TERMINAL?
The following was gleaned from the Google newsgroup, concerning Brookside:
‘In the trade press there was a story two weeks ago about C4 seriously considering pulling the plug, mainly due to falling ratings. There is apparently a feeling within C4 that tying up so much of their drama budget on a series that no longer has any kudos is not the way to go, and the budget could be better spent on shorter, higher profile series which would put C4 drama back on the map. (There was definitely a C4 review of Brookside's situation, but Uncle Phil denies that axing the show was an option. Insiders at C4 say it is).
‘Personally I think there could be mileage in Brookside but it needs a major and radical rethink. Since it started Liverpool itself has undergone a huge transformation, and I don't think this is really reflected in the series. For instance, whenever they try and portray the middle classes it turns into an embarrassing fiasco, verging on inverted snobbery. Not all southerners are posh, snobby airheads like Tim in BB, just as not all Liverpudlians are work-shy scallies.
‘There are lots of stories still to tell - I'd love to see a greater range of characters and more location filming. I'm sure Brookside could have the energy and wit of those recent Mancunian series 'Cutting It' and 'Clocking Off'', although I realise that they weren't soaps and were made on much higher budgets.
‘Nevertheless, it's more of a change of attitude that's needed. Maybe Brookside could be 'de-soaped' and turned into a drama series of finite length, running once a year like Casualty. Also there should be less reliance on stock characters, like the awful doctor's wife, and finally I would like someone to be brave enough to get rid of Jimmy Corkhill - I think he was past his sell-by date five years ago. Anyway, just some random thoughts ...’
The person who posted this is someone who is in the production business and knows what he’s talking about. So now we know the truth. If the TRADE press, the people who publish professional journals for anyone connected with the business of television and radio production et al, know or THINK they see the end to the programme known as Brookside, then who are we to question them?
For some reason, known only to themselves, TPTB at Mersey Television keep insisting that Brookside isn’t going to be cancelled in November. Until now, I have been prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt, but no longer. This is living proof positive, and anything that Mersey Television have to say on this subject either reveals them to take the viewing public for the fools the majority are not or proves that Uncle Phil and Co are in strong denial about the possibility that Brookside is doomed; and they have retreated to their ivory towers, praying for a miracle that would come with an increase in ratings.
Everything this poster has said about the programme is valid criticism, but his first paragraph exposes a glaring truth that has been apparent to most of us for ages - that Channel 4 couldn’t basically give a toss about Brookside now, that it’s served its purpose and is living out its days in miserable production, shoddy writing, indifferent performances and just general apathy. I feel sorry for the poor sods who have just joined the cast as the Gordons.
Is this the end? I want to know, and I’m sure the Magic Rabbits would as well. After all, he has to send a wreath ...
Another day dawns in the dying throes of Brookside Close. The camera pans onto the front of Chateau Farnham, centering on the upstairs windows. A curtain is thrown open, and we see Raymundo standing at the window in his vest. The camera pans next door to Number 8, equally an upstairs shot. Another curtain flies open, and we see Jessie standing at the window. (Why do NONE of the houses on Brookside Close use net curtains?)
Across the way, Marty Muddie stands in his back garden, staring blankly into the distance, his face creased with worry.
Nipping across to the Parade, Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin are locked in a conjugal vice on their marital bed. From the look on Dr Parr’s face, it’s obvious Gaby’s given him a night to remember. I wonder who went down like the Titanic?
Back at the Muddies, Big Dire walks softly out into the rear garden, seeking Marty.
‘YER’LL BE FIT FER NUTTIN’ TERDAY,’ she observes, alto voce. ‘YER NEED SOOM REST AFTER LAST NIGHT.’
Marty cups his forehead in his hands, helplessly, his back to Dire. He keeps going over things in his head, he cries, again and again. He KNOWS he hit Imelda, but now he’s wondering why he did it.
‘YER WERE LOOKIN’ AFTER YER OWN,’ Dire reasons. ‘ANYONE WHO KNOWS YER KNOWS YER WOULDN’T HAAARM A CHILD.’
Plank forays into the back garden now, wanting to know what’s concerning everyone.
Dire tells him that Marty was up until about 4AM, worrying over the chat he had with the police the previous day. She goes inside.
Marty still hasn’t turned to face his wife and son. He now walks slowly away from them, pondering the events of yesterday. Imelda MUST be dead, he muses aloud, because it seems to him as though the bizzies were now treating this like a murder enquiry.
Plank tries to dismiss these reasonings. The police are interviewing lots of people, he says.
Marty whirls around to face his eldest son. But they seem to want MARTY in the frame, he reasons. They certainly want someone.
At that moment, Tim jumps the back gate adjoining the Corkhill property and greets the Muddie men, cheerily. They ignore him.
Plank asks Marty what the cops wanted with him the previous day, as the camera pans slowly to the gurgling Muddie pond.
Standing slightly apart from Tim, Marty tells Plank softly that the police were trying to make a connection with a girl who’d gone missing from the school where Marty previously worked and this case with Imelda.
Plank leans conspiratorily close to Marty and asks fearfully if Marty had told the police about ‘the other stuff’.
Marty looks horrified. ‘Of course not!’ He replies adamantly.
‘Then yer’ve got nuttin’ ter wuddy about,’ Plank reckons. ‘It’s all cerr-coomstantial.’
Marty looks at him dubiously, asking if he remembered what happened to Mickey Edwards.
Tim, feeling excluded, asks the Muddie men if he’s come at a bad time. Marty tells the lad gently that perhaps it’s best he does leave.
Upstairs at Chateau Farnham, Mr Farnham chases the current Mrs Farnham exhuberantly down the hall. Jacqui wears the same black underwear that she wore in the infamous hospital scene, and Maxim is draped in co-ordinated black briefs. Max chases a giggling Jacqui down the hall in the direction of the Farnham loo. Suddenly the loo door opens and Ray stumbles out, surprised at the scene of Mr and Mrs Farnham gallavanting around the house in that state.
Meanwhile, the doctor and Gaby the Grin bask in afterglow. They look and probably smell fragrant. Of course, Gaby the Grin’s make-up is perfect and her hair has been strategically arranged on the pillow by the Brookside stylist. Dr Parr sighs contentedly and asks Gaby the Grin what was the reason behind their super bonk.
Gaby cryptically replies that it’s sort of a reaffirmation. Then she tantalisingly says that she dreamed about him the night before.
Well, the doctor observes, the spontaneity of the act was nice. It was just a shame he didn’t wake up earlier. He’s got a long day ahead, he says. And he can’t be late. Laughing grimly, he remarks how his turning up late would look to Mike Dixon’s complaint: the doctor was late to surgery because he was snuggled up in bed with his gorgeous wife. As if by way of explanation, Dr Parr tells Gaby the Grin that Mike Dixon’s coming into the surgery today to sign the complaint form. (Er, why does everyone keep reiterating in the script how GORGEOUS Gaby the Grin is? She’s not, quite simply. There have been and ARE actresses in the series who are prettier than she is. Helen Grace was gorgeous (that bone structure) and Rachel Lindsey is ravishing. Stephanie Chambers looks like a mouse. All she needs are some ears protruding from her hair. I expect she sharpens her teeth too).
It isn’t fair, Gaby the Grin replies. Gary Parr is a good doctor, and it’s vile that his reputation should be sacrificed just because some low-life wants compensation. (See? What did I tell you? Look at the way Mike Dixon, university graduate, is perceived - a low-life Scally).
Maybe it’s not about money, Dr Parr reckons. Maybe it’s about the NHS and how it has to improve. (Ooh, little bit of criticism here, Uncle Phil).
Well, Gaby the Grin sighs, maybe Mike Dixon will change his mind. But then, if it wasn’t Dr Parr, it would be some loose paving stone or another pseudo-trauma. That kind was a breed.
Maybe someone will convince him, smiles Dr Parr, unconvincingly.
Tim and Plank, who seem to spend more time together than Tim does with his wife, are going through their plans for the day. Plank has apprised Tim of the events that happened with Marty the day before when he went to the police station. Tim reckons sagely that Marty needs to find a good lawyer. After all, if the bizzies get a bee in their bonnet about someone, they’ll usually come after them. (And Tim should know).
It’s not just that, says Plank, worryingly. Marty’s remembering his mate Mickey Edwards, he explains. Mickey’s wife was playing away and Mickey found out. Mickey and his brother traced the bloke to a local pub and Mickey met him in the loos. He gave him a good going-over and then stuck the man’s head down the bog. Thing was, Plank continues, when Mickey left the bog, the bloke was still alive; but next thing he knows, the police are doing him for murder. He went to prison and served two years before his brother, on a deathbed confession, told how he went into the loo after Mickey had left and finished the geezer off.
Back at Sitcom House, Dire and Marty are still mulling over the predicament. Dire’s convinced that Marty’s over-reacting. After all, IT WERE ALL A COINCIDENCE WITH THAT OOTHER KID AT THE OOTHER SCHOOL.
Then why didn’t the bizzies pull him in then? Queries Marty. No, there’s only one thing for it. He’ll have to get a solicitor.
‘AND HOW MOOCH WILL THAT COST?’ Demands Dire.
Marty doesn’t know. Maybe the first thing to do would be to go to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau.
Tim asks Plank if he reckons Marty did kill Imelda. Plank doesn’t think he did, but the police are trying to make sure that there’s not a shadow of doubt about it. Tim wonders where the girl could be. She HAS to be somewhere.
Trying to divert himeself, Plank gees Tim up to go with him to get Adele’s bracelet back.
Across the Close, Mike and Rachel are beginning to sort their belongings out for the move. Mike’s whingeing about having to go to the surgery today to sign the complaint form.
Oooh, says Rachel, mebbe M-eye-ke shoo tr-eye bein less defensive’n mo-ah pos’tive. And, oooh, M-eye-ke weren’t ter fergit bowt meetin’ bowt’owse later on.
Whose idea is this? Asks Mike, amused.
Oooh, says Rachel, it were Max’s i-dee.
And that’s another thing, Mike rants. Max and Jacqui are taking THEM for granted in this move, riding roughshod over THEIR feelings about swapping houses. (Sorry, mate, you don’t have a say in the matter. You own nothing and pay no rent). And where’s Ron when all this takes place? Mike wants to know.
Oooh, Rachel says, ‘e wenter look at washin’ machines.
The trouble with Rachel, Mike surmises, is that she spends too much time trying to see the good in people. He resents having to go to the surgery, of all places, to fill in his complaint form. That’s gamesmanship, he explains to his dim wife. It’s meant to put the complanant off, finding himself on enemy territory.
Oooh, asks Rachel, did it poot M-eye-ke off?
It nearly did, Mike admits. Then he looks hard at Rachel. If she really wants him to call this claim thing off, Mike says, he’ll do it. He meant what he said when he said he’d do anything for her.
Dr Nikki’s dispensing psychological advice behind the bar counter of Bar Brookie, amidst serving drinks, when Jimmy enters the bar. Quick off the mark, Dr Nikki asks Jimmy how he’s feeling. Jimmy’s feeling wonderful, he says.
Nikki asks if he’s on his way home, which he confirms. Good, says Nikki, because she gets a break soon; and she needs to have a chat with Jimmy about Helen.
Jimmy is puzzled. Why do they need a chat about Helen? He asks.
Nikki takes a deep breath before confessing that she had had words with Helen the previous day and the situation got pretty heavy.
Jimmy’s face assumes a mixture of shock, disbelief and anger. Nikki argued with Helen? What the hell did she go and do that for? He demands. What right had she to go rocking the boat?
Nikki shushes him down in front of the clientele. She only wants what’s best for Jimmy, she assures him.
This sends Jimmy ballistic. He starts moaning and making animal noises, sounding off about losing Helen.
Nikki hushes him imperiously, the way a mother would hush a toddler having a tantrum. ‘We’ll talk at home,’ she says, severely.
Max, Jacqui, Ray, Rachel and Mike have assembled at Chateau Farnham for the meeting about the swap. Max, taking charge of the meeting, looks around and notes that not everyone concerned is present.
Er, Jessie’s not here, offers Ray, stating the obvious. She’s still upstairs. Protesting, he adds.
Max, who’s treating the proceedings formally and has a clipboard ready for taking notes, duly notes Jessie’s absence. Noticing that Mike’s standing slightly apart from the assembly, Max invites him to join.
Mike replies that he refuses to recognise the viability of this meeting, without Ron’s presence.
Max clears his throat and reminds everyone that he wants to iron out these difficulties as quickly as possible; but now Ray protests because Ron’s not there.
Well, where is Ron? Max asks.
Gone off to look at washing machines, Mike tells him.
Once again, Max asks if Mike will join the meeting. Mike agrees to act as an observer, as long as he has a phone line directly to his dad. He has to look after his own interests.
Max agrees and says the meeting will be convened next door at the Dixons’.
Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin walk along The Parade. At the door of the surgery, they pause briefly, and exchange a lingering kiss, before Gaby the Grin carries onto her job. Across The Parade, Rob Dexter sits watching from his car.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, Jimmy’s on the phone to Helen, but he’s getting short shrift from her. Helen, unseen and unheard, appears to be in a rush to go. She’s going to Iceland to see Bard Johanneson.
Boot, the Sage stutters, he wanted ter go with her. Trying to coax her into talking, he asks her if she’s annoyed at what Nikki said the previous day, but Helen puts the phone down.
Meanwhile, in the dining room of Number 8, Max has assembled Jacqui, Rachel, Mike, Ray and has even coaxed Jessie into leaving her sanctuary to unite around the dining room table in a formal meeting. Max and Jacqui sit on one side of the table, Rachel sits at the head of the table, her forehead wrinkled and her eyes blinking in double time. Ray and Jessie sit on the opposite side of the table. Symbolic - Jacqui and Max wanting to move in vs. Ray and Jessie not wanting to go, with Rachel stuck as pig in the middle. Mike stands behind the breakfast bar.
Max clears his throat, plops his clipboard onto the table in front of him, smiles cordially, and announces that the purpose of the meeting is to iron out any hiccups that have surfaced as a result of the proposed move - a euphemism for trying to reach an agreement about where Ray and Jessie should live.
Jessie’s not fooled in the least by Max’s charm. She snorts derisively and makes an audible aside to Ray. Hark at him, she says. All sweetness and light now, he is.
Max, gritting his teeth to maintain his composure, assures her that he wants ALL of them to sort this matter out in Ron’s absence. Something has to be decided today, he says.
Jessie huffs again and folds her arms. This should have been done before all this palaver started, she says.
Max then invites Mike to take a seat at the table. Mike refuses to do so, pointing out that Ron isn’t here to take part in the proceedings. Either everyone involved is at the table, or the meeting isn’t valid, he points out, smugly to Max. Besides, he says, moving out of the lounge, he has to go to the clinic to sign his complaint form. And he leaves the house. (WHY is Mike determined to make the Farnhams’ lives a misery? He’s only effected by the move in that he has to shift houses. He pays no rent, so he has no say. It’s sheer jealousy and spite). However, he agrees to act as an independent observer of the forum, as long as he has a direct telephone line to Ron.
It’s precisely because of Ron’s inability to understand disbursement that things have come to this head anyway, grumbles Max.
Jacqui points out that they don’t have the time to bicker about numbers at meetings. They have to sort this thing out.
‘Roosevelt and Stalin,’ quips Ray.
Jacqui and Max exchange puzzled looks, not understanding Ray’s allusion.
‘Roosevelt and Stalin,’ he repeats. ‘At Yalta. Roosevelt had other engagements to fulfill, so when he came to the meeting, he told Stalin he didn’t have time to sit through discussions that were mere formalities, so they rushed through the conference, signed the agreement and Roosevelt made it home in time for his engagements. Stalin got East Germany and loads of other land concessions, simply because Roosevelt didn’t have the time to sit and talk.’
Max sigh tersely and assures Ray that that’s precisely the reason everyone was sitting around the table at that moment ... To talk and to try to sort out the problems.
Having finished his telephone conversation with Helen, a distraught Sage turns to Dr Nikki in despair. Nikki was well out of order saying those things to Happy Smiling Helen, Jimmy tells her. Now Happy Smiling Helen’s going to Iceland to trace her mother as soon as possible, and HE wanted to go with her (boo-hoo!). What the hell did Nikki want to do anyway? Why was she trying to drive Helen away?
Dr Nikki is belligerant and does her Kat-Slater-Ronnie-Ancona-jutting-chin impersonation. It wasn’t her fault, she points out. Happy Smiling Helen is the one to blame, especially if Happy Smiling Helen has trouble coping with Jimmy’s illness. (Only because you were a patronising, little bitch).
‘Don’t yer think I haven’t been honest with Helen about her wantin’ ter take me on?’ Jimmy cries.
Happy Smiling Helen had to be apprised of the reality of Jimmy’s condition, Dr Nikki says, severely, in her best professional voice.
Helen just blanked him there on the phone, cries the sage, bending low, bulging his eyes and pointing backwards to the telephone. Maybe ... Maybe it’s best that Nikki should go, not stay here.
Dr Nikki’s eyes widen in sadness. She’s not going to leave Jimmy like this, she vows. (Poor Jimmy, I say).
Tim and Plank pull up to a grotty, little backstreet pawn shop. Funny, but it looks as though Plank’s got a new van. As Plank parks the van, Tim asks him if he’s ‘up for it’. What does Tim plan to do? Plank asks, blankly.
Why, go in and get Adele’s bracelet, of course, Tim replies. And be swift about it, if they start getting funny.
The lads get out of the car, Tim darting his eyes about to ensure that there are no witnesses.
Max has, at last, convened the forum, and he and the rest sit listening as Jessie airs her grievances. Her whole situation is ridiculous, she exclaims. She feels she has no say in her life anymore, and since Ron decided to sell his house, she feels as though she’s being pushed from pillar to post. In fact, ever since the fire at the bungalow, she feels as if she and Ray have been supremely taken for granted!
NO ONE is taking her for granted now, Max assures her. In fact, her wishes are paramount. WHAT does she want?
Jessie sits back in her chair and announces that she doesn’t want to move until she can be in her own home.
Jacqui gives her a look of disbelief. ‘Well,’ she begins, uncertainly, ‘yer can’t live here with oos. Besides, Ray’s already moved out.’
Ray nods in agreement. ‘I’ve already moved out,’ he says. ‘If you won’t move in with me, I’ll have to move in with you, Jess.’
‘And you and Ray SHOULD be together,’ urges Jacqui. ‘It’s only right. Yer married.’
‘And Ray and I are two INDIVIDUALS,’ Jessie tells Jacqui. ‘I’m not his chattel and I’m not moving.’
At the clinic, Katie Rogers sits in reception as Mike Dixon leaves one of the examination rooms, looking smugly confident.
‘So yer did it then?’ She sneers.
‘No thanks ter you,’ Mike replies.
‘Yer got no cauuuuuse,’ bleats Katie.
Mike says he has ample cause. In case she didn’t realise, he points out, that doctor she’s defending almost caused his daughter to die, simply because he couldn’t be bothered to see her.
This is sick, argues Katie (and of course ALL senior receptionists at surgeries the country over, argue like fishwives with patients. ‘Yer only doin’ this fer the mooney!’
Mike argues loudly that he’s doing it so that people become aware of no-marks like Dr Parr, and he points to the man, himself, who’s just stepped into the reception area.
Dr Parr prevents Katie from saying anything else, and Mike leaves.
Tim and Plank saunter into the shabby, little pawnshop.
Mike’s returned to Number 8 to find the meeting still in session and Max becoming increasingly frustrated. It’s not his fault that Ray and Jessie have to leave Number 8, he’s explaining, exasperated. The fact is that they were Ron’s tenants and Ron’s responsibility. This is all down to Ron’s inability to understand or want to understand disbursement.
Ray again expresses his desire to move in with Jessie. After all, he tells her, it’s not so bad over at the Farnham house.
Mike tells the couple that they are going nowhere.
Max asks Mike if he’s managed to make contact with Ron. Mike confirms that he has.
And what’s Ron’s view on this situation? Max asks.
Mike tells Max that Ron is willing to exchange houses if Max gives Ron the full £25k, with no deduction for legal fees.
Max hesitates momentarily. ‘Tell him I agree,’ he snaps, smiling. Jacqui can’t believe Max would agree to this, but Max shushes her. In fact, Mike should phone his father and tell him now. Shushing Jacqui again, Max says, ‘I want to move my people forward into a new future.’
‘What about us refugees?’ Jessie asks, sarcastically.
Again, Max reiterates that her wishes are paramount.
Rachel announces that she has to go pick up the kids (from where? Nursery? And what happened to the creche on the Parade?)#
‘Well, that’s it,’ announces Jacqui, ‘meeting closed.’
‘Er, Darling,’ Max interjects, as they are left alone at the table, ‘I’m supposed to say that. Meeting closed, 11:02AM.’
(HINT: THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE SUBTLE WIT).
Tim and Plank mosey around the scabby shop, keeping an eye out for Adele’s bracelet. A sullen girl of about fifteen sits, reading, behind the counter. Approaching the counter, the lads spy the bracelet, which has been put on sale for £500. Tim asks the girl where Lucky, the proprietor, could be found.
The girl glances up briefly, bored, and points to a sign in front of her, which says: ‘Back in a little while.’
Tim points to the bracelet and asks its price. The girl, without looking up, taps the glass counter over the price of the bracelet. As Plank’s mobile sounds, he pulls Tim from the shop. Tim., frustrated, tries to goad the sullen girl by asking whether or not she should be in school.
Outside, Plank takes his call. It’s Max, he informs Tim, saying the move’s back on.
Tim’s annoyed about not getting the bracelet. Fancy leaving Motormouth in charge like that, Tim grouses. They would have been better lifting that bracelet. They could have done it. And did Plank notice the price tag? Five hundred nicker - quite a mark-up from forty quid.
Leave it, urges Plank, pulling Tim toward the van. They’ll come back when Lucky would be there.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, the Sage stands in the middle of his kitchen, staring at Disciple Dr Nikki in consternation, incomprehension and displeasure. In a patent display of puerile logic (and this is a man whose wisdom is revered in Manor Park, remember), he wails that he can’t understand hoe Nikki and Helen can fall out if they’re both supposed to be Jimmy’s mates? In fact, in his opinion (the only one that counts), he tells Dr Nikki, he and Helen are great together ... And furthermore, they didn’t need any outside interference, thank you very much. And if that makes Nikki feel like an outsider ... TOUGH.
The sage pauses momentarily in his diatribe, as if to think about the repercussions of his words, and then adds hastily (as if trying to convince himself) that he was OK with Happy Smiling Helen. It would ‘work out.’
Dr Nikki isn’t so sure and she nags Jimmy, telling him superciliously that only SHE knows what’s best for Jimmy. In her estimable, professional opinion - based on four years which are (for Brookside purposes) TWO years of university undergraduate psychology study (and then based on occasional attendance) - Jimmy is actually playing DOWN his illness.
AND NIKKI’S PLAYIN’ IT OOP! Booms the Sage.
Dr Nikki folds her arms, throws her head back and narrows her beady, little porcine eyes and takes sadistic pleasure in pointing out to Jimmy that HE didn’t remember what happened when he was locked in the extension with her; HE didn’t remember how frightened Tim and Emily were of him at the time.
The Sage recoils in horror.
Poor, pitiful Katie, scrubbed up, sits professionally at the receptionists’ desk in the clinic, looking busy doing nothing - which is what she’s actually done on the show for the past seven years. She should be handed her P45 along with Jimmy and none too soon. The ubiquitous Rob Dexter stomps purposely into the clinic, marches directly to her little cubicle and demands to know whether or not Dr Parr was in surgery.
Katie, looking po-faced, asks if he has an appointment.
‘No,’ sneers Dexter, ‘but Dr Parr will want to see me when he knows that I’m here. Tell him Rob Dexter is here’
Imitating the perfect medical receptionist, Katie tells him that he can’t see the doctor without a previously booked appointment. (Hang on ... I thought this was a Walk-In Clinic!)
Rob Dexter leans menacingly over the reception counter and into the cubicle, his face leering and dangerously close to Katie. (The man must have a strong stomach not to reach from her stench).
‘Listen,’ he threatens, ‘you’ll be in serious trouble if you don’t let him know I’m here!’
Katie jumps up from her seat, but before she can dart to the surgery door, Dexter is already there, banging on it and shouting for Dr Parr. When he finally opens the door, Dexter is laughing and shouting.
‘I’ve seen her! I’ve seen her! And your beautiful wife is having an affair!’
Dr Parr, conscious of the silent extras paid to sit immobile on the surgery set and not display any horror or interest in the proceedings, and looking all the more embarassed by the unbelieveably bad quality of acting all around, tries desperately to get Dexter to leave, trying to take him by the arm and half-leading, halv-shoving him to the door, all the time either telling him to sling his hook or apologising to the mute extras, who sit staring straight ahead, displaying no emotion and lending a surreal effect to the scene.
Dexter breaks free of Dr Parr’s grasp and whirls round to face him, laughing triumphantly. ‘She’s having an affair!’ He announces to all and sundry. ‘Even now, she’s tucked up in a booth at that restaurant nearby, The Shelf!’
Dr Parr shouts to Katie to call the police, as Dexter runs from the surgery.
As a mother would a recalcitrant child, Dr Nikki leads the stunned Sage into the extension, waving her hand in the direction of the farthest wall. The Sage, in his manic-depressive turmoil, had written all over these four walls: I AM A TEACHER ... Amongst other things as well, she adds as an afterthought.
Jimmy slowly breaks from her grasp and performs the classic, exaggerated drama school student’s imitation of unbelievable shock - stumbles a few paces forward, arms bent at 90-degree angles, hands outstretched, eyes bulging and mouth agape. He turns slowly on his heels to face Dr Nikki. Why did he do that? He croaks. (PSSST! THIS IS MEANT TO BE EFFECTIVE. IT’S NOT. IT’S AMATEURISH. In fact, it actually reminded me of the old vaudeville routine called ‘Niagara Falls’. I half-expected Nikki to say, ‘Yer wrote Niagara Falls on all dem walls!’ Whereupon, Jimmy would turn, crouch and pace slowly toward her saying, ‘NIAGARA FALLS! Slowly I turn, step by step, inch by inch ...’)
‘Yer needed help,’ Nikki says, sullenly.
Ah, the Sage points out, he didn’t know Happy Smiling Helen then and now -
Happy Smiling Helen has to understand the nature of Jimmy’s illness and know how to treat it properly, Dr Nikki lectures. She needs ter know what ter expect when he has a relapse.
‘It’s not joost a question of TLC, yer know,’Dr Nikki simpers. (Don’t you just want to slap her, folks? Don’t you just want to land one right across her gob? Come on. Who’s first?) ‘She needs ter face reality and MAKE this werrrk!’
But the Sage isn’t listening. He’s standing facing the walls of the extension, his face blank and his eyes wide, trying to look like an automaton, but succeeding only in looking like a two-bit actor who’s had one storyline too many and ought to be handed his notice.
‘What else?’ Drones Jimmy, softly.
‘Ehhhhm, what else what?’ Asks Nikki, who’s so intelligent, she’s dumb as Al Shit.
The Sage slowly turns his head in her direction, the camera lingering on his face. ‘What else did I do ter yer?’
Without another word, and in a wholly gratuitous gesture, Dr Nikki takes the Sage’s hand and places it firmly on her arse. Did Jimmy remember doing that? She asks.
As if he’d touched a hot saucepan (which is exactly what he did touch), Jimmy recoils. He didn’t remember doing that, he admits, softly. Then he asks reluctantly if something ... BAD ... happened that day.
Nikki confesses that she thought she was going to be raped that day. But Jimmy was off his meds at that time, she adds hastily, seeing Jimmy do his party piece of turning away and chewing on his fist. Jimmy simply has to remember to take his meds and Happy Smiling Helen has to learn how important those meds are.
Jimmy asks Nikki if she were terrified. Dr Nikki says she wasn’t frightened, because she knew that that person wasn’t really Jimmy. (Tell the truth, you silly bitch. Emily had to clean your knickers!) This is why, she continues, that Jimmy and Happy Smiling Helen have to be really honest with each other. The truth is that Jimmy needs a medical regime and he must stick to it.
But Jimmy has other concerns. Did Nikki really think he was going to rape her? He whispers, in horror.
Dr Nikki sighs like the martyr she wants to be and tells Jimmy that she tried that day to concentrate on who Jimmy was, not on what he was about to do. (Oh, and does that mean you would have let him take you, Nikki? RANT:
WHEN IN THE SAM HELL IS SOMEBODY AT BROOKSIDE GOING TO SEE THIS STORYLINE FOR THE ABJECT PIECE OF SHIT IT IS AND QUASH IT. SULLIVAN NEEDS TO GO, COLLINS NEEDS TO GO AND BROOKSIDE NEEDS TO MOVE ON.)
Jimmy gets emotional. Oh, how could he DO that to Dr Nikki, after all the good she’d done him? He wails. He begins to apologise profusely and tearfully.
Dr Nikki tries to remain practical. Jimmy needs to talk to Happy Smiling Helen, she advises, sternly. She realises Happy Smiling Helen’s trying to be helpful, but she can’t articulate the stuff she reads in he psych books. (What the condescending Nikki really means is that Helen is too dim to understand the subject matter of these books. QUESTION: Why does Nikki still speak like an uneducated scally when she’s supposed to be a uni student? I wouldn’t call her articulate, by any means).
Jimmy sits down suddenly on the bed, breathing rapidly and his eyes bulging. He’s not fit to be out amongst civilised people, he gasps. (This is true. Axe him now).
Dr Nikki leans over him, grabbing him by the shoulders as a measure of support. It only happened because Jimmy was refusing to take his medication, she reasons.
He forces himself to look at Nikki. Did he, er, act that way with anyone else? He asks. Nikki shakes her head.
Jimmy rubs his eyes viciously with the heels of his hands. These tablets! He shrieks. They’re like a millstone around his neck!
Others have to take them, reminds Dr Nikki, sounding more like Mother Nikki.
If he doesn’t take them, Jimmy reckons, in a curiously child-like manner, then he’ll hurt people. If he didn’t take the tablets, he’d turn into a monster. ‘Doin THAT ter women,’ he spits, with distaste. ‘I was like that when I forced meself on Jackie!’
(Er, new one on me, that. When did that happen? Oh, well, never mind. I’m sure Brookside will make up some lie to support it).
Andy Lynch wrote this. Feeble.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002