A HISTORY LESSON
After posting for some months on Brookside’s Official Forum, I am convinced that Brookside gets the viewers it so thoroughly deserves, considering the amount of tripe, rumour, innuendo etc that’s surrounded this show for the past two years or more. Dare I say it? The words no mere mortal dare express?
DUMBED DOWN.
There’s a discussion raging now on this message board, which originally started with an innocuous-enough question about the fight that took place about a year ago between Jackie Corkhill and Dire Murray. Remember that? Oh, you don’t? Well, I’m not surprised, it was so pointless. This poor poster missed the malarkey and wanted to know why it occurred. The general consensus of opinion, expressed in about three explanatory postings by three different and reasonably articulate individuals, came to the valid conclusion that the fight was, in itself, entirely gratuitous and served no other purpose than to propagate the pejorative myth maintained by the media regarding the personalities of people who hail from Liverpool.
Then the discussion reached a new plateau in discussing this stereotypical image, before a rather TYPICAL poster on the Official Forum (eg, early twenties with the mentality and emotional maturity of a below-average adolescent, bad spelling, low-level reading skills, chip on both shoulders, from Liverpool) took umbrage. To make a long story short, she bored the living shit out of me (even though she was ill-bred enough to put the exact thought into writing in a diatribe against me), I told her that, rather than have a go at other posters’ perceived perceptions of Liverpudlians, perhaps she should direct her ire at the show’s Executive Producer, Mr Redmond ... Because he was the one propagating the myth.
This selfsame poster, in the usual way that ignorant people reserve for anything or anyone displaying the sort of knowledge and intellect that they distrust because they’re incapable of attaining it either by wit or willing, then proceeded to make light of the fact that other posters and I found ‘deeper meaning’ in the soap genre.
I’ve got news for you, ilovegerrard.
(That’s the whole reason soap operas exist).
Didn’t know that, did you.
Well, ilovegerrard, once upon a time, many, many years ago, in this very land, before the age of computers or televisions, radio, CDs, vinyl, cars, motion pictures etc - in fact back in mediaeval times (that’s roughly from about 1066-1482, being the accepted interpretation) - the genre of soap began. It was called the morality play.
Because there were no televisions, bands of organised actors roamed the countryside enacting familiar myths and legends for the enjoyment of the general public. Oh, yes, and there were no ACTRESSES; so the Jennifer Ellison part was played by an adolescent boy with two cows’ udders filled with water shoved down his shirt. The morality plays were exactly what they said they were - plays about trials and tribulations of a character where good transcends evil in the end. And if you think about it, that’s exactly what happens in a soap. Bad just isn’t allowed to flourish.
Examples: Ian Beale is brought to his knees by bankruptcy; Callum Finnegan dies (albeit off-screen); Steve McDonald’s wife loses her job; Nathan is exposed for the crook he is and run out of Walford via the collective efforts of the Evanses.
And if bad DOES flourish, you can reckon on the character being sublimely unhappy: Phiw Mitchell pays the price by alienating the mothers of his children; Grant lost his wife and had to flee Walford; Mike Baldwin can’t sustain any sort of relationship either with women or his children; Barry Grant did despicable things because Fran took his child away; Jimmy’s still living with the consequences of his past. And as for future villains, we’ll surely see a softer but miserable side to Angel and it will all be down to Precious’s influence in his life; and Richard will be caught in Coronation Street for the murder of his ex-wife.
What were Shakespeare’s plays, things - I daresay - with which ilovegerrard has no familiarity, indeed, I highly doubt her inarticulace would allow her to understand even the gist of them - but the soap genre given an new coat of paint?
The second-rate melodrama, popular with the masses in the 19th Century, the novels of Dickens in their original, serialised forms, all soap. And hey, the Twentieth Century put this genre FIRST on radio and then onto films and television.
So, read it and weep, ilovegerrard. It’s nothing new, and it has varied levels of meaning. It’s purpose is still to show us that good ultimately will triumph over evil, that money doesn’t buy happiness, that all that glitters isn’t gold, that a leopard doesn’t change its spots, that those who are ignorant of the past are condemned to repeat it, and that the more things change, the more they remain the same.
An E-reg Volvo estate drives slowly onto Brookside Close. Inside we see a large, overweight man with the close-cropped blonde haircut of the white trash underclass. He wears a white vest and looks like a bastard at at Mitchell family reunion. The thuggy-looking, rat-faced, piggy-eyed Stewart Gordon (whom the Official Forum poster ‘Bethany’ reckons is a ‘ride’ - and I reckon ‘Bethany’s’ mother should lock this precocious, little piece in her room and deny her all access to telelvision - and who henceforth will be known as ‘the Brookside Bike’) sits beside the man.
As the car slows to a virtual stop in front of Number 5, the man behind the wheel of the car eyes the rubbish-strewn front garden of the property, his face reddening with fury. Beside him in the front seat, the Brookside Bike looks decidedly uneasy.
Across the Close, the Sage is dressing for another day in his extension. He stands for a long moment and closely examines the freshly-painted walls. Then slowly he walks toward one wall, where the wallpaper ends and scrapes up a small corner of it.
Next door at Sitcom House, Marty Muddy, looking frazzled, is on the phone to the salon, speaking to Emily. He’s asking her to tell Dire that she must come home immediately as something very important has cropped up - and, no, it’s not Marty’s penis.
The fat, old thug in the Volvo is Alan Gordon, the new owner of Number 5. He lumbers from the car and, accompanied by the Brookside Bike, they walk up the driveway. He stands in the front garden, surrounded by the detritus of the rave organised by his son. He looks at the boy forebodingly. Apparently, a tree has been burned in the front garden.
Furiously, the Brookside Bike swears that he never burned the tree. (And he didn’t. Wasn’t this the result of Jimmy’s People’s Jubilee?)
The postmen shoves the post through the letterbox at Hotel Corkhill. Jimmy goes into the foyer to retrieve it, finding a parcel addressed to him and wrapped in brown paper. He opens it to find a paperback book, entitled In with Both Feet. He gazes at the tome with curiosity.
Over at The Parade, the most unbelieveable friendship imaginable is being allowed to develop further. Gaby the Grin calls on Bev. Bev opens the door and Gaby the Grin flashes her piranha smile and enters. She asks after Josh, imagining him happy to be home. She would have called earlier, she says, excusing herself, but she was afraid in case Mike Dixon happened to be with Bev.
Bev assures Gaby the Grin that Mike’s problems were with Dr Parr, not Gaby the Grin. (Wrong. They are.)
Gaby tells Bev that she can’t stay long.
(Wow, this scene really said a lot!)
Back at Number 5, Brookside Close, Alan Gordon and the Brookside Bike finally enter the house, which they’ve just bought. (The question is: Is it legally theirs, considering the fact that you know and I know that Mick Johnson NEVER REALLY OWNED NUMBER 5, BROKSIDE CLOSE!!!! By my estimation, Terry Sullivan was the last owner, courtesy of Barry Grant. However, this is the ‘grey area’ to end all ‘grey areas’, as far as Brookside is concerned. Ask any question about it and you meet a stone wall).
Entering the empty lounge, Big Al is struck dumb (well, dumber than usual) at the amount of detritus left from the party. One angry look to from his father to the Brookside Bike is enough to tell him to pull his socks up and get to work cleaning. When the Brookside Bike slopes off, Big Al pulls out the ubiquitous mobile phone and makes a phone call to a colleague at work, telling him that he’ll be in late today. The unseen, unheard recipient of the call asks the reason for Big Al’s tardiness.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Big Al replies, ruefully. He finishes the call and fishes in his trousers’ pocket, pulling out a half-empty packet of cigarettes, gazing at them longingly.
Marty Muddie is furiously hoovering the sitcom lounge when Big Dire brasses into the house noisily.
‘I WAS ON THE LOO WHEN YER CALLED!’ She bellows. (Dire, and Brookside, it has to be said, has a propitious fetish about her bodily functions).’WHAT’S SO IMPORTANT?’
Marty explains to his bleach-brained wife with the brassy voice, that the Muddies are about to receive ‘visitors’, for whom he was frantically trying to get the place in shape.
‘VISITORS?’ Shrieks Dire.
Visitors, as in the police, Marty explains. They rang this morning about wanting to question Antony, just routine, he says, about Imelda Clough. Apparently, they’re questioning several students.
Jimmy enters the extension, studying the mysterious book he’s received in the post.
Bev’s hopping anxiously about the flat as Mike arrives from the hospital, carrying Josh in his arms. As they enter the flat, Josh screeches at Mike to mind his leg. Mike jokes about how heavy Josh has got in hospital, as he places him on the sofa.
Back at Number 5, Big Al growls at the Brookside Bike and orders him upstairs to clean the toil. Standing in the middle of the mess in the lounge, Big Al sniffs the air suspiciously. The place smells like an ashtray, he remarks, disparagingly. The Brookside Bike swears vehemently that they stuck strictly to booze, not smoking anything - in fact, Brookside Bike observes, the ciggie smell seems to be fresh. He stares suspiciously at his father. Sure it wasn’t Big Al that was smoking?
Jimmy, with that annoying look of intense concentration on his face, sits down at his trusty computer and begins to think. We know he’s thinking because his brow is furrowen and his face is screwed up in an apt interpretation of concentration. Suddenly, he grabs a piece of paper and a pen.
Marty is now being helped by Big Dire in tidying the sitcom lounge. Marty is furiously dusting and hoovering, wondering aloud why the police want to question Ant. They weren’t clear on their explanation on the phone. Dire starts to clear away some books and papers left by Adele in the lounge. Amongst the papers, in top of them, in fact, she finds the bill of sale for Brigid’s ugly bracelet. Big Dire is absolutely horrified that that dirty, sneaking, lying little toerag of a step-daughter could be so ungrateful and sell a family heirloom. Swiftly she waves the scrap of paper under Marty’s preoccupied nose.
‘THE LITTLE MADAM!’ She exclaims. ‘SHE’S ONLY GONE AND SOLD ME MOOM’S BRACELET!’
‘Okay, okay,’ replies Marty, absently.
‘BOOT SHE’AD NO RIGHT TER SELL IT!’ Dire shrieks.
Well, she’d never worn it anyway, Marty remarks, distractedly. Anyway, he couldn’t worry about that right now. They had to get this place in order ... Make a good impression with the bizzies ... Not come across looking like trailer trash like the Cloughs.
At that moment, Antony enters the house, returning from school. Dire pounces on him, demanding to know where Adele is. Ant tells her that Adele has gone to Laura’s. Dire waves the scrap of paper in Antony’s face.
‘DO YOU KNOW ANYTHINK ABOUT ADELE SELLIN’ YER NIN’S BRACELET?’
Antony assumes the po-face of a liar and denies all knowledge.
Marty steps into the foyer and directs Antony up the stairs, telling him to wash up. The police were due here any moment to interview him.
Antony shits his pants.
Bev’s doorbell rings and she answers it to find Jacqui Farnham standing on the threshold, holding a wrapped parcel. Bev now looks as though she’d like to shit her pants at the sight of Jacqui, but Jacqui’s come in peace (although she’s ready to shoot to kill at the same time).
Jacqui explains that she’s brought some sweets for Josh. She asks how he is.
Bev thanks her for the sweets, saying that they would do a lot to cheer Josh up. Then, rather stupidly, Bev launches into a tirade of self-pity regarding her situation. Josh would be fine, oh, yes. But SHE was the one who’d be having a hard time. It’s going to be nothing but struggle from here on out, cooped up for weeks on end with an immobile Josh.
Jacqui’s eyes narrow suspiciously, as Bev suddenly realises that her mouth has worked before her brain had a chance to think, and that she’s dug herself a hole leading straight to unemployment. Boot, Jacqui’s not to worry about covering for Bev, she assures Jacqui, hastily.
‘Eeeeeem,’ Jacqui begins, uncertainly, ‘we’re all right fer a bit at the bar, boot I don’t know how long we can cover fer yer.’
Bev suddenly tries desperately to make amends for her faux pas. Er, she didn’t mean she’d be out THAT long, she says. Why, she can come back to work as soon as Josh is back in school.
And when will that be? Demands Jacqui, subtly.
Oh, as soon as he’s mobile, assures Bev. Jacqui turns dubiously on her heel to leave, and Bev tries desperately to thank her effusively for being so understanding about Bev having time off for Josh’s injuries. As Jacqui walks down the corridor, Bev shouts after her that Jacqui is not to worry. Bev would be back at work as soon as possible.
Jacqui looks very doubtful.
Big Al Gordon nags his Brookside Bike of a son about cleaning the house.
The Sage opens his front door after hearing the doorbell, and Happy Smiling Helen enters, as usual, bobbing her head. Happy Smiling Helen must really do some more exercise beyond the bobbing head routine. Happy Smiling Helen is getting fat. Happy Smiling Helen explains to Jimmy that she called earlier and got no reply. (What did the stupid bitch expect? That he’d committed suicide? Actually, that wouldn’t be such a bad idea).
Jimmy somehow guesses that Happy Smiling Helen has no new news about Sylvia Morgan. Happy Smiling Helen manages to keep bobbing her head and shake it from side to side at the same time, indicating that she has no further information about Sylvia Morgan. (I wonder if Sylvia bobs her head as well?) Oh, crumbs, Happy Smiling Helen just isn’t happy or smiling about that lack of development at all. She just wishes she wouldn’t get her hopes up so much.
However, she informs the Sage, like a true disciple, she’s not about to give up in her quest to find her real mother. She’s going to continue trying to contact her.
All the while she’s wittering in true Shirley Temple fashion (in fact, I kept expecting her to break into a rendition of ‘Animal Cracker in my Soup, Lions and Tigers loop-de-loop’), the Sage is endeavouring to fill a saucepan full of water to boil up for some tea. (Er, did Jackie take the Corkhill kettle?) As per usual (and looking very contrived, I must say), Jimmy spills water on himself. Oh, crumbs, now he’ll have to change his shirt.
As he dashes into the extension to do this, Happy Smiling Helen notices the copy of In with Both Feet on the kitchen table. She picks it up, thumbs through it and asks if Jimmy’s reading it.
That? Oh, that’s a book sent him by a fella in Wales, Jimmy explains from the extension. The fella told Jim that he’d read Jimmy’s webpage. The book contains writings about manic depression by people who are manic depressives. At first Jimmy doesn’t realise how the man got his address, but Helen reminds him that his address is on the website. Pretty strong stuff on Jim’s webpage too, she remarks, especially Jimmy’s history of Number 10, Brookside Close.
Anyway, Jimmy tells her, he’s started to scribble down a few notes too. The writings in that book were all in the form of short stories and poems. He thought maybe he’d give this writing lark a try. (Oh, good grief, DON’T tell me that Jimmy Corkhill is going to become an eminent writer now! Shit, if this happens, I mean it, I WON’T watch the damned thing!)
Happy Smiling Helen encourages Jimmy in his intent. In fact, she wants Jimmy to show her his writing when he’s finished.
Jimmy is ambivalent. In a way, he thinks it would be good therapy to write his feelings down, but then again, it’s dredging up the bad old days.
Happy Smiling Helen stops smiling and looks at Jimmy with concern. Is he OK? She wants to know.
Jimmy hesitates before telling her that he feels slightly off-balance.
OMIGOD! Battle-stations! All hands on deck! Does this mean Jimmy’s stopped taking his meds? Asks Happy Smiling Helen, fearfully. (WHY are these characters allowed to be so stupid? Surely Jimmy would have to cease taking his medication for a good while for the chemical imbalance that allows depression to develop to occur? Yet, whenever he forgets to take his meds, Dr Nikki and Happy Smiling Helen become hysterical with fear).
Jimmy denies that he’s stopped taking meds. It’s just that he’s spent the morning reading about the lives of people who suffer from manic-depression and struggle to live with the illness. It just makes him think, he says, narrowing his eyes and jutting out his jaw agressively, indicating that Jimmy, himself, is struggling to comprehend this fact. (Psst! Actually, it’s Dean Sullivan trying to emote, but he’s so shit-smug on himself at the moment, he’s unbearable).
Why are SO many people in the world today mentally ill? He agonises in a gesture worthy of Leslie Howard as Ashley in Gone With the Wind. (Probably because so many people have to deal with pricks like Jimmy! I often wondered how Jackie Corkhill kept her sanity).
Marty, now dressed in a shirt and tie, tidies Antony up as Big Dire sounds off in the background about Adele’s god-damned bracelet.
Marty tries to calm a visibly nervous Antony, telling him that the police questioning is only routine, that they were talking to a lot of Imelda’s classmates.
DIRE JOOST CAN’T FATHOM WHY THAT NASTY ADELE SOLD BRIGID’S BRACELET. OOOH, THERE’S GOING TO BE SOOM ‘SPLAININ’ TER DO ON ‘DELE’S PART.
Marty heaves an exasperated sigh that Dire could radge on about something as inconsequential as an old piece of junk jewelry.
BOOT ADELE KEEPS GOIN’ ON ABOUT HOW SHE WANTS TER BE TREATED LIKE AN ADOOLT, Dire shouts. SHE CAN BLOODY WELL START ACTIN’ LIKE ONE. OOH, SHE S’POSES THE BIZZIES’LL WANT TEA AND BISCUITS.
When this incredibly shallow woman darts from the room, Marty continues giving Antony a pep talk. He reminds Antony again that the police are questioning loads of kids from the school, not just Antony. He suggests Antony keep an eye out for the bizzies from the front window.
Antony asks Marty what sort of questions the bizzies will ask him and what should he say.
Marty tells Ant just to tell them the truth.
The camera pans back from a forlorn-looking Antony sitting in the Muddie front window.
Gaby the Grin has returned to Bev’s flat, bearing a sackful of sticky buns. Bev deems her a star and immediately starts to whinge about how she doesn’t know how she’s going to manage work and looking after Josh. What she needs, Bev says, is a hunky wife.
Gaby the Grin spreads her feral lips, splitting her little ferret face into two halves, like a game of football. Well, she preens, Bev was in a prime position to examine male merchandise, managing the bar.
Bev grunts. Most of the merchandise that she examines have beer guts or are married or are just general weirdos that stare at her as though they were in love with her.
Gaby the Grin, trying to appear casual and flip, asks Bev how she deals with the latter.
That’s the thing about bar work, Bev says, knowingly, spooks seem to come with the territory. She imagines there aren’t many spooks in Gaby the Grin’s line of work.
Gaby the Grin changes the subject. Er, how long before Bev would be able to return to work?
Bev then admits that, actually, she’s thinking of resigning as bar manager, and just staying on as an ordinary member of staff. That way she could spend more time with Josh.
(Er, sorry, this just doesn’t add up here. JACQUI appointed Bev as BAR MANAGER. To me, this means that Jacqui is the owner. SHE sets the guidelines along which the bar is run, and Bev agrees to tow those guidelines. It’s BEV who hires etc. SHE makes the bar a profit for Jacqui. As manager, she should have thought, or Jacqui should have thought to advise her that it might be a good idea to hire two duty managers. THAT way, Bev, as the senior person in the organisation AFTER Jacqui, could work the hours she chose. This idea of Bev being there practically 24/7 is just too laughable. It seems that neither Jacqui NOR Bev have much common sense - which comprises a great deal of running a busines - at all).
Meanwhile, back at Sitcom House, the official Inquisition has begun, and how appropos that the infant Torquemada should be subjected to a little bit of his own sort of medicine that he was so apt to dish out formerly. The detective doing the questioning has a familiar face, which means that he’s probably one of these character actors whose faces are better known than their names. Having said that, he’s ANOTHER Scouser with rodent-like features. Having said that, I know understand the old football song sung by all those lesser mortal teams against the likes of Liverpool and Everton:
In your Liverpool slums
You search in the dustbin for something to eat
You search for a rat or a cat to eat
In your Liverpool slums ...
But I digress ...
The detective is accompanied by a woman plain-clothes officer, who sits nearby, mostly off-camera, taking notes on the proceedings. Big Dire and Marty sit protectively on either side of Antony, who sits slightly to the forefront of his parents, opposite the kindly detective. Antony looks as though he’d like to shit his pants.
The detective begins by gently asking Antony if he ever visited Imelda at her home? Antony answers that he never visted her.
Did she ever sit next to him at school.
‘SHE ONLY SAT NEXT TER’IM WHEN SHE WANTED TER INTIMIDATE’IM,’ blusters Dire, loudly.
The detective pauses briefly to glance in her direction, probably wondering how any woman can speak so loudly. Then, clearing his throat, he begins to speak to Antony again. What about after school? He asks.Did Antony ever see Imelda after school?
Antony opens his dry mouth to speak, but before he can issue a sound, Big Dire belts in again.
‘’E WAS TOLD TER COOM STRAIGHT HOME AFTER SCHOOL!’ She exclaims.
The detective glances disparagingly at Dire once again and rephrases the question. Did Imelda and Paige ever visit Antony at home? He asks the lad.
Now Marty interjects. Surely, the detective had heard from the school what sort of kid Imelda was.
‘THAT’S RIGHT,’ asserts Dire, nodding her head. ‘SHE CAUSED A LOT OF KIDS A LOT OF MISERY. THEY WERE ALL GLAD TER SEE THE BACK OF HER.’
Marty agrees with Dire. Yes, that was true, he says to detective. All the children hated her.
The detective continues to look at the Muddie parents with a baleful gaze.
The cleansing of Number 5 continues, as Big Al Gordon opens the back door and steps into the back garden. His fleshy London mouth falls agape at the sight of a huge mass of builders’ waste, comprised of large bits of concrete and wood, in the middle of the garden. He steps toward it, bends over and musingly picks up a lump of concrete, looking at it as though it were material deposited by aliens on a visit to earth.
Back at the Muddies’, the interrogation continues apace. The detective leans toward Antony, as though subtly trying to discourage his parents from answering the questions for the lad. Still in a gentle tone, he asks Antony when Antony last saw Imelda on her last day of school.
Antony lowers his head and glances upwardly at the looming detective. In a small, child-like voice, he murmurs that he last saw Imelda at dinnertime that day.
Well, the detective continues, did he notice any sort of unusual behaviour from Imeda?
Still with his head lowered, Antony says that he can’t remember actually seeing Imelda that day.
‘’E’AD IT DROOMED INTER’IS’EAD TER STAY AWAY FROOM IMELDA, AND THAT’S WHAT’E DID!’ Asserts Big Dire.
The female policeman glances up briefly from her note-taking.
Perhaps Antony remembers his friends saying something about Imelda or any plans she might have? The policeman continues, ignoring Dire’s outburst.
Antony shakes his head.
Nothing about planning to run away? The detective pursues.
Again, Antony shakes his head.
Now the detective hunkers his shoulders down and leans closer to Antony, in a confidential manner. ‘Antony,’ he begins, ‘I’ve had a look at the school records. I’m aware that yer were bein’ boollied by Imelda over a period of time. It’s important fer oos ter know if there’s anything you know about Imelda’s behaviour on that day that might help oos.’
Once again, Big Dire opens her mouth to speak, but this time, the detective is quicker on the draw. He raises his hand imperiously in an effort to silence her.
‘Mrs Muddie,’ he says, ‘I’d appreciate it if yer’d let Antony speak as mooch as possible.’
‘BOOT I’M ONLY TRYIN’ TER LEND’IM ME SOOPOOORRT!’ Wails Dire.
Antony looks instinctively at Marty, whose expressive face looks as though he’s been to Hell and back. ‘Just tell the truth, son,’ Marty urges him.
Next door, Happy Smiling Helen is trying to coax the Sage into allowing her to read his latest writings. Jimmy waxes shy, holding the scrap of paper away from her tantalisingly. What he wrote, he explains, isn’t exactly a poem or a story, like those people in the book. Happy Smiling Helen holds out her hand pleadingly, bobs her head and promises not to laugh.
Rather than give her the composition, and more because he loves the sound of his own voice, Jimmy begins to read the composition, much like a scally kid called upon to recite in front of an indifferent classroom. The title of the work is ‘The Room.’ It’s written in that puerile style that minimalist chattering classes (and this includes the likes of Phil Redmond) would think clever. You know the type ... ‘There’s a rooom in this house. Yer go through the door. Yer scared of what yer’ll find.’
He stops uncertainly, but Helen tells him to continue.
Big Al Gordon has stalked back into the house, sniffing the air again, suspiciously. He’s followed by the Brookside Bike, with what will probably be a continuous sullen look on his ratty, little face. Big Al stands again in the middle of the lounge. It smells like a stale ashtray in here, he announces.
The Brookside Bike now begins to sniff as well. Foo-neh, he remarks, that smells like fresh cigarette smoke. Is his father certain he hasn’t been smoking?
Big Al’s face turns red with shame. Well, he might have had one, but who could blame him, finding the house in a state like this?
The Brookside Bike assumes a smug look. How long is he grounder for? He demands. Only his moom would really be angry ter know that his dad was on the smokes again.
Big Al confirms the worst suspicion that he’s going to be another Brookside parent who’s led by the nose by his horribly, spoiled kids. JUST WHAT WE NEED ... NOT.
The Sage is finishing his reading of his latest opus major, sonorously intoning the last few sentences. ‘... This is the room where secrets are kept. The room where the child died. And the door that the parents locked when the child crawled the walls. Where words crawl and the walls escape. And the child came out dead. It’s inside me head and can’t be painted over.’ (Er, what about this being the room where the body, wrapped in a bin bag was stored for weeks to rot? Hmm? No mention of that poetic metaphor, eh?)
Happy Smiling Helen gazes rapturously at the Sage as he reads the last few words. She appears to be in ecstasy. If the camera panned to her hands, I’m certain we’d see stigmata. But no. Brookside isn’t THAT stupid ... Yet.
When she makes no overt praise, the Sage assumes the worst and announces that this was better stuck in the bin. (You’re right, Jimmy. It’s shit.)
Oh, no, objects Happy, Smiling Helen, who’s suddenly become an eminent critic. This is important stuff. It’s what’s in Jimmy’s head and what’s in his heart. Where did he get his inspiration? She simpers.
Jimmy indicates the book, telling her it’s what these other people wrote when they were ill.
Well, smiles Happy, Smiling Helen, encouragingly, Jimmy should be proud of this. He shouldn’t bin it.
Jimmy hangs his head, deprecatingly, in what has to be the biggest expression of passive-aggressive behaviour I’ve ever seen in a soap character. Maybe it’s best if Helen cleared off, he muses.
But why? Asks Happy, Smiling Helen, knowing exactly where the conversation is leading.
Because she can’t expect happiness in a life with Jimmy Corkhill, the Sage manoeuvres. After all, he’s a liability.
‘Let ME be the joodge of that,’ smarms Happy, Smiling Helen smugly.’You mean a lot to me.’ Oh, she doesn’t want to rush madly into anything, mind. She just wants to let their relationship happen one step at a time. (Yeah, sure. Pull the other one. It’s got bells on it).
Well, the Sage assumes a bashful mien, as long as Happy, Smiling Helen’s sure about the relationship.
Happy, Smiling Helen leans over the seated Sage and puts her arms around his neck, standing behind him. What she wants - what she really, really wants - is for Jimmy to read more of his work.
Well, the Sage begins, this ‘The Room’ thing - like, it’s not a REAL room. It’s more of a story. It’s what people who write do, isn’t it, like - make oop things. (Yeah, it’s what liars do too, Jimmy. So are we now seeing the dawning of Jimmy the writer? Please, God, no).
Bev comes sauntering down the foyer of the flats as Gaby the Grin is returning to hers. She’s standing outside the door to the Parrs’ flat, holding a large bouquet of flowers and gazing at the accompanying card, with a distinctly worried look on her face.
Bev clocks the flowers. ‘Aye-aye,’ she calls out, brassily. ‘Who’s a lucky cow then? I hope they’re froom the doc - otherwise who’s a dark horse or a dirty mare?’
Gaby the Grin looks over her shoulder at Bev, concealing the card and laughing uneasily.
Much to Gaby the Grin’s relief, however, Josh screams from the flat for Bev’s attention. Well, Bev says, backing in the direction of the lad’s voice, she only wanted to thank Gaby the Grin for coming around earlier. It really cheered her up.
As Bev backs away, Gaby the Grin opens her palm to reveal the card which came with the flowers. It’s signed by Rob Dexter.
Meanwhile, back at Sitcom House, the gentle interrogation is turning into a grilling. After admonishing Antony to tell the truth, Big Dire has waded in yet again (pun intended) and put her tuppence’s worth in it. ‘THE TRUTH IS, INSPECTOR,’ she bellows, ‘IS THAT THAT IMELDA CLOUGH TERRORISED ANTONY FOR MOONTHS.’
Marty interjects, saying that the Muddies were desperate for Antony to stand up to Imelda.
The detective looks at Antony intensely. DID Antony stand up to Imelda? He wants to know.
Antony, looking first at his parents and then at the detective, swears that he tried to stand up for himself.
Dire intervenes again. ‘IT’S JOOST THAT’E’S A GENTLE KID. IT WAS HAAARD FER’IM.’
Yet despite that, the detective points out, he did stand up to Imelda. How did Antony stand up to her? He asks the lad.
Antony begins to whimper, begging the detective to leave him alone.
‘And yer stood oop to her on more than one occasion,’ the detective continues.
‘He was oonder pressure,’ interrupts Marty, defensively.
‘Was there an incident when you used a waste bin as a weapon in the school toilets?’ The detective pursues his line. (Sorry, hang on here ... INCONSISTENCY ALERT!!!!! THIS DID NOT HAPPEN WITH IMELDA!!!!! THIS HAPPENED AFTER IMELDA HAD BEEN DISPENSED WITH BY ANTONY IN THE POND. THE INCIDENT CONCERNED SOME LADS AT THE SCHOOL WHO HAD POUNCED ON ANTONY IN THE LOO AS HE ATE HIS LUNCH IN THE CUBICLE. ANTONY FOUGHT BACK, USING THE BIN AS A WEAPON. IN THE INCIDENT IN THE LOO WITH PAIGE AND IMELDA, THE GIRLS USED THE BIN TO DOUSE ANTONY WITH WATER. MAJOR INCONSISTENCY).
Marty objects, saying that Antony was only defending himself.
Suddenly, the detective turns abruptly to Marty, frowning with concern. Has Mr Muddie ever considered counselling for Antony? Had he ever considered Antony might have a behavioral problem?
‘NOW JOOST A MINUTE!’ Dire protests, vehemently. ‘ANTONY’S NOT A NOOTCASE, AND YER TREATIN’ IM AS THOUGH HE WERE THE GUILTY ONE!’ (Well, he is, Dire).
The detective leans toward Antony once more. ‘Is it true that you hit Imelda Clough with an iron bar?’ He asks.
‘He was driven to it!’ Shouts Marty. ‘He was defending himself!’
‘But he doesn’t deny doing it?’ Enquires the detective.
Antony starts to cry.
Dire moves to put her arms about him, protectively. ‘CAN’T WE STOP THIS RIGHT NOW?’ She demands. ‘ANTONY’S BEEN THROUGH ENOOF OF AN ORDEAL ALREADY.’
‘I wish I hadn’t hit her!’ Sobs Antony. ‘It only made things worse!’
The detective sighs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It still doesn’t take away the fact that Antony DID attack Imelda on one occasion with an improvised weapon - an iron bar.’
‘Only because me dad kept tellin’ me ter hit her back!’ Cries Antony, desperately.
Abruptly, the detective and the woman officer rise, gathering their belongings. The detective announces that they’ve heard about all they need to hear and they’re ready to go. He leans over Antony once again, thanking him for all his help and telling him he’d done very well. Straightening himself, he addresses the Muddies, telling them that everyone was just trying to find out the final truth about what happened to Imelda.
As he and his colleague move toward the front door, Marty calls out, stopping them. The two coppers turn to face him. Marty stands, looking bleakly at them.
‘Imelda Clough was more than a bully,’ he pronounces, solemnly. ‘She was a thug, and she deserved everything she got.’
Both the policeman and Marty exchange steely looks, before the policeman turns away.
Mike and Jacqui walk back onto the Close from the direction of The Parade. Jacqui is telling Mike about Sammy’s dilemma with Louise. Fancy that, she says to Mike. Sammy pays all that money to send the girl to a posh private school, thinking that she’ll mix with the right sort of people, and she gets a mate whose family is a load of gangsters.
It just goes to show, Mike opines, that you can spend all that money on a fancy, private education, and you don’t get anything you spend the dosh for.
Jacqui reckons that Mike is sounding more and more like Ron. (I reckon she’s right). Anyway, she sighs, back to the house swap stalemate.
Ron’s not stopping the swap, Mike points out.
Jacqui signs again and patiently explains that Ron is determined that Ray and Jessie remain in Number 8 and Max won’t allow it.
As they round the corner onto the Close, they spy Big Al and the Brookside Bike walk down the drive of Number 5 and get into the Volvo. Jacqui frowns and asks Mike who the two are.
Looks like that gobby, little no-mark who had the party and wound Max and Ron up the day before, Mike says.
Scally neighbours, Jacqui remarks.
Just like the Dikkos, Mike quips.
As Big Al settles his big bulk behind the wheel of the Volvo, he remarks to the Brookside Bike that they’ve managed to shift the worst of the mess. He’ll have to get a skip from work to deal with the rest. He glances at the Brookside Bike.
‘Your mum’ll want to know who had the party,’ he says, pointedly. He gazes about the Close and back at the house, sighing with satisfaction. ‘This place LOOKS right. It FEELS right for us. But the trouble you’ve caused already. We’ve not even moved and already we’re on the outs with the neighbours. They’ve had to call the police about us.’
The Brookside Bike shoots his beady-eyed, surly, little glance upward towards his father. ‘What’ll me moom say about yer smokin’ again?’ He sneers.
Big Al sighs, defeated. Look, he offers, he’ll say nothing to the boy’s mother if the Brookside Bike says nothing about the fag. Fair enough?
The Broookside Bike smiles smugly in triumph.
‘But one more stunt like that,’ Big Al threatens, lamely, ‘and I’ll rip your head off.’ (Hmm ... Could this be a future storyline?)
The Muddies - Marty, Big Dire and Ant - stand en masse on the doorstep of Sitcom House, as the two policemen retreat down the front garden and into their waiting car. The Muddies call out their good-byes. ‘If there’s anything else we can do to help you with your enquiries,’ says Marty, with just a tinge of bitterness, ‘let us know.’
‘Will we?’ Asks Big Dire, out of the corner of her mouth.
Still gazing at the retreating back of the detective, Marty answers shortly, ‘Of course, we will.’
As the detective climbs into the car on the passenger side, he quips to his female colleague: ‘Well, there was certainly a lot to hear there! We’ll be certain to get in touch with them again.’ And they drive off, as the camera pans back to the Muddies standing, united, on the doorstep. United, for the last time?
Peter Cox wrote this. He needs better research.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002