Thursday 4th July 2002

ARE THE RUMOURS BASED ON FACT?

Well, you HAVE to ask that question, don’t you? On the 9th of July, two of the most diametrically opposed newspapers in the country gave a damning verdict on the future of Brookside. If you were a diehard Brookside fan, like the ubiquitous robb2002 of the Official Forum, then it didn’t make for pleasant reading.

The Daily Mail’s article was the lesser of two evils. It basically stated that Mark Thompson, the new Chairman of Channel 4 and an ex-Beeb ratings man, was trying to remedy the fact that, for the first time in 22 years of existence, Channel 4 ran at a loss last year - to the tune of some £20,000,000. The situation is dire.

As a channel whose original brief was to provide a viable commercial alternative to BBC2, it’s not done badly; however, it HAS spread itself thin, and in recent years it has been being carried by its imports (exclusively showing the better end - and far superior to British - of the programmes from NBC, the US’s leading commercial network) and Big Brother. Now the latter is like the TT fortnight in the Isle of Man subsidising the bed and breakfast industry there for the rest of the year.

Basically, Thompson, that inveterate media veteran, sees Channel 4 as stepping into the void left garishly open by the recession at ITV, and thus, becoming a true competitor of BBC1 and Channel 5; so in that respect, he’s taking a long and serious look at some of the programmes on the channel and studying their viability to bring commercial revenue to the channel. In simplistic terms, if the programme doesn’t have a rich, big name sponsor (due primarily to lack of viewers), then it seriously faces the possibility of being axed. Those programmes in danger of losing their lives were listed as Richard and Judy, Countdown and ... Brookside.

Anyone thinking Thompson would be willing to grant Brookside a reprieve, should seriously think again. It’s already HAD two reprieves. At the beginning of 1999, the then Head of Drama at Channel 4 carpeted Phil Redmond, after it was discovered that from the end of 1997 until the beginning of 1999, Brookside had managed to lose 7 million viewers (to Emmerdale, ostensibly, as Brookies viewing figures went from 9 to 2 million in that time and Emmerdale’s went from 4 to 11 million). The executive told Redmond that, although Brookside’s contract was set to run until 2001, she (and it HAD to be a woman, justifiably so) wouldn’t hesitate to pull the plug on the show before that time if things didn’t improve.

Redmond assured her things would improve and then set about ‘yuppifying’ Brookside - with characters like Nathan (whom I, actually, quite liked), Victoria, Darren and Shelley (originally cast as the posh interior designer ex-girlfriend of Nathan). It stank, which led to the appointment of Paul Marquess, and the rest is history.

Last year, one of the first things Mark Thompson did was to delay offering Brookside a new contract, instead putting it ‘under review’ - basically adopting a ‘suck it and see’ approach. So Brookside HAS to increase significantly it’s viewing figures, or face the fact that, in baseball terminology, it’s facing a third strike, bottom of the ninth situation with the bases loaded and the home team losing 3-0. Hit a home run and you win the game. Miss the ball and you’re a loser.

The other contender for the job of Chairman of Channel 4 was a big executive with NBC in the US. I can assure you, had he got the job, Brookside would never have been put under review - he would simply have axed it on the basis that the Channel couldn’t sustain a programme of such low viewing quality - and he wouldn’t have been wrong.

I mentioned that Brookside’s fate was discussed in two papers. The other paper in question was The Mirror. I enclose now, below, the full content of Jim Shelley’s article, kindly reprinted on the Brooksider forum by Paulm. Read it and see for yourself. Maybe Alan and Annabelle will initiate a discussion about it once more:-

‘BROOKSLIDING INTO OBLIVION Jul 9 2002

‘A new family arrived in Brookside this week, the not-very-gay Gordons.

‘Treated by Channel 4's schedulers as a problem they could do without, Brookside is struggling so pitifully it doesn't even merit its own time-slot anymore - surely the death-knell of any soap.

‘Coming in the wake of various flop families such as the Murrays, the Shadwicks, the Musgroves and the Simpsons, the Gordons look unlikely to reverse Brookside's fortunes. Even the weekly soap magazines barely gave the Gordons a mention.

‘Watching them, it was easy to see why.

‘Brookside is painfully lacking a single gay, black, Chinese or Asian household. The Gordons however are yet another aspirational composite working-class family with four archetypal Hollyoaks-style kids who make the Soapstars family that has just been axed from Emmerdale look dynamic.

‘Dad Alan is the warehouse manager of a haulage company (how fascinating), while Debbie is yet another Liverpudlian matriarch. (Actress Annette Ekblom once played Barry Grant's girlfriend, so let's hope she was studying Sheila Grant to see how it was done.)

‘"I want all of us to be dead positive!" implored Alan, shouting not particularly positively. "We've moved up now, somewhere nice."

‘This of course was nonsense. They had moved to Brookside Close, the place that the murderers, alcoholic adulterers and Mickey Mouse gangsters of Liverpool like to call home.

‘By the middle of their second episode, the Gordons were settling in nicely, arguing incessantly.

"Will you shut up please!" moaned Debbie after her 18-year-old daughter Kirsty had spent her debut episode moaning about her mobile.

‘Kirsty is a mini Lindsey Corkhill, with a T-shirt proclaiming BITCH and a gob like the proverbial Mersey tunnel.

‘Kill me now.

‘Besides the non-event of the Gordons' arrival, Brookside's main story of the week seemed to be a farcical plot in which an indecipherable number of families on The Close swapped houses. (Don't ask.)

‘This prompted the laughable spectacle of Brookside deploying the split screen from Kiefer Sutherland's, 24. In Brookside!

‘Mind you, this was the only laugh we were going to get. As demonstrated by Harry Enfield's "Calm down, calm down" sketches, Brookside famously became a whinge-fest long ago and shows no sign of changing, regardless of the fact that it now borders on self-parody. Rachel Dixon yelled at husband Mike, "Don't be so negative!" even though he has had a great deal to be negative about for years. (Her, mostly.)

‘Jacqui Dixon told Bev, "Stop whinging," even though Jacqui does little else.

‘Diane Murray told Marty, "Don't get too depressed." (He is being charged with a murder he didn't commit - a situation made only worse by the fact that it was his young son that actually did it.)

‘It is literally beyond a joke.

‘Meanwhile suicidal manic-depressive thief/heroin addict/fraudulent teacher and Brookside "Everyman" (hah!) Jimmy Corkhill has (inexplicably) been adopted by alcoholic airhead Nikki Simpson, one of several sometime alcoholic girls Brookside has.

‘You knew Brookside's malaise was irrevocable when Jimmy and Jackie Corkhill - the Jack and Vera of The Close - split up.

‘"I loved Jackie," Jimmy declared last week. "We were just right together."

‘Well he said it.

‘Sensing another one of Jimmy's endless tedious crises on the way, Nikki reminded him, "you've got loads of reasons for living. Kylie, your Lindsey, yourself..."

‘If ever there were three reasons to top yourself, these were those.

Meanwhile, the Dixons were explaining to the Gordons how Ron's ex-wife Bev was now working for Ron's daughter Jacqui, and that Ron's son Mike was the father of her and Ron's son, Josh.

‘"In-bred or what?" quipped Alan Gordon.

‘It was probably meant to be a joke but successfully summed up what most Brookside's viewers have been thinking for years.’

What do you think? A lot of rumour has its basis in truth.

It’s the middle of the same day as before on the other two previous episodes, and Gaby the Grin stands listlessly in her office, as her mobile begins to ring. (Why does she have her mobile out in her office? Surely, most people would contact her on her land phone belonging to the company for which she works?) It continues to ring. Abruptly, she rises, snaps up the phone and turns it off.

Ron Dixon stands in the lounge of his new home, Number 7 and dangles his new set of keys.

Adele sits disgruntled, at the sitcom table, not concentrating at all on her schoolwork at hand.

Meanwhile, at Number 5 the Not-So-Gay Gordons pause in the process of moving in, and Ma Gordon suggests that they ring for a takeaway pizza lunch.

Back at her plush and tastefully lit office, Gaby the Grin’s land phone rings, indicating an internal call. She picks up the receiver to hear the voice of her secretary, Sarah, telling her that Rob Dexter is on the line for her. Gaby the Grin looks decidedly uneasy, hesitating before speaking. She then firmly tells Sarah to tell Dexter that she was in a meeting ALL day ... EVERY day. She puts the phone down, with a very worried expression on her face.

Ron, Max, Nikki and Ray stand congregated on the pavement between the properties of Number 7 and Number 8, Brookside Close. They’re discussing the dilemma of Jessie, barricaded in the upstairs bedroom of Number 8 and refusing to move.

Of course, Ron’s changing the locks at Number 7 has made the situation worse, snipes an exasperated Max.

Bev, who’s been hovering about between the two properties, ostensibly ‘visiting’ with Josh (c’mon, who ‘visits’ a family when they’re in the process of moving? AND with a kid on crutches!) notices the conflab and asks what’s going on. This reminds her of a meeting of the old BRA, or Brookside Residents’ Association.

Her silly, little hatchet face, filled to the brim with consternation, Dr Nikki reluctantly informs Bev that Ron’s changed the locks on Number 7, effectively barring Ray from taking up residency. As a result, the Hiltons, whenever Jessie should decide to descend from her protest, have no place to live.

And what’s worse, chips Mike, pausing in the task of lifting and shifting, MAX is now threatening legal action to remove Jessie. Max squirms with discomfort at that disclosure.

As per usual, Bev reacts with an over-the-top and overstated opinion. Ron change the locks! Whatever was he thinking of? Come to think of it, whatever was Max thinking of, seeking to evict an elderly woman like that! (Well, er, actually, he was thinking of taking possession of a property he’s only recently bought as ‘vacant possession’).

Ron snaps at Bev, warning her to keep out of this. It’s none of her business. (Quite right, it isn’t.) Besides, Ray and Jessie would simply have to find another place to stay.

Max explains shortly that he’s given Jessie until 4:30 to come out of the upstairs bedroom before he phones his solicitor and takes legal advice.

As Bev opens her mouth to opine again, Ron beats her to the punch and warns her again, not to get involved.

‘I’m not blaming anybody!’ Bev declares, holding up her hands in mock innocence. ‘I’m just a neutral party! Did I blame anyone before?’

Poor Dr Nikki sets her mouth grimly and mutters that she’s going to consult her guru, the Sage, to see what he can suggest. (OH, COME ON! So now the residents of the Close have to consult Jimmy Corkhill on how to live their lives!)

That does it, determines Bev. There’s nothing else for it but for HER to have a go at convincing Jessie to leave.

Ron rumbles another warning. ‘I TOLD you, Beverly, NOT to get involved.’

‘We-e-e-ll,’ drawls Bev, ‘things could joost get nasty here, with Ray and Jessie being made homeless. It could be like one o’them telly programmes - y’know, Neighbours from Hell and all. All’s I’m gonna do is ter make Jessie see that all’s she’s gotter do is open the door and walk.’

And before Ron can utter another word, Bev traipses off determinedly, followed en masse, by Max, Ray and Nikki.

Across the Close, Adele is taking a break from her studies and phoning her pneumatic and slow-witted mate, Laura. She’s been grounded, she remarks, sullenly. Her dad only had the mother of all cobs on! All she did was sell that mingy old bracelet her Nin gave her. She doesn’t see why her parents are making sooch a big deal of that - after all, the bracelet WAS hers to sell.

But GROUNDED, she continues, indignantly. Why, she was too old to be grounded. Laura asks what Adele’s going to do. We know she asks her this, even though we don’t hear her, because Adele repeats the question. What is she going to do? Why, go out, of course, she retorts. She aims to show her parents that they can’t treat her like a kid, she vows.

The Not-So-Gay Gordons are fast establishing themselves as being another family of boring Scouse shouters and screamers. (Ilovegerrard, if she can read this, and robb2002, are surely cringeing at that assessment). The BITCH Big Tits Gordon, AKA KIRSTY, who has the mental and emotional age of a spoiled eight year-old, is still whingeing about her mobile being packed.

Ma Gordon points out that the land phone’s been connected, and Bitch is whingeing about the fact that Pete, her boyfriend, has dumped her via a text message. (I don’t blame him. Who’d want to face that gob?) And so it goes ... Bicker, bicker, bicker, shout, bicker, shout, scream, bicker, bicker ... Cleverly written, eh?

A knock sounds on the barricaded bedroom door. With the camera behind her, Jess opens the door, to see the po-faced quartet of Nikki, Bev, Ray and Max facing her.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ quips Jess, sarcastically, ‘but it won’t work.’

All they wanted to do was have a talk with Jessie, pleads Bev, less than tactfully, they didn’t want to let this situation get so far that things begin to get dirty with Max.

Max shoots Bev an open-mouthed look of indignation.

Ray pleads earnestly with Jessie to come out of the room.

No, Jessie refuses, adamantly. Once she sets foot outside this door, she relinquishes any bargaining power she might have.

That’s right, Bev agrees.

This reaction is too much for Max. ‘You’re SUPPOSED to be helping!’ He reminds her.

‘Hey, I’m the go-between, me,’ Bev replies.

‘Well, I didn’t intend for this to be turned into a global village thing,’ fusses Max, prissily. ‘I should have known better than to go ahead with this stupid house-swap thing in the first place!’

‘Oi!’ Exclaims Bev. ‘That was MY idea, never yours!’ Turning back to face Jessie, Bev begins her spiel for persuasion. She tells Jessie that she knows exactly how she’s feeling, being forced to remove herself from a place where she feels comfortable. Even Max has a bit of a heart, she adds, and he can see that too. But he DOES need the space for his kids, she adds, and - nice as they are - Jessie knows deep down that she really wouldn’t want to live here with Max and Jacqui and two small kiddies.

In fact, she continues, why doesn’t Jessie come out, have a nice, hot bath and something to eat before tackling moving.

Yes, Max adds. Why not go with Ray and have a meal on the house at The Shelf?

‘Yer can’t live where yer not wanted, Nan,’ says Nikki.

Jessie thinks a moment and then smiles. Maybe they WERE right, after all, she admits. As she’s about to cross the threshold, Nikki suggests that she come across the Close and have her bath. Nikki would check with Jimmy to see if the hot water were still on.

‘Oh, that’s all right, loov,’ says Jessie, pleasantly. ‘I’ll joost have me bath next door at Ron’s.’

‘Yer can’t do that!’ Exclaims Raymundo, suddenly. ‘Ron’s changed all the locks!’

Jessie’s mouth flies open in horror, and she turns to step back into the room. Before she can do so, however, Nikki grabs her arm. But that’s all right, the girl explains swiftly. Jessie and Ray could stay at Hotel Corkhill in the meantime.

‘I’ll NOT stay with Nikki!’ Exclaims Jessie. ‘I’ll go nowhere oontil I can live in me own house.’

‘Yer not wanted here, Nan,’ explains Nikki again. ‘Can yer not see?’

Jessie’s response is to set her face in grim determination and step back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Max turns a furious face on Bev and the rest. ‘Well, thank you ALL very much!’ He declares through clenched teeth. ‘I’m going to call that builder!’

Moving seems to be just as stressful at the Not-So-Gay Gordons, as they shout and bicker their way into discussing who wants what in the proposed takeaway order. Pa Gordon is so put out with the whole ordeal that he orders a large Scotch. Ali Ginger Gordon SHOUTS that he’s managed to tune in the television, video AND the DVD system - which are of prime importance in the life of a bone-idle Scouser. That said, he jumps up from his place on the White Trash Villa’s sofa, as Pa Gordon SHOUTS that Ali’s surfboard and bike are on the top of the car outside. Ali promptly JUMPS from the house and rides off on the bike. Inside the family continue to SHOUT, SCREAM and BICKER.

Marty and Dire have returned from the appointment with the solicitor, and Marty looks as though he’s been put through the proberbial wringer. As they enter Sitcom House, he wearly loosens the tie with which he’s unfamiliar as an article of clothing and tosses his jacket onto the sofa.

Before they can make their presence known, Adele flounces arrogantly from the sitcom kitchen into the sitcom lounge, and announces loudly that Laura phoned. She wanted Adele to go out, Adele says, speaking exclusively to Dire, but HE’S grounded her, she adds, motioning toward Marty disrespectfully with a flick of her head.

‘Who’s she callin’ HE?’ Marty demands, wearily.

The point is, Adele sneers, smugly, GROUNDING was soomthink doon ter kids, and SHE was an adult.

Marty grimly and wearily argues that what he did was right. Adele simply had no right to sell her Nin’s bracelet, which was given to her in good faith.

It was hers to do with as she pleased, taunts Adele. Anyway, when Marty sold his car, no one kicked off.

Selling the car didn’t leave the family eighty quid out of pocket, Marty snarls.

Dire intervenes to - unusually - quietly suggest that Adele go upstairs for awhile, promising to talk, on her behalf, to Marty about the grounding situation.

As the increasingly unbearable girl flounces upstairs, poor, old, put-upon Marty flinches at Dire in despair. He wishes Dire wouldn’t act like that, he wails. It makes it looks as though Dire’s taking Adele’s side. It makes him look stupid.

Dire tries to soothe Marty’s damaged ego, by analysing that he’s merely worried by his visit to the solicitor And didn’t the solicitor tell him that questioning like that was only routine? Marty has nothing to wuddy about, she reasons - even the solicitor told him not to wuddy. Chill out, she implores.

Back at the tasteful offices of Gaby the Grin, her trusty secretary Sarah rings her, just to tell her that Rob Dexter happened to be in reception, saying he has an appointment with her.

Gaby the Grin gives a dainty little start. Placing her hand coyly against her breastbone, she protests that he doesn’t have an appointment. Then she asks Sarah to get security to remove him from reception. Oh, and if he comes back, Sarah is to call the police.

Now Ron’s trying his luck at getting Jessie to remove herself from the barricaded room. Bending double, with an ear to the door, Ron knocks lightly and implores her to open the door. There were still some items belonging to Ron in that room - namely, a box of personal stuff, like.

As he bends double in the typical eavesdropping position, he’s startled into an upright position as Jessie suddenly throws the door open and abruptly asks why Ron saw fit to change the locks on Number 7. Ron throws his hands wide and apologises, but saying he had to move on in life. Maybe it was about time Ray and Jessie did as well. He deftly pushes past her into the room and starts rummaging about in pursuit of his lost box.

Jessie turns on her heels and surveys him silently for awhile, frowning critically, her hands on her hips. Finally, she speaks. Does Ron realise what sickens her the most about this whole ordeal? She asks, at last. She’s sick of thinking that she really knows a person well, and then finding out that she really doesn’t know him at all. Because she and Ron had shared something almost intimate, hadn’t they? She remarks. After all, they were bound and gagged together for a whole night. And for a whole night, they had seen the fear in each other’s eyes, thinking that they were all about to be killed.

Jessie points to the foyer and stairs beyond the door. It doesn’t take much for her imagination to know that those were the stairs down which Ron went that fateful night, gun in hand, to shoot Clint. She never blamed him for what he did. You see, after what they’d shared, she understood the need for a man to rry to protect his family. And did Ron realise that Jessie never wavered in her support of him, even defended his actions in his accidental killing of Clint to other people. Because she understood how Ron viewed the situation - it was kill or be killed. But then, that’s the bond of friendship for you, she continues, in a sarcastic vein, because that night of terror they shared utterly convinced her that their two families shared that. And here he was, after all that, Ron Dixon, about to turn two people out onto the street. She never imagined that the Ron Dixon SHE knew wouldn’t care about the welfare of others.

Throughout this diatribe, Ron’s managed to shrink with embarrassment right before Jessie’s eyes.

‘Look, Jess,’ he begins, ‘it isn’t that I want ter put yer out er anythink, it’s joost that this was all gettin’ a bit too mooch fer me -’

‘Y’know,’ Jessie interrupts, ‘I remember years ago people caring for their neighbours, helping them out when they needed help. That was the time when people wouldn’t hesitate to care for their neighbours who’d been burnt out and lost everything. It was attitudes like that that made this country great. Well, congratulations, Ron. You’ve truly learned the new ways - the ways of putting yourself first. Now I’ll just get my things together and go. You can tell Max I’ve decided to come out. And I hope you can be proud of your smart new house, Ron, and the fact that you’ve left two people homeless.’

Ma Gordon is sorting out the final trappings of the Not-So-Gay Gordon marital bedroom. Pa Gordon follows her into the room. She’s almost done, Ma Gordon SHOUTS at him. Pa Gordon tackles her, wrestling her onto the bed and expressing the desire to christen the marital bed.

Pa Gordon, who’s given up all pretense of even trying to be a Scouser, expresses disbelief that they’ve sunk all his redundancy money into this house and the business. Having said that, he continues, he’d rather spend his redundancy money on a business venture than have it rot in the bank.

Ma Gordon admits that this is a new step and a bit frightening.

At least in their new venture, Pa Gordon says, they would be dealing with a commodity that people would always want.

They start to snog, just as the Brookside Bike enters the room and is disgusted.

(***HINT: THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. CUE CANNED LAUGHTER ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHHHAHHHAHAHAHHA!***)

Back at her office, Gaby the Grin puts in a call to the surgery. She speaks with Katie, asking to be put through to the doctor. Katie tells her that the doctor’s in surgery at the moment, but says she’ll give him the message to ring her as soon as possible.

As Jessie packs her things to leave, Dr Nikki helps her. Jessie’s lecturing Nikki about the circumstances. She WON’T be bullied, she tells Nikki.

Oh, Dr Nikki knows that, Nikki affirms, knowing everything before it happens. She’s always known that her Nan was strong.

She learned about being strong from having been on her own for years, Jessie tells the girl, as she packs. Of course, she continues, life WAS easier if you had a man with whom to share it. That’s why she got so interested in stocks and shares, Jessie tells Nikki. Once Nikki’s granddad was dead, she had to support herself and Greg. Nikki should, therefore, make sure she doesn’t become totally reliant on a man for financial support. She should love Jerome, but make sure she has her own money.

Jessie and Ray are on the move, as Jessie FINALLY leaves Number 8. Mike Dixon follows Jessie and Nikki from the house, carrying a tatty cardboard box, with ‘Corned Beef’ stamped on it. He places it on a pile of other cardboard boxes plopped in the middle of the drive of the bungalow and walks off, camera left.

Ron’s on his knees in the front garden of Number 8 as Jessie walks past him, her nose in the air. As she passes Ron gets to his feet and calls after her. He asks her to wait, saying he’s had a rethink about her and Ray living at Number 7.

Jessie scorns him, turning to Nikki and suggesting that they have a coffee there and ask Jimmy about her and Ray staying.

Ron persists. He’s seen the error of his ways, he pleads. He wants her and Ray to come back to Number 7 ... PLEASE.

Jessie hesitates a moment and then relents, as Ron tells her he’ll get hers and Ray’s things moved into Number 7.

At that moment, Jerome David-Wonder-Topsy-Mandingo saunters onto the close and witnesses the last of the proceedings, asking Nikki what’s happening.

It’s all over now, Nikki says, as Jerome shows her some holiday brochures he’s picked up. Time they discussed this holiday they planned on taking.

Back at the Not-So-Gay Gordons, and the camera pans onto the Man Utd posters in Bitch Gordon’s room.

Outside, Ron and Max stand on the common ground between their two houses, now successfully exchanged, musing on how slow the moving process has been, with Jessie’s protest. Mike locks the door of Number 8 for the last time, and exits camera left, as the Brookside Bike approaches from camera right and removes the ‘Corned Beef’ box from the pile of boxes on which it’s been placed, obviously a pile of belongings relevant to the Gordon family. He takes the box, mistakenly, back to Number 5.

Once inside, the bickering begins again, this time between Bitch Gordon and the Brookside Bike, about the size of their rooms. The Brookside Bike covets Bitch’s room, ostensibly because of the phone point. He demands that she remove the Man U posters and that they switch rooms. Bicker, bicker, bicker ... Bicker, bicker, bicker ... SHOUT SHOUT ... SHOUT SHOUT ... Brookside Bike wants to know why he’s landed the smallest room ... Bicker bicker ... Bitch retorts that it’s because the size of his room is equivalent to him having the smallest brain ... SHOUT SHOUT ... The Brookside Bike gives his opinion of the meaning of democracy - that is, where everyone gets to have his own way. Bicker bicker bicker ... He can’t wait until he’s SIXTEEN and can get a flat of his own. (Er, sorry, but this lad LOOKS sixteen. He SHAVES, for Christ’s sake. When will Brookside get it through its THICK head that fourteen year-old boys look like Danny Simpson).

Bitch Gordon attempts to make a typically smart-arse reply, when Ma Gordon intervenes to tell her not to take his baiting. Meanwhile, Pa Gordon’s mobile sounds and he takes yet another phone call from the hapless Kevin at work. There’s a problem with the workers, and Pa Gordon has to remember that even though he really IS working class (of the white trash variety), he’s now management. He advises hapless Kevin not to take a hardline approach yadda yadda ... Yell down the phone. It occurs to me that Pa Gordon, in his past life, must have been a helluva failure in the East End of London, which obviously harbours his roots. Why else would a Londoner venture to live and work in Liverpool. So a warehouse manager in Liverpool would be the scum of the Earth in London, eh? And WHO manages the Scouse workers at Pa Gordon’s firm? Right, a Londoner. What is Phil Redmond trying to say? That even the most pig-shit thick ignorant Londoner is more intelligent than a Scouser? It would appear so.

In the midst of all this mayhem, which is getting increasingly hard to follow, Bitch Gordon, led by her tits, wanders into the foray again, moaning about the whereabouts of her mobile phone. PHONE? PHONE? Shouts Pa Gordon, and I’m beginning to think that ALL the Gordons’ dialogue must have to be written in capital letters. WHO THE HELL CARES ABOUT A POXY PHONE? HE’S GOT A STRIKE LOOMING ON HIS HANDS AND HE NEEDS A SMOKE!!! THAT’S WHAT!

Oh, shit! Down tools instantly! Stop whatever anyone’s doing! Panic stations! Hurry! Hurry! Ma Gordon rushes to Pa Gordon’s side and instantly starts nagging him about the woeful weed in a manner of which Dire Muddie would be proud. Ma Gordon SHOUTS to Bitch Gordon to get her tits into the kitchen and get a kettle on for her Pa. And - surprise, surprise! - the Brookside Bike begins to yell about something.

Dr Nikki and Jerome Mammy-Prissy-I-doan-know-nuttin-bout-birfin-no-baby-Miz-Sca’lett are now sitting in the back garden of Hotel Corkhill, Dr Nikki half-heartedly thumbing through Jerome’s holday brochures. Again, Jerome asks Nikki what the brouhaha across the Close was all about.

It was just Ron Dikko acting like a meff, Nikki tells him. Anyway, it’s all been resolved, after her Nan gave Ron what-for in good style. Actually, Dr Nikki admits, as if realising this for the first time, her Nan talks a lot of good sense.

Well, Jerome interjects, HE wants to talk about their holiday, now that it appears that Jimmy was sorted with a bird of his own and all that.

So engrossed is Jerome with his holiday plans, that he doesn’t notice the dubious look which crosses Dr Nikki’s face.

Now, Jerome begins, he thinks that they should go to Brussels and spend a few days with Margi, before heading somewhere hot, somewhere where women go topless on beaches.

For a moment, Dr Nikki is intrigued, not because she’s overly endowed with ba-zooms, but because of the way Jerome is thinking. Would he actually mind if she went topless then? He doesn’t mind the idea of topless beaches, Jerome says, but he’d draw the line at going totally nude. After all, if HE went nude, Jerome jokes, all the men on the beach would be jealous. (Yeah, sure ... Is this another cultural stereotype, Uncle Phil?)

Nikki laughs and remarks that the girls on the beach would get another idea. Then she looks dubious again and tries to broach a subject with Jerome. She wants desperately to go away, she says, hesitantly, but she doesn’t think she’s going to be able to afford it. (I’d LOVE to know what this girl does with her money).

No problems, Jerome says, flippantly. He’s a bit flush now. He’d loan her the money.

No, Nikki says, with determination. She wants to go on this holiday, but she wants to go under her own steam, thank you very mooch.

Back at Number 5, the bickering and incessant shouting goes on. I wonder more people haven’t turned off their televisions, complaining of headaches.

Pa Gordon wants to try to get everyone together so they all can apologise to each other. In the middle of this attempt at total reconciliation, Bitch Gordon’s tits lead her into the lounge again, as she waves the newly-found, ever-essential mobile phone aloft, SCREAMING at the top of her voice that SHE’S FOUND IT. But oh! Has she got a cob on now. It seems that Pete, her escaping boyfriend hasn’t returned any of her calls. Bitch Gordon begins to wail about the humiliation of being dumped by text message. (After a couple of hours of viewing her, I think this sublimely funny.) Suddenly, the land phone rings and it’s Ellie, who happens to be a friend of Bitch Gordon and her tits. Ellie wants to come over and Bitch Gordon, even though she’s eighteen, STILL can’t remember her new address. In fact, she can’t even give directions to the mate, although she thinks that they still live in Liverpool, it’s so far out.

The Brookside Bike SHOUTS that HE KNOWS HOW TO GET HERE. And she hands the phone to the Brookside Bike.

Pa Gordon remarks to Ma Gordon that maybe Bitch Gordon will be in a better mood now that she’s found her mobile phone. Ma Gordon replies that Bitch is merely a bitch because of the unfortunate text message. Suddenly in the midst of what might pass for calm, Bitch Gordon yelps out a godalmighty shriek. THE BROOKSIDE BIKE IS DELIBERATELY GIVING HER FRIEND THE WRONG DIRECTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Brookside Bike laughs maniacally and puts the phone down, running off.

Bitch Gordon starts to moan about her ex-boyfriend. She can’t imagine why Pete dumped her that way. He was smart and intelligent (and she’s not, which is probably why she got the big E) and she never once thought he would do something so low as to dump her by text message. (Ah, the wonders of modern technology).

Ma Gordon tries to do an Olivia Walton impersonation and soothes her by saying that all lads that age are a bit daft and prone to do things like that.

Well, Pa Gordon surmises, he’s not at all surprised at the lad. After all, what lad would want to be associated with a girl who paraded around with the word BITCH emblazoned across her tits.

Bitch Gordon shoves her uplifted tits into her father’s massive chest and SHOUTS that it’s just a word, BITCH. It doesn’t mean anything.

It’s not about the word at all, Pa Gordon corrects her. It’s about an attitude. But Bitch Gordon remarks that she’s proud of such an attitude. (And so Brookside introduces another positive role model for young women everywhere).

Jessie and Ray are now unpacking some of their belongings in their new bedroom at Number 7. Some of this stuff, Jess reckons, should be dumped. A move is a good opportunity to get rid of some of the junk they held onto after the fire.

Ray, looking humble, approaches Jess tentatively and promises that he’s going to try harder for her. He knows he’s not her ideal husband -

Jess interrupts to say that she never once sought an ideal husband.

Well, Ray stutters, rubbing the back of his head with his hand, Reenie was always second best -

Jess quips that she thinks both she AND Reenie were second best to Sylvia Morgan.

But Ray protests that he’s truly been happy with Jessie. And just to show her how happy he’s been, he’s going to take her properly to have her tea at The Shelf. He’s missed Jessie, he says, fervently.

Pa Gordon is rummaging helplessly through the accumulated heap of Gordon rubbish, when he’s discovered by Ma Gordon, who correctly ascertains that Pa Gordon is looking for his hidden cache of cigarettes. Smugly, she informs him that she’d disposed of them. She thought, however, that today would be stressful, and he might crack. He was just going to have to be stronger, she says. (Yawn! Well, at least they didn’t yell).

Marty Muddie enters the sitcom lounge to find his brass-brained wife straightening her hairdresser’s tunic. Before he can say anything, Dire, who’s been stewing, defends herself again from Marty’s accusation that she was undermining his authority with Adele. She wasn’t , she says, firmly. And now she’s off to work. She’s got some perms to do this afternoon. (I am STILL surprised that Dire still has a job at that salon. With all her time off et al, she should have been well sacked by now.)

Marty looks sublimely put out. He at least thought the pair of them could spend the day together after that horrendous meeting with the solictor this morning.

For the umpteenth time, Dire, getting increasingly frustrated, explains to Marty that the solicitor says that he has nothing to wuddy about. This thing is just a routine enquiry.

Marty nods unconvincingly. He knows ALL ABOUT routine enquiries, he tells her. He was thinking about all those times the bizzies showed up on his dad’s doorstep, wanting to speak to Christy about some ‘routine enquiry.’

‘DIDN’T THE SOLICITOR WOMAN SAY SHE’D BE SOOPRISED IF THE BIZZIES CONTACTED YER AGAIN?’ Dire bellows. ‘YER’AD NUTTIN’ TER DO WITH IMELDA CLOUGH GOIN’ MISSIN’. YER IN THE CLEAR!’

‘Yeah,’ mutters Marty sotto voce. ‘But things happen.’

Gaby the Grin’s office fax machine whirs into motion and a message appears for her from the ubiquitous Rob Dexter.

‘This is your last chance,’ it reads.

Gaby the Grin sets her feral, little, rodent mouth and picks up her mobile. She dials Dexter’s number and he answers.

‘Still alive then?’ She sneers, scathingly. ‘You’re a pathetic worm of a man. In fact, you make my flesh crawl. Now stay away from me, do you hear? I don’t FEEL anything for you! And stop bleating about killing yourself and just DO IT!’ (And this is not an advert for Nike).

The Brookside Bike and Pa Gordon stand on the doorstep of Number 5, with the Brookside Bike SHOUTING in his father’s ear about wanting the bigger room upstairs.

As they stand on the doorstep, bickering, a taxi pulls into the close and stops in front of Number 5. Pa Gordon approaches it with curiosity, as a blonde girl and small child alight. (OMIGOD! Is it Mo Morgan with bleached hair on the lam from Lambeth? Is it Donna the other woman on the run from the Slaters and Trevor?)

Naaah, it’s just the Gordons’ oldest daughter, who has the rabbity, chinless features of Southern poor white trash, as well as the ubiquitous lank, stringy, bleached blonde hair, complete with dry roots. So white trashey does she look, I fully expected her to have pink eye and a runny nose, but there you go. She’s got a black eye and a cut lip and she sashays from the car, treating her father with the disdain with which the Countess of Wessex treated the diplomatic attache in Kenya.

‘Pay the taxi, Dad, will yer?’ She bleats. ‘It’s £12.50. I’m skint.’ And she makes a beeline for the front doorstep, where Ma Gordon is now standing.

Ma Gordon is shocked to the core at the state of Poor White Ruth Gordon’s face. Whatever happened?

Oooh, she had ter coom here ter see that the baby was looked after. (The baby, being a four year-old kid). Oooh, it were her Sean, her ‘oosbund. It seems Sean ‘kicked off’ at her, shouting and swearing. Dead abusive, he was.

Pa Gordon SHOUTS that that Sean one wouldn’t be allowed to get away with this. He’ll break his bloody neck.

Suddenly White Trash Gordon SHOUTS that Sean’s gone and she doesn’t know where he is!

Ma Gordon gathers White Trash Gordon into her maternal arms and mouths to Pa Gordon to ‘get her inside.’

Maurice Bessman wrote this. Ho-hum.