napa is concerned, Marty says to Dire, it’s just not going to happen, end of story.
Camera switches to Antony, his eyes widening, as he stares at the gurgling water. In his mind, he relives the struggle with Imelda in the pond in the woodland.
Camera back to the Muddies. Dire declaims: ONE OF THE JUNIORS AT THE SALON SWEARS SHE NEEDED HER PARENTS’ WRITTEN PERMISSION TER GO ON HER HOLIDAYS.
Marty pronounces that Adele is simply too immature to handle a trip like this, and he and Dire turn to go inside for tea, as Antony is left lost in his nightmare of Imelda, unheeding their calls.
Mike Dixon enters Bar Brookie just as his sister is passing through the bar area from the office. Both Jacqui and Bev greet him warmly, with questions about Beth’s state of health.
Mike assures both women that Beth’s going to be fine, and Jacqui and Bev are both pleased. Jacqui tells Mike that if he needs her for anything, she’ll be at the Health Club.
Once she’s gone, Bev comments about how knackered Mike looks.
Mike agrees that he feels that way, being up all hours at Beth’s bedside. Anyway, that’s all in the past, he says, as is his poxy job. He told his bosses to stuff it, he tells Bev, because they wanted him to work an extra shift whilst Beth was ill.
(Again, isn’t it curious how we always get Mike’s slant on these things, the same with Bev’s slant on her child care problems?)
Bev sets a pint of lager on the countertop. That’s on the house, she tells him, and by the way, she wants Mike to know that both he and Rachel were invited to her 30th birthday celebrations, to be held there, in the bar on Sunday evening.
Ta, Mike replies, gratefully. And Rachel would enjoy that, he confirms, especially since it’s been ages since she’s had a night out. Having said that, Mike adds, turning sour for a moment, would the Parrs be invited to this party? He certainly hopes they aren’t, that useless doctor and his snotty wife.
‘’Ang on a minute,’ Bev cautions, ‘yer talkin’ about me new bezzy mate there.’
(Is Bev sad or is she sad? The moment someone new shows friendly to her, they become her new ‘bezzy mate’, usually women of a higher social pecking order than she’ll ever attain - Patricia Farnham, Shelley Bower and now Gaby Parr, women who, in the normal scheme of things, wouldn’t use Bev for more than a doormat with which to wipe the dog poo from the soles of their shoes).
‘Well, bezzy mate or no,’ lectures Mike,’yer’ve no right discoosin’ private business concerrnin’ OUR son wi’the likes of Lady Moock. Tearin’ me off a strip and lecturin’ me in pooblic about me responsibilities ter Josh. She had NO right ter poke her nose in an’ YOU had no right ter tell her!’
Bev’s slightly taken aback about Mike’s totally justifiable (in this instance) reaction, and she briefly assumes a sad, little grimace of hurt, before returning to fight her corner.
Well, now that he mentions it, she says, it’s about time Mike DID take some note of Josh -
How many times had Mike told Bev, he interrupts, that he was skint? (Now get ready for the next line: It’s an excellent piece of Brookside discontinuity at its best!) Besides, Mike continues, he works all the hours of the day. (Not anymore, Mike, baby, not anymore. You quit your job, remember?)
She doesn’t mean money, Bev reiterates. She means Mike taking on a bit of responsibility with Josh’s child care. Why, Mike has no idea what it’s like for Bev to try to cope on her own with working all the hours God sends for that slave-driving sister of his, as well as trying to care for Josh. It’s like trying to juggle plates!
(Just an aside here about Bev’s situation, as well as Jacqui’s, in regard to the bar. And maybe someone on either forum would like to discuss this. This is the situation as it exists: Jacqui owns the bar, which she bought, specifically for Bev to manage. Her position is not unlike that of the chairman of a foofball club in relation to his manager. The chairman has a goal for his club and knows how he wants to attain that goal. He hires a man who, in signing a contract, agrees to achieve that goal for the club and the chairman, and the chairman, in return, agrees a certain amount of money for the manager to spend in order to pursue the development of that goal.
Jacqui owns the bar. She has an idea of the sort of image she wants the bar to project and the sort of clientele she wants to pursue. In agreeing to work for her, Bev, in effect, agrees to implement whatever wishes Jacqui might have for the bar. She’s working FOR Jacqui. She’s being paid to implement Jacqui’s ideas, NOT to disregard those ideas, not to slag her employer off in anyway, but to carry through Jacqui’s plans. If she can’t do that, she’s history.
Bev moans about working 24/7. Sorry, but this is bad management. Jacqui appointed her manager; surely, Jacqui gave her the authority and the budget to hire staff, and - amongst those staff - a deputy manager or two. As manager, Bev should be able to choose the hours she wants to work, which are the most convenient for her domestic situation. For example, Bev could choose to work from 9AM until 5PM, and every other weekend, during the same hours. She could also arrange it so that her holidays coincide with the term holidays. This would keep Josh’s childcare costs at a minimum, meaning that she would only have to rely on an after-school club, occasional weekend sitting [perhaps with Mike assuming responsibility there], as well as child-care during the summer holidays. The duty managers would assume bar responsibility for the evenings and weekends.
And also, when Bev OWNED the bar, she WAS there 24/7. WHO looked after Josh then? I’ll tell you who - people like Dave Burns, Shelley, Leanne or Lance, and all for nothing. Bev either scrounged off them to do it (Dave and Shelley) or bullied them into the responsibility. But now she’s like the rest of us and has to fork out for child care, she should keep her big gob shut about JACQUI arranging childcare for her. It’s not down to Jacqui, who’s paid off Bev’s outstanding bills in the first place. What next should Jacqui do for Bev? Pay for her weekly shop? Medical bills? Wipe her arse when she goes to the toilet? Get real).
Tim and Jerome have adjourned to Bar Brookie and sit at a table in the middle of the bar area. As Jerome sits down, Tim pushes a shoe box in his direction, telling Jerome that Tim’s got Jerome a present. It’s clear from the box that it contains a pair of trainers. At first, Jerome, who isn’t in the best of moods, protests, reminding Tim that he’s skint.
Tim reiterates that the trainers are a present, a result of helping the dodgy sports’ store owner shift his quality goods that morning. He’s just returned from the second job, for the sports’ store owner’s mate. It wasn’t anything so interesting, he says, just shifting some shop fittings and fixtures, but it didn’t half pay well!
Jerome congratulates Tim as they toast Tim’s success. At this rate, Tim jokes, he’ll be Tim Vanhead Mach II.
Bev appears at that moment by the lads’ table and invites the pair of them and their partners to her party in the bar on Sunday. She’s celebrating her 30th, she tells them. Tim jokes about Bev’s age, but promises to come along with Emily, especially as there was nothing happening on Sunday. (Er, sorry, Brookside’s scored an own goal again here. The Sunday to which they were referring was Father’s Day; by coincidence, it was the same day that Ireland played Spain in the World Cup and lost. With a name like ‘O’Leary’, I would think Tim had more than a passing interest in the fates of the Irish team).
Bev is chuffed and reminds Jerome to tell Nikki about the do. Jerome’s normally hang-dog face drops a foot further in glumness. If he SEES Nikki, he quips. Perhaps Bev would be better off telling Jimmy to remind Nikki.
Bev leaves, and Tim’s memory is jolted. What exactly was Jerome getting at with all these Jimmy and Nikki jibes, which all started at the petrol garage?
Obviously embarrassed, Jerome implores Tim to forget what he said; he was just winding Tim up; but Tim won’t buy that flimsy excuse.
Deciding to come clean, Jerome confides to Tim that he feels excluded from Nikki’s life and insecure as regards her relationship with Jimmy Corkhill. It seems that Jimmy knows more about Nikki’s life and movements than Jerome, who is supposed to be her boyfriend. Nikki seems to tell Jimmy more than she ever told Jerome.
At first, Tim is amused. Jerome doesn’t seriously think that there could be some sort of attraction between the two? He scoffs. Nikki is Jimmy’s carer, sure; they’re bound to be thrown together a lot, and he’s bound to confide in her and vice versa. (NO, NOT vice versa).
Jerome, however, is sceptical. Tim can’t convince Jerome that any older man wouldn’t be tempted by a ‘fit younger bird’ dancing attendance on his every need?
Tim tries to reassure his mate, and it must be said that, were Brookside true to life, the likes of Tim and Jerome wouldn’t come anywhere near each other, let alone, be mates. Jerome wants to chill out. All he has to do was to look at Jimmy together with Happy Smiling Helen, just to realise that these two were MADE for each other (yep, a control freak and a dipshit woman, which was probably how Jimmy attracted the young Jackie in the first place). Jerome had nothing to worry about regarding Jimmy and Nikki.
Jerome isn’t convinced. No one’s 100% about anyone, he says, morosely. At times he feels that Nikki’s bothered more about Jimmy than anyone else in her life. (This is an apt observation).
Marty’s still pfaffing about with his pond in the back garden, being watched fondly by Big Dire and apprehensively by Antony.
As he darts here and there, fiddling with the water features, Marty quips to Dire about how he’s had to work flat out at the school in preparation for the police reconstruction of Imelda’s last moments, that’s to take place the next day. The re-enactment is going to be shown on television, and Mrs Plummer had expressly stated that she wants the place to look nice.
OOOOH, squeals Big Dire, sending a tremor about the Close with her big voice that might just register on the Richter Scale. OOOH, ‘OW BOWT THAT? WHY, MARTY MIGHT EVEN BE ON THE TELLY! OOH, ‘E MIGHT JOOST BECOOM A STAR! (Is this trivial, or is it supposed to be funny? It just shows how ignorant and how inconsistent her character is! Another writer would have had her worried sick for Imelda’s mother, she’s supposed to be such a frustrated maternal figure; but here, this writer shows her jokingly making a callous remark about the event).
Antony continues to stare rigidly at the burbling water in the pond.
Happy Smiling Helen reluctantly admits that it’s time she left for her obviously well-paid job as a cashier in the Bingo Hall. She doesn’t want to go, however, she admits, bobbing her head and smiling shyly.
Well, he’s not at all surprised, agrees Jimmy, smugly. I mean, who would want to leave such brilliant and conversative company to go to a job for which she gets paid? The more I see of her character, the more I think Happy Smiling Helen is just pig shit thick ignorant. Like Jimmy, actually.
By the way, suggests the Sage, as he subtly follows the idiot to the front door, he’s having a big family roast on Sunday to celebrate the fact that it’s Father’s Day and he’s been such a wonderfully attentive father over the past thirty years, which Brookside would have us believe are really twenty-seven. Wills, his youngest, will be in attendance, and he wants the boy to meet Helen. He’s certain the kid would like her. (But would Jackie? And what about voluptuous Stephanie, Happy Smiling Helen’s originally eighteen- real-life-sixteen-playing a twelve-year-old daughter? Nary an invite for her!)
Without a thought for her daughter or her daughter’s too-tight training bra, Happy Smiling Helen, smiles happily and bobs her head in ready agreement to come to dinner on Sunday.
Mike’s still standing at the counter of the bar, talking to Bev, who’s playing a bit of a psychological trick of her own, to win Mike around to her version of just and rightful childcare, which shouldn’t be assumed by either of them for their son, but by the boy’s rich aunt, Jacqui.
Mike was right to tell his employers to stuff that job, Bev agrees, heartily. After all, Mike deserves a lot better. (The international cry of poor white trash the world over. Stuff an honest job! Something better is deserved. Something that pays maximum cash and entails no work).
Swayed by Bev’s sympathy, Mike promises to have a word with Jacqui about Bev and Josh’s situation. (You what?)
Coincidentally, Jacqui enters the bar at that moment. She jokes about Mike still propping up the bar, but Mike immediately goes on the defensive and says that he’s not going to be there much longer. Seeing the pint he’s nursing (and this CAN’T be the same one), Jacqui warns him about drinking and driving her car, the use of which he’s been given.
He’s only had this one, Mike lies; and he’s hardly about to be over the limit.
Well, what about his job? Jacqui asks. Surely drink would impair his ability at work that evening.
Oh, that? Replies Mike. He’s jacked in that job.
Jacqui starts with surprise, but before she can say anything, Mike switches subjects on her. Whilst she’s here, he begins, and it’s obvious to the viewers that Mike’s had a bit of the old Dutch courage there, he wants to have a word with Jacqui about Bev.
Sensing what’s about to come, Jacqui heaves a sigh and prepares to listen.
In Mike’s valued opinion, he says, he thinks Bev’s deserving of a bit of help from Jacqui with Josh.
‘Erm,’ begins Madam, ‘joost what kind of help, Mike? I gave’er a job, remember? The child care arrangements are down to her.’
Mike suggests that maybe Jacqui could look after Josh when she wasn’t working of an evening.
Jacqui is practically gob-smacked with disbelief. ‘What are you like?’ She counters.
‘Well, it’s hard fer Bev on her own,’ Mike protests, weakly.
‘Michael,’ Jacqui reminds him, firmly, ‘I work meself, and I pay fer soomone ter look after my kids; now Bev can joost do the same, or else pack the job in and look after Josh herself.’
Jacqui, affronted by Mike’s suggestion, turns on her heel to leave the bar, but Mike occasions a further remark under his breath, ‘So mooch fer solidarity amongst mothers.’
Quick as a snap, Jacqui whirls around to face Mike, her own face red with anger. ‘Y’know, Mike,’ she begins, ‘yer always goin’ on about people not pokin’ their noses in YOUR business ... Well, maybe you should do the same!’
The Sage and his newest disciple, Happy Smiling Helen, stand in the foyer of Hotel Corkhill, saying a tender good-bye. They’re lips sway imperceptibly toward each other, when suddenly the front door opens and Jerome, glowering menacingly, stomps in. The couple spring apart guiltily, and greeting Jerome briefly, Happy Smiling Helen leaves.
The Sage follows an unhappy Jerome into the lounge and proceeds to look out the front window as Happy Smiling Helen struggles to start her clapped-out car. Jimmy murmurs absently about the car’s faults.
Glaring at Jimmy’s back and wishing he had a knife to sink into it, Jerome bites his tongue and asks Jim if he’s heard from Nikki during the course of the day.
Jimmy gives a start. Nikki? Oh, yes, he meant to tell Jerome. Nikki phoned and said that she was calling in on her mate Bernie after classes. In fact, Nikki says Bernie is doing really well, and she might even return to uni next year. (These Scousers really know how to prolong a university career - talk about skiving).
Well, asks Jerome, reluctantly, did she say how long she would be?
‘No worries, mate,’ Jimmy informs him, smugly, ‘she won’t be long. There was soom documentary on the telly she wants ter see ternight.’
As the Sage wafts fragrantly by Jerome, Jerome seethes silently.
As Jacqui still tries to tear herself away from the bar, she’s telling Bev that she has to get home for the kids. Taking her leave, Tim interrupts their conversation to take leave of Bev, himself, joking that he’d be sure to bring a Zimmer frame for her on Sunday.
Jacqui does her classic party piece of frowning in bewilderment at that remark, and Bev confidently tells her that Tim was referring to Bev’s birthday do for her 30th. She intended to have the party on Sunday evening in the bar. Look, she says, pulling out a painstakingly hand-made announcement to put in the bar’s window, inviting all and sundry in for reduced drinks in celebration of Bev’s 30th. She’s even done a bit of PR for the bar in the bargain. She thought to have posters like this in the window, advertising the event.
‘Erm, I think not,’ Jacqui says, shortly.
‘Why not?’ Demands Bev, hurt at Jacqui’s refusal.
‘Bev, I’m not havin’ tacky posters like that all over the place in the bar and on the windows!’ Explains Jacqui. ‘It’ll be joost like the stoof yer used ter see in here with Christy Muddie and Leanne! Y’know soomtimes I t’ink yer ferget dat dis isn’t yer bar anymore!’
‘Boot what about me parr-ty?’ Wails Bev.
‘Have it in yours!’ Shouts Jacqui, over her shoulder, throwing her arms skyward in disgust.
‘I will!’ Vows Bev, shouting pointedly after her employer. ‘And I’ll be sure ter invite a few o’me MATES!’
Back at Hotel Corkhill, a disgruntled Jerome sits sullenly in front of the television, as Jimmy pfaffs about in the kitchen behind him.
Jerome grumbles about feeling like a fool, sitting in on his night off and waiting for Nikki to return. He was of a mind to go out, he says. After all, he adds pointedly, he’s certain that Nikki would clue Jimmy in on anything she had to say to Jimmy and Jimmy could tell him.
The Sage sighs wearily. Haven’t Jerome and Nikki sorted out their differences yet? Oh, he realises that the younger couple had travelled down a rough path, but they still had a lot going for them. The trouble with Jerome, the Sage admonishes, is that he doesn’t know how lucky he is ter have Nikki. Why if the Sage were 20 years younger-
Suddenly Jerome bolts ballistically and stalks out of the room, leaving the smug Sage staring and clearly bewildered by Jerome’s reaction, after the lad.
(Myself, I think Jerome should have smacked Jimmy in his vile gob).
Next door at the Muddies, Marty has finally finished the pond. He and Big Dire are in the back garden, whilst Adele is in the conservatory, nearby. It seems that the Muddie computer has made a reappearance - now all we have to do is see the Muddie dog, Ruby, again. She’s furiously typing. Ant stands over her shoulder, recognising that she’s forging a letter to the travel agency, in Marty’s name, that gives her permission to go to Ayia Napa.
Marty calls Adele and Antony into the garden. He’s finished the pond and he wants them all to see. (Oh, goody! Goody! How exciting, Daddy!)
Adele says she’ll be out in a moment and types furiously in an effort to finish the letter.
Big Dire is jumping up and down and pleading with Marty to HOORYOOP. SHE’S’OONGRY! Ant approaches the pond warily. Again, Dire jokes about the TV re-enactment and Marty’s chances of becoming a star.
Marty scoffs at that remark again, but he tells Dire that Mrs Plummer wants everyone to make an effort to look exactly the same way that they did on the day Imelda disappeared.
Well, as the next day was a PE day, as was that day, Dire says, she’ll be sure to pack Ant’s sports bag.
By now, Adele has joined the throng. The whole thing will be a waste of time, anyway, she remarks, ever positive.
Well, hopefully someone will be able to figure out what did happen that day, Marty offers.
Ant stands in the forefront of the scene, not listening to all the wittering going on around him. Instead, he stares fixedly at the finished pond, which mirrors his reflection. As he stares, we see the reflection of his head, disfigure gradually into Imelda Clough’s face.
Roy Boulter wrote this. Four points for effort.
PERSIL AUTOMATIC
I have the perfect sponsor for Brookside, high profile, a well-known product and it would fit Brookside’s image perfectly: Persil Automatic.
Face it, no one gets whites whiter than Persil. They could even convince Brookside actors, in character of course, to endorse the product - for a small stipend. For example, we could have a shot of Leon Lopez, as Jerome, sitting morosely in the Corkhill kitchen, a pile of laundry on the table.
Jerome: When I first started on Brookside, I was BLACK, straight off the street, ignorant, sussed-up and dirty. Now, after four years and three times a day on the boil-wash cycle, using Persil Automatic, of course, and I’m nearly white.
(Continues): Yes, folks, without Persil Automatic, I wouldn’t have a blonde, blue-eyed girlfriend. Now we’re aboyt to conduct a test.
(Turns to Corkhill extension and calls out): Nisha ... Nisha, would you come through here, please?
Nisha enters, smiling.
Jerome: We’ve had a bit of a problem with Nisha here. She’s just not white enough, no matter how hard the writers white her. But now with NEW IMPROVED PERSIL AUTOMATIC -
Nisha: With added whiteners
Jerome: With added whiteners, there’s hope for Nisha yet. In fact, we anticipate that by Christmas, Nisha will, indeed, be white enough to satisfy Dr Parr’s exclusive tastes.
Nisha: So be sure and stay tuned to Brookside, on various nights of the week, according to the whims of Channel 4, to watch me whiten.
Voiceover: New Persil Automatic ... The only token YOU’LL need, is one for the launderette.
It’s sure to be a winner, especially as Brookside has now become the whitest soap on television. It’s a completely ethnic-free area - even the new family look and sound like local council candidates representing the BNP. I’d question Phil Redmond’s liberal tendencies but ...
The show opens with the student body of Brookside Comprehensive gathering noisily in the school’s auditorium for morning assembly. But it’s a morning assembly with a difference ... The police are there. A po-faced-looking police officer, strongly resembling Commander Brian Paddick of the ‘Soft-on-Drugs’ Brixton beat, paces up and down the auditoriuy aisles before mounting the stairs onto the stage, where other policemen, and a woman doubling for Mrs Plummer, who isn’t Mrs Plummer, wait.
It’s a beehive of activity on the Close, as well. Ray stands in front of the bungalow, shouting orders right, left and centre to Nick the builder. In the background Katie Rogers slinks onto the Close, oozing a trail of slime and makes a beeline for the Farnham house, glancing over her shoulder at the builder, who glances over his shoulder at her. (Surely, he has better taste?)
In the midst of this, Mike and Rachel drive up in Jacqui’s car, arriving home from the hospital with Beth. Ray rushes to greet them, asking how Beth is. Rachel replies that Beth’s OK now.
The special assembly has begun and the Commander Paddick clone stands at the forefront of the stage, addressing the students, who are all, in the words of Greg ‘Cut the Crap’ Dyke, hideously white. (Oo-er, Brookside just wouldn’t ‘wash’ on BBC!)
He tells them that the object of today’s exercise is to try to remember the events in their lives that occurred on the 20th of March, the day Imelda Clough disappeared. (THE 20TH OF MARCH! SHIT! HAS IT BEEN THAT LONG? OH, WELL, THAT’S NOTHING IN TERMS OF BROOKSIDE!) He wants the students to try to remember exactly what they did that day. He indicates a policeman seated behind him on the stage. He and this man, Det Sgt Chambers are there for the purpose of gleaning any memories the students have from that day.
Maybe, he suggests, it was a special day of sorts. Maybe it was someone’s birthday. Does anyone remember any particular school activity that day? He tells them that, having checked with the head, he realises that on that particular day, there was a meeting of the Computer Club and the chess club. There was also hockey practice held.
The students were under no special pressure to remember, but maybe someone kept a diary. Maybe they recorded something about that day in those diaries.
As the man speaks, the camera pans slowly in on Antony’s face, with the tinkle of sinister music (ARRRRGH! The background music has returned! If anything kills the viewers off, it’s that damned stuff!), welling in the background.
The policeman informs the students that that day, they were going to re-enact Imelda’s last known moments for television. A young girl would arrive shortly, who would take on the role of Imelda as she walked home from school to her home on Middlewood Avenue.
This reconstruction would be shown on television and would be covered locally by radio and newspaper. (The sinister music wells as the camera tightens on Antony’s face again). The very least bit of information that the reconstruction might jog, just could be helpful to the police investigation, the policeman adds.
Back at the Dixons’. Rachel emerges into the lounge to inform Ron and Mike that Beth is asleep. Mike’s busy on the phone, chewing someone’s ear off about Dr Parr. He puts the phone down to inform Rachel and Ron that that ‘dozy Dr Parr’ should be struck off immediately. Three times he came to see Beth and yet he failed to diagnose meningitis. Now when he needs to speak to him to tell the doctor his justifiable opinion of the man, the arsehole’s gone on a course.
Oooh, speaks Rachel, wearily, M-eye-ke should leave it. Im-PO-tent thingis Beth’s OK.
That’s right, Ron agrees from his armchair. Beth’s a Dixon. She’ll survive. She’s as tough as they come.
Mike’s got a dental appointment that afternoon for his bridge to be fitted. He’s thinking about postponing it.
Rachel protests. Oooh, she weren’t payin’ three hoondred pound fer M-eye-ke ter cancel ‘pointment.
Mike isn’t too keen to have his teeth ground down that afternoon, but Ron’s more interested in the price. Three hundred nicker? He asks. How did Mike and Rachel raise that money.
Without batting an eyelid, Mike lies and says that he and Rachel managed to save the money.
Good, Ron breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment, he’d thought they’d taken out another loan. But that’s the way to do it, he encourages the couple, not build up all kinds of debts. This ‘live now pay later’ attitude is what’s ruining the country, after all, Ron lectures.
Mike meets Ron’s gaze surprisingly easy, but Rachel wrinkles her forehead and blinks. (That damned blinking has just GOT to stop!!! Like Jacqui’s twiddling her hair and frowning, it’s Tiffany Chapman’s pathetic attempt to convince an audience that she knows how to act. It ain’t working).
Next door at the Farnhams’, Jacqui is talking to Katie from the kitchen about how glad she is that Beth’s home at last, and continues talking about how she’s dreading the move.
Katie, however, isn’t listening. She’s too busy looking out the Farnhams’ front window at Nick the builder. Question: How is Katie going to be able to make herself visit Jacqui at Number 8, the house where the sainted Clint died?
Jacqui notices the focus of Katie’s attention and ribs her about Nick. Katie brushes Jacqui’s comments aside. She reckons she doesn’t stand a chance with him.
Why? Asks Jacqui.
Because she’s knocked him back already, Katie explains.
‘You what?’ Queries Madam, in disbelief.
He came into the surgery the other day, Katie continues, and tried to ask her out. She knocked him back, in the process.
Well, Jacqui stammers, she thinks Katie should make an effort to get to know this Nick.
Katie disagrees, and she tries to make out that Nick was a pest who came onto her.
Jacqui disagrees now. She thinks that this Nick seems a nice enough lad, and besides, he’s the right age for Katie and all. What’s wrong with Katie going out with him, just the once?
Katie stubbornly refuses.
Jacqui tells it to Katie straight. What she needs is a proper date, with someone like Nick, instead of some of the losers she’s been picking up of late.
Katie blushes to the tip of her Nixon original nose. How did Jacqui know about that? She asks.
Never mind, Jacqui quips. She just knows Katie’s had a thing for horrible fellas of late. (Oooh, be careful here ... Katie’s dated ‘pigs’, by which Brookside’s definition is a bloke who’s ugly or fat or both. That COULD, in the past, apply to the likes of Sinbad or Terry Sullivan. But Nick the Builder is all right, because, in Brookside’s estimation, he has acceptable looks. Nice one, Brookside. You are, indeed, shallow).
Before Jacqui can utter another word, Katie marches out the front door and goes directly over to Nick the builder. Without any preamble, she asks him for a date. How about a drink at Bar Brookie? She’d meet him there at 6:30 that evening.
Nick speaks: (Slurp, slop, sloosh - that’s the spit rattling around in his mouth) ‘Hit’s Kaa-teh, en’t it?’ He has a broad Northwestern accent, NOT Merseyside, ilovegerrard, you interminably smug, little Liverpudlian prig.
Katie’s surprised he even remembers her name, but he agrees to meet her at Bar Brookie.
Katie returns to Chateau Farnham to find a bemused Jacqui. Jacqui is almost speechless, as Katie abruptly explains that she only came over to visit Jacqui and the kids, not to have Jacqui jump all over her case.
The policeman is summing up his address to the students of Brookside Comp. It’s VERY important, he reiterates, that they do their best to remember any events in their lives occurring on 20th March. To aid in their reconstruction, Mrs Plummer has given him a list of names of students, whom she wants to participate in the re-enactment of Imelda’s walk home. Those participating should meet in Block B during the second break. He begins to rattle off a list of names, amongst them Antony’s. Antony looks horrified and shits his pants.
Jacqui has dropped next door to visit Beth, who’s asleep. Whilst she’s there, she’s subjected to another of Mike’s long rants about the incompetence of Dr Parr. He’s a disgrace, Mike moans. He should be struck off. If he’d bothered to examine Beth properly, none of this would have happened. It’s all Dr Parr’s fault.
Rachel’s fed up with his remarks. She curtly tells him to stop making excuses.
That’s right, Jacqui agrees. Meningitis is very difficult to diagnose.
It’s not that, Mike protests, it’s joost that he couldn’t be bothered. He should be struck off, that Dr Parr.
Across the Close, at Sitcom House, Dire Murray is gabbing with her singularly uninterested and uninteresting stepson, known locally as The Plank. Dire is found in her usual haunt, the sitcom kitchen, standing - as per usual - at the sitcom counter. Her huge, lip-glosses gob is running at a rate of a mile a minute, as if it had a life of its own, which it probably does.
THEY SAY THAT LITTLE BETH DIXON ONLY HAD MENINGITIS, FANCY THAT, she bellows, rattling the rafters of Sitcom House. DIRE RECKONS SHE MIGHT NIP OVER TER THE DIXONS THAT AFFY AND SEE LITTLE BETH. (This is a euphemism for ‘I think I’ll joost mosey over and see what goss I can catch oop on, especially as Bev says Beth was misdiagnosed by that snotty Dr Parr’. I mean, really, the only time she interacts with any of her neighbours is when she’s being nosey).
Plank asks her if she wouldn’t rather go down to Brookie Comp and watch the reconstruction take place. Seems as if that would be a lot more interesting. (Ah, the white trash’s singular attraction to the morbid side of life!)
OO-ER, Dire shouts, SHE’OPES THEY DO FIND OUT SOOMTHINK ABOUT IMELDA WITH THIS RECONSTRUCTION, LIKE. AND DID PLANK KNOW THAT THERE WAS ONLY A PERV HANGING ABOUT THE PARADE. WELL, THAT’S WHAT EMILY CALLS HIM, ANYROAD. OH, AND BY THE WAY, SHE NOTICED THAT PLANK’S VAN HAD AN OUT-OF-DATE TAX DISC.
Plank admits that he knows about this and had been intending to do something about it. He lamely lies and says that he actually has the cheque for the new licence fee already written out; he just hasn’t found the time to enter a Post Office and do something about it.
WELL, ‘E’D BETTER DO SOOMTHINK ABOUT IT AND SOON, threatens Dire, in full voice. HIT DOOESN’T LOOK GOOD FER HIS BUSINESS. IMAGINE WHAT HIS COOSTOMERS MOOST THINK, ‘IM TERNIN’ OOP WITH AN OUTERDATE TAX DISC AND ALL. IS THE VAN INSURED AND MOT’D?
Plank avoids her steely gaze and assures her that it is, which is a blatant lie, even if he does have a valid MOT and insurance certificate - because if you’re not taxed, you’re not roadworthy, and your insurance and MOT count for nowt.
As Dr Nikki walks toward the bar, she runs into Jerome, as Dr Parr, tieless and clad in an open-necked shirt, passes them on The Parade en route to the Clinic. Jerome is not in the best of moods and makes a sour joke about having to make an appointment in order to see Nikki. He suggests meeting her later at the bar as she’s about to begin a shift.
Nikki wants to know what he means by having to make an appointment with her.
Well, Jerome replies, he gets the distinct impression that Jimmy knows more about her movements than Jerome does; and he also feels that Nikki has more time for Jimmy than for him.
Nikki laughs at this assumption and says she’ll meet him later.
Jerome walks off, but Nikki calls him back. He forgot to kiss her good-bye, she says. Jerome plants a reluctant and half-hearted kiss on her cheek, leaving her looking after him in a bewildered way. (Nikki is another pig shit thick ignorant person).
Antony stands on the front steps of the school and watches the media-savvy Brian Piddick Police Inspector clone conduct an on-the-spot interview with a gaggle of TV, radio and newspaper reporters gathered below.
Dr Parr enters the Clinic, having returned from his course, and sees Katie in reception. He asks her for a run-down of what’s been happening in his absence. Katie begins by telling him that Mike Dixon’s been on the phone twice already that day about Beth.
How is Beth? The doctor asks.
Beth’s OK, Katie tells him. In fact, she’s home, but Mike’s not happy. He’s angry that he had to take Beth to A & E in order to get diagnosed, when he feels Dr Parr should have come out to see Beth, but didn’t.
Dr Parr snorts uneasily. Well, the doctor huffs, Mike would have had to have waited longer in A & E than he would hae if Rachel had brought the child to the clinic. Honestly, he confesses, turning to Katie with more than a hint of desperation in his voice, he saw the child three times and at no time did she present any of the symptoms of meningitis.
Katie looks at Dr Parr dubiously and asks what she should tell Mike if he happened to ring again.
Without hesitation, Dr Parr instructs her to tell Mike that he’s not here.
Is he sure? Katie asks.
Hesitating only a fraction of a second, the doctor confirms his orders. As Beth’s OK, he doesn’t want to speak to Mike.
Nosey Dire has made a beeline for the Dixons’ and stands in the lounge, as all everyone ever does in this soap is stand around and recite lines, talking to Mike, Rachel and Ron.
THERE’S A LOT O’THAT MENINGITIS ABOUT THESE DAYS, she observes, the volume of her voice causing Ron Dixon to quiver.
That’s as may be, Mike mutters, sullenly, but he reckons Beth’s illness is all down to that nasty, sneaking, little Dr Parr.
Ron interjects to defend the doctor. GP’s are a busy breed, he informs his truculent son, what with all that paperwork. (Subtle hint about paperwork clogging up the NHS).
Mike disagrees strongly. Dr Parr simply fobbed them off the three times he came to see Beth, he argues.
Dire intervenes, the power of her voice halting all disagreement. (Perhaps she should be a special envoy to the Middle East; her voice alone would shut the lot of them up). SHE RECKONS IT’S SIX O’ONE AND HALF DOOZEN OF ANOOTHER. Then she apprises them of the situation surrounding the mystery perv seen in a car on The Parade.
Mike stomps off, muttering about having to go to his dentist’s appointment.
As he leaves the room, Rachel blinks, wrinkles her forehead and apologises to Dire, in that order, about Mike’s behaviour.
WELL, she bellows, THREE TIMES IS TOO MOOCH.
Ron accompanies her to the front door, noting that he’d read in the paper about the bizzies staging a reconstruction about that little girl’s disappearance at Brookie Comp.
YES, Dire preens, with the knowledge of an insider (and if she ONLY knew), MARTY’S SPENT 24/7 GETTIN’ THE SCHOOL LOOKIN’ NICE FERIT.
Ron’s more interested in the details of the girl’s disappearance. He’d read in the paper, he says to Dire with bewildered wonder, that the girl had been bullying soom lad. Fancy that, gerrls bullyin’ lads these days. What’s this world coomin’ to, eh?
Dire, for once, is absolutely gob-smacked. She smiles weakly and beats a hasty retreat.
Before Mike goes to the dentist, however, he’s got another mission to which he must attend. He goes directly to - surprise, surprise - the Clinic. Stomping into the reception area, where Katie’s standing, clipboard in hand, he demands to see Dr Parr.
Katie, assuming her rare professional mantle, remarks that the doctor is unavailable at this moment.
Does Katie mean he’s not here? Mike asks.
Katie repeats the mantra that the doctor is unavailable.
‘Don’t tell me he’s not’ere,’ Mike warns, ‘Coz I’ve seen his car outside.’
Katie informs Mike that Dr Parr’s with a patient and can’t be disturbed.
Mike won’t be deterred. He demands to see the doctor.
Katie tells him that, in that case, he’ll have to make an appointment.
So that the likes of Katie Rogers, Dr Parr’s minion, can fob him off? No, thanks, says Mike, with determination. In the meantime, Katie can warn the good doctor that Mike’s after him.
Back at Brookside Comprehensive, the Brian Paddick clone is still waffling to the assembled press, telling them that he’s confident that the reconstruction taking place that day will jog someone’s memory. Antony still stands on the front steps of the building, watching the policeman’s performance, warily.
At that moment a police car pulls up and parks in front of the stairs. The back door opens, and a young girl emerges, dressed in clothing identical to those worn by Imelda on that day. The girl looks like a smaller, rounder and plainer version of Imelda, but more gormless. As she ascends the stairs, in Antony’s mind, she changes from the child actress into Imelda, herself; and when the apparition reaches Antony, standing just outside the front door, in his mind, ‘Imelda’ halts briefly and hisses, ‘See ya later, Altarboy’, into his ear.
Antony’s eyes widen with fright and he shits his pants again. (Antony must be the stinkiest boy at Brookie Comp.)
Jacqui’s popped around to Number 8 to call on Beth and to visit with Rachel and Ron. She tells Rachel that, as a precaution, she’s had Harry and Emma checked out, and that they’re fine; all the same, however, she was keeping them at home today, so Rachel could have a day off.
Rachel protests, not out of any sincere desire to babysit interminably, but because she needs the dosh. Jacqui is solicitous about Rachel taking a break from dealing with the stress of Beth’s illness; besides, she and Max were enjoying having the kids at home. (So Jacqui does enjoy the children from time to time, but not ALL the time). She did, however, have to pop into the Health Club a bit later, Jacqui continues.
Sammy’s taking a few days off, she tells Rachel. Poor Sammy is nearly prostrate with worry about Louise. It seems that Louise convinced her to let her go on holiday to Spain with a posh mate of hers from school, and Sammy only discovers from reading the paper that the mate’s dad is some sort of gangster, wanted for a shooting or something.
Isn’t that something? Jacqui marvels. It just goes to show, you send your kid to a posh school to mingle with posh types and they end up consorting with people like Tony Soprano or something. (NOTE: BROOKSIDE CURRYING FAVOUR WITH CHANNEL 4 BY FREE ADVERTISING OF OTHER CHANNEL 4 PROGRAMMES).
Ron saunters casually into the lounge to inform Jacqui that he’s just received his Homesellers’ Info Pack from his solicitor to complete. He waves the packet about.
Jacqui implores him not to dawdle about completing the forms. They needed to have a completion date as soon as possible.
Ron ignores her, instead settling himself comfortably into a nearby armchair and perusing the documents. ‘Now, now, Jacqueline, less haste,’ he admonishes. ‘This is a legal doeument and needs my full attention to some matters.’
Jacqui does her classic exasperation routine of sighing heavily, heaving her shoulders up and down and rolling her eyes heavenward.
‘For example,’ Ron points out, raising his eyebrows as he examines the questionnaire, ‘there’s a question here about lodgers and tenants.’
‘Just ignore that question,’ orders Jacqui, peremptorily.
‘But I got lodgers and tenants,’ Ron protests, his voice rising.
Jacqui shakes her head in desperation, indicating Rachel with her finger. ‘Boot, Mike and Rachel don’t pay any rent,’ she points out. Behind her, Rachel blinks, wrinkles her forehead and affects a look of hurt at being recognised for the second class trailer trash she’s become.
‘But Ray and Jessie do,’ Ron reminds Jacqui.
‘Look, Dad,’ Jacqui huffs, ‘joost ignore the question. Nobody’s goin’ ter ask any questions.’
‘This is a legal document,’ Ron argues, awkwardly. ‘I could get sued fer givin’ false information.’
‘Boot me an’ Max aren’t goin’ ter sue yer, Dad,’ argues Jacqui. ‘We joost wanter move in.’
(888HINT: THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE TYPICAL RON DIXON HUMOUR. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAA***)
Antony peers through the school gates at the policemen assembling the participants in the reconstruction. The Brian Paddick clone instructs the children to start walking and to follow ‘Alison’ as she walks on her way ‘home’.
Antony watches morosely, until the policeman appears at his shoulder. Bending down, he tells Antony to join the others and admonishes him that he has nothing to worry about. (Pssst! This is IRONY).
Back at the Dixons’, Jacqui is still frantically trying to get Ron to complete the Property Sellers’ Information Pack sooner rather than later. She desperately points out to Ron for the umpteenth time that she and Mike weren’t interested in suing Ron. They simply wanted to exchange contracts and move into a bigger house. Ron should complete the form the way Jacqui suggested - after all, ALL of Ron’s tenants and lodgers were going with him to Number 7, right?
Ron evades answering the question by telling Jacqui that he just wants to make Ray and Jessie feel secure, and the only way of ensuring that, he says, is if Ray and Jessie remain in Number 8.
Jacqui goes ballistic at this suggestion. No way! Absolutely no way were she and Max going to share a house with Ray and Jessie Hilton! For a start, Max would never stand for it.
But it’s only for a few weeks, Ron wheedles. Just until their bungalow is finished.
Jacqui is adamant, folding her arms tightly and shaking her head. No. Absolutely not. Ray and Jessie are Ron’s tenants. They should go with Ron.
‘On, no, yer don’t,’ says Ron, cautiously. ‘Noomber 7’s gonna be MY house and in MY house, I’m goin’ ter have me own bedroom, not soom kid’s room. Michael and Rachel will go, boot Ray and Jessie stay.’
‘Well, if Mike hadn’t been so soft in the first place and invited Ray and Jessie ter stay,’ Jacqui whines, ‘we wouldn’t have this problem now.’
Rachel protests vehemently. How can Jacqui be so hard! Ray and Jessie lost everything in the fire. (Yes, dimwit, but it wasn’t through altruism that Mike offered them the premises in which to stay. It was for purely financial motives, hoping to cop rent off them and pocket it. Besides, the house wasn’t Mike’s to offer. And he only offered it to Ray in order that Ray would do all the DIY stuff that Mike had fucked up).
All the same, Jacqui declares, tactfully ignoring her witless sister-in-law, she did NOT intend to share a house with Ray and Jessie Hilton, nor did Max.
The police reconstruction is underway, and Antony reluctantly follows the schoolgirl playing Imelda. What everyone doesn’t realise, however, that this wasn’t the way the actual event happened. Imelda, if you recall, was chasing Antony. Antony warily clocks a police car following the reconstruction at a snail’s pace.
Meanwhile, at the bar, Bev is doing an apt character assassination on Jacqui to Nikki, another employee - something which, if Jacqui ever heard of it, would, in itself, be a sackable offence. Bev snidely gossips to Nikki that the reason Jacqui wouldn’t allow Bev to hold her 30th birthday party on the premises was because Jacqui virtually accused her of lifting the ale that would be served. So, she cattily finishes, it’s going to take place in her flat upstairs, and EVERYONE is invited - everyone, except Jacqui Farnham, that is, she adds bitchily. And Nikki was invited - and Jerome, of course, Bev adds. And everyone at the Corkhill household.
Katie arrives and meets Nick the builder waiting for her. They take a seat at a nearby table and Katie purposefully suggests that SHE get the first round of drinks. Nick is clearly taken aback at this proposal, and admits that he’s not used to a girl acting this way. (Get ready, peeps ... We’re about to get the biggest shock of our lives and the biggest evidence of Brookside’s madness EVER!!!)
Well, Katie quips, deadpan, he turned up, after all. That was a surprise. And why was he so surprised at Katie buying a round of drinks?
Well, gobs Nick, with a mouthful of spit, he’s AUSTRALIAN, and AUSTRALIANS were used to men taking the dominant roles in date situations.
(Er, excuse me ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAA! AUSTRALIAN! YEAH, SURE, MATE, AUSTRALIAN! LIKE I’M BLOODY IRAQUI, ME. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! PU-LEESE, STOP INSULTING OUR INTELLIGENCE, BROOKSIDE!)
Bev and Nikki watch nosily from the bar counter as Katie and the builder chat. Bev remarks what a hunk the builder is (if you like the Andy Townsend type). Nikki affects to shrug indifferently, and remarks nonchalantly that she could have copped for him, the amount of wolf whistles he was giving her the other day.
Jerome enters and greets Nikki, who serves Katie and Nick the builder at one end of the bar.
Following Jerome into the bar, Gaby the Grin enters and looks distractedly about. She approaches the bar counter as Katie and Nick grab their drinks and return to their table. As they pass Gaby the Grin, Nick turns to ogle her.
(Question: Why is it that everyone from Max Farnham to the horny builder think this woman is a devastating beauty? She has a mouth as wide as Cherie Blair’s and she looks like a feral rat with long hair. She’s not even charming, she’s so false. Tell me where the attraction is, please. Or is everyone in Liverpool content with being presented to the rest of the nation as being a city of asinine arseholes?)
As Katie and Nick take their seats again, he wants to know why Katie changed her mind about coming out with him, in fact why SHE asked HIM.
Because that way, Katie replies, coldly, SHE would be in control of the situation. Did he object?
Well, it certainly doesn’t make for a dull evening, Nick remarks, not that they do it that way ‘back home’. (Er, has this dolt ever been to Australia?)
Katie comments on this. He says he’s Australian, but he certainly doesn’t sound it.
Well, Nick admits, he grew up in Widnes. His parents married in Australia, but they returned ot England 18 years ago and settled in Widnes.
Again, Katie observes that he doesn’t sound like an Aussie. (Well, Katie, arse-brain, as he came back to the country at the age of NINE and lived in Widnes since that time, and he’s now 27, he certainly WOULDN’T sound Aussie. If you moved Antony Murray to London now, in 18 years’ time, he’d sound like --- guess what? A Londoner!!!)
Nick the builder gives her some shit from the pens of the Brookside writers about his mum made him go to elocution lessons in order that his accent would match that of the kids at his local school and he wouldn’t be bullied. (BULLSHIT! Aren’t elocution lessons meant to instruct one in the art of RECEIVED PRONUNCIATION, which is NOT NOT NOT regional at all!!!)
Nick the builder makes a stupid joke about having attended the Mersey School of Scouse Accents, which the chip-shouldered Scouser, ilovegerrard, on the Official Forum, obviously didn’t hear, as she so snottily pointed out that Widnes is NOT a Scouse accent.
Nearby, that other happy couple, Nikki and Jerome, share a table. Nikki reminds Jerome that it was a year ago that they had their fated engagement party. Right here in the pub.
Jerome squirms uncomfortably in his seat and looks guilty. That part of their relationship is over and done with, he tells Nikki.
It’s over, observes Nikki, tartly, but she wasn’t about to forget it. She narrows her already beady eyes and stares suspiciously at Jerome. How far does he reckon they’ve come as a couple since this time last year? She asks him.
‘We haven’t,’ admits Jerome, without missing a beat. (This was the best line of the night).
Mike has returned from the dentist, having received a new bridge. Now he sits at home in the dining room area of Number 8, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, allowing Rachel and Ron to closely examine his bridgework. (Yuck! Brookside are REALLY turning Rachel and Mike into poor white trash).
Ooooh, breathes Rachel, in wonder, staring down the orifice that’s Mike’s gob. Oooh! Do it herrrt?
Ron bends his head even closer (I hope Paul Byatt didn’t have garlic for his lunch) and even inserts a stubby finger into Mike’s mouth. Which ones are false? Ron asks, stupidly.
Mike jumps a foot in his seat and shouts Ron off. It throbs, he admits, but it’s nothing to the months and months of pain he had to endure previously.
Oooh, says Rachel, oooh, she bin wa-itin’ fer M-eye-ke ter coom’ome all day. Oooh, she thought mebbe tek Beth ter paaak ter feed dooks. (That’s right, Rachel, show us how sublimely stupid and witless you are. Do what ANY mother would do with a child that’s just come out of hospital after suffering a very serious illness - take her out in the air right away whilst her resistance is still low. Give me strength, you dumbass, shit-stupid woman!)
OK, OK, Mike promises, but first he wants to try ringing that nasty, sneaking, little Dr Parr again.
By now the police reconstruction has reached the shopping parade along wich Imelda chased Antony. Antony follows immediately behind the young girl playing Imelda. He glances from side to side and notices the people watching the reconstruction. At the end of the parade, he pauses and glances behind him, and in his mind, he sees the apparition of Imelda, standing stolidly and gazing at him, exactly the way she did on that fateful day. He blinks (that disease is catching) and when he opens his eyes again, Imelda has disappeared and in her place, stand two uniformed policemen.
Nikki and Jerome are still re-assessing their relationship. How is it, WHY is it that Jerome thinks they haven’t moved on in a year? Dr Nikki asks, frowning seriously.
Well, remarks Jerome acidly, as he hadn’t been killed in that fire, things should be fine - not that he blames Nikki for starting the fire, he hastily adds. But the truth is, Jerome says, things weren’t perfect before that.
That’s not down to her, Dr Nikki huffs, righteously. That’s down to Jerome’s involvement with Nisha.
Nearby, Katie plies Nick with more drink. He remarks that if he didn’t know better, he’d swear Katie was trying to make him drunk.
Not drunk, purrs Katie, beginning to slur her words a bit, just mellow.
Mellow? He queries, not understanding her meaning.
Relaxed, but capable, replies Katie. (Is this dialogue for real? OMIGOD, it’s shit!)
(Get the next line!!!)
Capable for what? Asks Nick. (Now, any Australian who watches Brookside, protest now. Go directly to the Official Forum and tick the bastards off for portraying Australians as dumb Bruce idiots with mouths full of gob).
‘Use your imagination,’ snaps Katie. Then she softens her tone a bit and asks Nick about his building business.
‘Ooo-er,’ laughs Nick. ‘Wanter know all me assests, do yer?’ (Real Aussie, ‘strewth!)
‘Yep,’ quips Katie, guzzling another glass of wine. ‘That way, I’ll have yer bled dry and in divorce court by Christmas.’
Well, Nick begins, uncertainly, he’d always worked with his dad, and he’d always enjoyed it - happy enough, lowly paid, but with weekends off. Now with his dad ill in hospital and him having to run the business, he was having to be more grown-up (at 27, I should think so). Only now, it wasn’t that much fun anymore - dealing with estimates, VAT and the like.
As he sucks spit and talks, the camera moves down to Katie’s hand under the table, as it moves toward his thigh and squeezes it.
Back to Dr Nikki and her Mandingo. Nikki finally observes that Jerome is decidedly off with her for some reason, and it’s nothing to do with the Nisha situation.
Jerome decides to go for broke and come clean with her. It’s this thing she has with Jimmy. It’s become downright humiliating for him.
Nikki scoffs derisively. That’s all in Jerome’s head, she says.
‘Is it?’ Asks Jerome, with an edge to his voice. ‘Well, everything seemed to be going OK until Jimmy Corkhill came into our lives.’
Jerome accuses Nikki of devoting all her free time to Jimmy, with him going off his head every now and then. Jimmy’s condition’s come to dominate their lives. Look at herself, Jerome urges Nikki. First, she’s got her commitment to Jimmy, then her job at the bar, and then her uni work. There seemed to be no time left for Jerome. And from where Jerome was standing, it definitely looked as though there was something going on between Nikki and Jimmy.
Nikki’s horrified that Jerome would even think that, but Jerome insists it’s true, and he was worried - for Nikki’s sake. Who’s to say that Jimmy didn’t have feelings for her, or would do some day? Why, only recently Jimmy had just inferred to him that if he were 20 years younger, he’d make a stab for Nikki.
Poor, old Antony has managed to make it home from school and is now wasting time in the sitcom kitchen. Dire is persisting in asking questions about the police reconstruction that took place at school.
Antony is trying to play the thing down, in hopes that his thick-skinned, big-mouthed stepmother would tire of the subject and go onto something else. Antony, in a weary voice, tells her that an actress came into play Imelda, but really, Ant thought the whole thing was a waste of time.
Why is that? Plank asks.
‘Because Imelda’s in London,’ Antony answers, doggedly.
Dire won’t be deterred. Who knows? Maybe they’d see Ant on television.
Nikki is shocked into silence by Jerome’s revelations about his suspicions re her and Jimmy. Seeing her shame, Jerome adds hastily that he only mentioned the Jimmy thing because Nikki had seen fit to bring up the subject of Nisha. But, he continues, didn’t Nikki ever feel ‘different’ from any of her other mates at university? (Mates? Nikki has mates? At uni? Pull the other one, quick!)
Reluctantly, Nikki nods.
Jerome continues. Didn’t she ever think that she felt different because she wasn’t experiencing any of the things they were - living away from home, no family nearby?
Again, Nikki nods.
The trouble with him and Nikki, Jerome surmises, is that they haven’t fully experienced university lives, as students living in residence halls or digs. They’ve been sufficated by living with either Ray and Jessie or Mick or Jimmy Corkhill. It’s time they moved on, Jerome says, before it’s too late. Maybe Nikki should think about it, and then they could act on it together. Maybe do some travelling together in the holidays, have some fun. He couldn’t answer for Nikki, Jerome says, but HE was certainly ready to move on.
By now, Katie’s roaring drunk and staggers to her feet, pulling Nick the builder, who’s slightly less drunk, to his feet with her. Together, they stagger away from the table and toward the door.
Gaby the Grin is standing at the bar counter with her unlikely friend, Bev, and she remarks what fast workers both of them appears to be.
As Katie grabs Nick to her and plants a massive, sucking snog on his spit-filled gob, Bev giggles and remarks that most of that moving was down to Katie.
Dire and Plank have adjourned to the sitcom lounge and are slumped in front of the sitcom telly, waiting for the reconstruction to be shown. Antony, reluctantly, hangs back, preferring to remain in the kitchen. Dire shouts into the room, asking Ant whether he wants to watch and see himself on television. Antony demurs.
‘QUICK!’ She shrieks. ‘IT’S ON!’
The camera briefly flashes onto the television and then pans to Antony, standing in the kitchen, whilst we hear a brassy running commentary from Big Dire, who’s feeding her fat gob and remarking on the events unfolding on the television.
‘WHY, THAT GERRL’S NOOTHINK LIKE IMELDA! THEY COULDA GOT SOOMONE MORE LIKE HER!’
Suddenly she squeals like a stuck pig at the sight of Antony on television. OOH! ANTONY MOOST COOM! OOOH, DON’T ‘E LOOK ‘ANDSOOM!’
Inevitably, Antony is drawn slowly to the door leading into the lounge and watches the screen, standing behind Dire and Plank. As he gazes at the screen, the scene from the reconstruction is blotted out, and all he sees in his mind is the image of the real Imelda, gazing back at him from the television screen and grinning maliciously.
‘Meph,’ she whispers.
Dr Parr has stopped into the garage and is finishing filling his car up with petrol, when he hears someone shouting at thim from across the Parade. Turning, he sees Mike Dixon, pushing Beth in her chair and running toward him, followed by a nervous, twittering Rachel.
‘Oi, you! Screams Mike, angrily.
The doctor turns, to find Mike, furiously pushing the pushchair toward him and verbally abusing him as he approaches. He wants Dr Parr to know that his misdiagnosis almost cost his daughter her life! Three times he came to see the child, and THREE TIMES he could find noothink wrong with her. She had to be rooshed ter’ospital at death’s door before she was seen by PROPER doctors! And all the time his wife was pleading with Parr to come see Beth at home!
Dr Parr immediately tries to get a word in edgewise, telling Mike that meningitis was difficult to diagnose, that Beth didn’t present any of the recogniseable symptoms, that if Rachel had actually brought her into clinic that day, they would have been able to run the necessary tests ...
In the background, we see Gaby the Grin leave the bar and immediately notice the developing altercation across the way. She starts to jog toward the garage.
‘Hit’s all right fer you,’ sneers Mike, jealously indicating the doctor’s car. ‘Here you are fillin’ oop yer fancy car froom yer big, fat salary, and becuz YOU wouldn’t see me daughter, I’ve lost me job now!’
Rachel’s hopping about and making whimpering sounds in the background, in between saying, ‘M-eye-ke! M-eye-ke!’ from time to time.
Dr Parr is trying to apologise to Mike, but Mike refuses to listen. ‘Yer lazy get!’ He snarls. ‘I’ll have yer fer this-’
At that instant, Dr Parr has had enough of Mike’s churlish insults and swings a punch, landing on his lower left jaw and knocking Mike to the ground.
Rachel runs to his side and Dr Parr bends over him, shocked by his own reaction and apologising profusely. By this time, Gaby the Grin has reached her husband’s side and is shrieking hysterically at him.
Mike sits up dazed and feels his jaw. Looking up at Rachel for an instant, he bellows, ‘He hit me! He’s hit me and broke me new bridge! Three hoondred quid it cost me!’
Dr Parr’s blabbering apologies by now, but Gaby roughly pulls him to a standing position and tugs imperiously at his arm.
‘You idiot!’ She hisses, between clenched teeth. ‘What have you done! Don’t you see that the last thing we need is you causing more trouble! You idiot!’
Barry Woodward wrote this. For this, he should be shot, no less.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002