SWAN SONG
This was a genuinely good episode, but that should come as no surprise to any, as it was written by the excellent Carmel Morgan. The downside is double - it was her last work for Brookside and it HAD to feature Jimmy.
If ever there were solid evidence for the viability of C.O.C.K. (see previous summary for an explanation of this campaign), it was shown in this episode. The bed scenes with him and Happy Smiling Fatarsed Helen (a character who gets more rotund with every scene she’s in) were appalling as was their behaviour and why Brookside DEEMED (and I’m certain it had everything to do with Phil Redmond and nothing to do with the ever-excellent Carmel) it necessary to have Jimmy veritably taunt Ron Dixon into having a major coronary is beyond my ken.
Not only was this totally out of character with the caring, sharing Corkill image Brookside is trying to cultivate (Jesus Christ, the man was even counselling Ron awhile ago), but it was totally unnecessary. Ron Dixon has an established heart problem. He’s just returned to freedom after a four-month stint in a hardened prison to find his home infiltrated by difficult neighbours, the decor ruined by the neglect of his feckless son, his son is in debt, his daughter suffers an ectopic pregnancy, he’s forced to look after a hyperactive grandson, his granddaughter suffers a bout of meningitis, his business is in tatters, he’s starting a new one AND moving. If that’s not enough to bring on a major MI, then I don’t know what is. He certainly didn’t need Jimmy’s presence.
It’s just another badly gratuitous use of an actor who’s coming to dominate Brookside in the extreme.
Kill off Corkhill NOW ... And save the show in the bargain.
Or maybe it doesn’t want to be saved?
Another day in paradise dawns - sorry, Liverpool (geesh!).
Bev is seen closely examining a welting bruise on her right forearm, inflicted by her loving and attentive (not) son, Josh.
Marty Muddie opens his front door and steps onto the doorstep. He looks at his front garden and sees something he doesn’t like the look of. Then he glances back into the Sitcom lounge and sees something else he doesn’t like the look of - his mother-in-law, Brigid, ensconced in his favourite chair and delving into his newspaper, before he’s even read it. Brigid smiles at him ingratiatingly.
(Er, I know school’s out for the summer - to paraphrase Alice Cooper - but doesn’t Marty still have to go to work?)
(WARNING! THE NEXT SCENE IS PARTICULARLY HAZARDOUS TO YOUR DIGESTION. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO PUKE, SCROLL PAST IT).
Next door at Hotel Corkhill, the camera pans in on Happy Smiling Fatarsed Helen (who is probably flatulant) and the Sage tucked up in bed. It’s pristine. Honestly, if Happy Smiling Helen didn’t wear a Brillo pad on her head, her hair would be strategically arranged on the pillow. She’s awake and in the arms of the Sage, her Saviour. She gazes lovingly and ecstatically up at the enormous chin of the sleeping Sage, who lies, Hapsburgian mandible thrusting upwards phallically, with a grin of satisfaction on his smugly sleeping mug.
It’s disgusting.
A few moments later, Brigid steps onto the doorstep of Sitcom House, takes a deep breath, smiles, rubs her hands together and steps onto the garden. A lawn mower awaits her. At the same moment, Bev rounds the corner onto the Close and approaches Brigid.
Contritely, she hands Brigid an envelope, confessing that she was hoping merely to drop it through the letterbox. It’s a card of apology, she explains, from Devilchild. The ‘supersoak’, she continues, has been consigned to Oxfam (for some less fortunate child ‘in your Liverpool slums’ to create havoc, instead of ‘searching in the dustbins for something to eat’).
Brigid brushes Bev’s apology aside. Josh isn’t all bad, she says benevolently. And she notes that Bev looks tired. Bev takes her leave and Brigid applies her excess energy to starting the petrol mower and running it around the Muddie front garden.
Marty watches her in provound disbelief from the front bay window, as Dire applies cherry-red lipstick to her enormous gob in the foreground. Poor Marty turns from the window to face his unsympathetic wife. Pointing with his thumb in Brigid’s direction, he informs Dire that his mother-in-law makes him dizzy to watch her. It’s not even 9AM and there she is, out in the garden with the mower running. The grass doesn’t even need a cut.
IT’S HER WAY O’HELPIN’ OUT! Brays Dire. SHE FEELS GUILTY ‘BOUT BEIN’ERE. (Subtlety was never Dire’s strongest point).
Marty is finding it difficult living under the same roof as Brigid. She ALWAYS seems to be doing something, he says, irritably. Even when she’s sitting in front of the television, she’s usually clacking away with her knitting needles or doing a crossword. Then there’s the running commentary when the evening news is on. He mimics Brigid: ‘It’s the permissive society ... I blame the parents ... Is it me or is that newsreader mumbling?’
Dire examines her gob in her compact mirror. ‘YER JOOST HAVTA GET ON AND GET ALONG.’ She shouts over her shoulder.
And if that’s not bad enough, Marty continues, there are Brigid’s running monologues with which to contend. Why, he hears her five minutes before he sees her.
As if on cue, we hear Brigid speaking as she approaches the front door. As she enters she informs Dire that she wasn’t sure whose flowers there were in the front garden - the Muddies’ or Jimmy’s - but she’d snipped a few tops off those plants. Dire and Marty walk away into the kitchen, Dire smirking in a sitcomishly tolerant way.
The loving couple are now fully awake. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Flatulant Helen coos that their idyllic waking up wasn’t exactly perfect. Jimmy should be off to the nearest farm by now, hunting out fresh eggs and bacon to make her breakfast in bed. (Honey, you DON’T need anymore eggs and bacon, I can tell you).
Jimmy jokes that he has a packet of crisps hidden under the sink. He has to hide such delicacies from the gannets, he says.
Tim? Asks Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen.
Jimmy frowns indulgently. No, Emily. She can really pack’em away, he says. He lives for the day when that girl discovers a diet.
In the meantime, he continues, he doesn’t have any eggs and bacon, but - he adds, peeking under the duvet, ostensibly at his vile member - he can offer her some crumpet. And he descends upon her giggling.
(This is gross).
The Brookside Bike is preparing to e-mail the Sage with an attachment of a picture showing a nude Ron Dixon, who’s manhood is being shielded by Bev’s hands. Ali the Ginger starts to berate him for using the e-mail account, but when he sees the attachment, he starts to laugh.
Downstairs in Bicker-Bicker House, Ma has laid on a REEEEAAAAAALL poor white breakfast. YEEEEEEE-HAWWWWWW! Plenty of eggs and bacon on that table, lots of cholesterol and fatty acid too. Pa Gordon sits as paterfamilias at the head of the table. Pa’s suffering from the stereotypical ailment of the newly-reformed smoker. He’s eating like a horse. (Actually, from the look of John Barton, I’d say he should be more concerned about his gall bladder and his liver). He’s wearing a suit for some reason, and he bellows that as he’s doing a full day’s work, he’ll need a full breakfast. His body, he says, is a furnace, needing fuel.
At the other end of the table, Dan the Man sits with Luke the bunny, who’s finished his egg. Dan suggests that the boy play a joke on Rabbity Ruth, his mother, and they turn the egg upside down in its cup to make it look as though the child hasn’t eaten any of it.
At that moment, Ali the Ginger and the Brookside Bike descend on the dining room, followed by Rabbity Ruth, snorking her snot and hopping to the table. As Pa gets up, she takes his seat. Dan jokes that Luke says his mum can have his egg and they pass the trick egg to her. Ruth falls for the joke and they have a laugh.
As poor Ma passes by, Rabbity Ruth turning suddenly into Lindsey Corkhill, grabs her harrassed mother’s arm and asks if she can have a poached egg.
‘Yer can have anythink yer like,’ whines Ma. ‘Boot yer’ll haveter make it yerself. I’m offter werrrrk.’
Rabbit Ruth looks put-out that she’s not going to be waited on hand and foot.
Pa makes a brief return to remind Ali the Ginger that he HAS to go to the Jobcentre today. Ali the Ginger, who always seems to have money for mischief and booze whines that he has no money for bus fare, whereupon Pa slams some change down onto the table. Oh, and he’ll be upstairs to inspect Ali the Ginger’s tidy room when he returns from work that evening.
Over at Number 7, Jessie is ironing some clothes as Ray stands staring out the front window. Jessie is off on holiday soon, having been offered a free trip to Tenerife with a mate from the bingo club. She’s trying to convince Ray to come along too.
Ray’s more intent on studying Hotel Corkhill. Six days and seven nights she’s been there, he informs Jessie, indignantly, referring to Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen. They haven’t surfaced from that house in a week - like a couple of kids they are!
Jessie, however, is intent upon convincing Ray to go to Tenerife. Honestly, she complains, how Ray could think about turning down a free holiday in Tenerife.
Why go abroad to go on a spending spree? Reasons Ray.
‘No,’ jibes Jess, approaching the window to glance out, herself. ‘You’d rather stay here and spy on the neighbours.’
She noticed Brigid furiously pushing the Muddie mower back and forth across the front lawn. And Brigid really ought to do something about that mingey old cardy, Jess adds.
Ray’s still harping on about Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen. Like a couple of honeymooners, they were!
Well, it’s better than being a couple of old fossils, the way they were, Jess retorts.
Ray has plans for that day. He tries to convince Jessie to accompany him downtown to an antiques fair.
‘This is what I mean!’ She exclaims, in exasperation. ‘Oh, I give up. All right,’ she concedes.
At that moment, Ray spies Ma Gordon traipsing across the Close to the garage.
‘And there goes that mother of those hooligans!’ He mutters. ‘She should be spending more time at home with those kids. I’ve a mind to have a word with her about them!’
(You go, Ray!)
Meanwhile, back at the Corkhill No-tell Hotel, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen lolls in bed, whilst her lover, the Sage does a singularly unromantic thing - surfs the Internet to check his e-mails.
Happy Smiling Helen waves her seriously fat arms about (I know Annabelle maintains that to Brookside ‘fat’ is unbalanced - i.e. Leanne and Bev, but lagerlout Helen is vying to become the new Sinbad) and wails that Jimmy should be basking in the afterglow of their fucking rather than surfing the net.
Ah, but the Sage has to check his e-mails. A-HAAAAAA! He exclaims. He’s received another e-mail from the number one fan of his website, someone named LOU. Hey, and ol’Lou’s even sent him an attachment of some sort. He opens the attachment, which slowly downloads to reveal the nearly full-frontal photo of Ron and Bev.
Excitedly and childishly, he motions for Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen to come look at the picture. The vile piece of blubber bounds from the bed, wrapped in a king-sized duvet (well, it would have to be, wouldn’t it?), and collapses in laughter at the photo, even doing a silly, little puerile motion of gagging herself and barfing with her fingers down her throat.
Jimmy prints the photo off and vows to Helen that he knows a way of preserving it for the future and a way to show it off to all concerned.
(THIS IS NOT FUNNY. IT’S NOT EVEN CONGRUENT WITH THE HERO BROOKSIDE ARE TRYING TO PRESENT THE EVER-SMUG CORKHILL AS BEING. IT’S GRATUITOUS, CHILDISH AND CRUEL).
Back at the Gordon breakfast table, Rabbity Ruth, rubs her snotty nose and starts to clear the table, asking her two reluctant brothers to help with the washing up. Dan the Man is stretched out luxuriantly on the Bicker-Bicker sofa, which seems to dominate the room from all angles.
At Rabbity Ruth’s request for help, Ali the Ginger sets up a catterwaul of protest at the fact that Dan the Man isn’t expected to help out with the household chores, now that he’s living amongst them.
Dan lazily lifts his head and laconically points out that he’s a guest (and not even a paying one); besides, he has to rest to preserve his energy for his new job.
Building a round-about? Hisses Ali scathingly.
A round-about AND a junction, corrects Dan. And is he ever anxious to start, he adds unenthusiastically - out in all sorts of weather, stinking portaloos (not much different from the Gordons’, I daresay).
The Brookside Bike gets up and begins to help his sister clear the table. Hey, he asks her, casually, what’s it like working fer that Bev one?
Rabbity Ruth snorks back some green snot that she’s forgotten to eat for her breakfast and tells him that Bev is OK.
Did Rabbity Ruth know, continues the Brookside Bike, that that Bev one used ter live with that old Dixon fella across the way?
Rabbity Ruth finds this hard to believe, especially since Ron Dixon’s old enough to be Bev’s father.
And was that Bev one ever a model? The Brookside Bike pursues.
Rabbity Ruth screws up her little rabbity face, wiggles her little button nose and says she honestly doesn’t know. Well, maybe when she was younger, she supposes, but certainly not now. Gazing wistfully down at Luke the bunny, she says that Bev’s just like her at the moment - lumbered. (AND WE WELCOME ANOTHER RELUCTANT MOTHER TO THE BROOKSIDE RANKS, FOLKS!)
At Sitcom House, Dire Muddie, who seems to have all the time in the world, is giving her mother a set in the lounge, as the radio plays softly in an unusual position on a table in the middle of the room beside Brigid. Marty sits in the conservatory, with the door open, TRYING to read the paper that Brigid’s thumbed through before him.
The Suzy Quatro song, Can the Can, comes on the radio. Dire remarks that she likes this song and turns the volume up. Oh, that DOES bring back memories, begins Brigid, fidgeting in her seat and turning to look at Dire. Does Dire remember that poncho Brigid made for her? She asks. Why, it was out of style by the time she finished it.
Marty motions to Dire silently that Brigid’s already begun the crossword in the paper.
‘I couldn’t manage Four Across!’ Brigid calls out to him, seeing him motion with the paper. Then she fidgets again and reminisces about some girl Dire knew whose parents were converts - ‘they’re always VERY devout’.
Oh, yes, she continues, it was all platform shoes and tank tops in the 70’s! That Ray Hilton’s still got tank tops, she says. Hmph! Fancy those Hiltons - going to an antiques fair downtown, they say, she hisses, jealously. More like a junk bazaar, if you ask her!
Noticing Marty’s frantic look, Brigid hastily offers to be quiet in order that Dire might hear the Suzy Quatro song. Then, thinking better, Brigid jumps up and starts removing the rollers from her hair. She’s got lift enough, she tells Dire hurriedly, moving toward the foyer door; and besides, she didn’t want Dire to be late for work. (Did that ever matter before?)
When she leaves the room, Dire enters the sitcom kitchen and closes the glass door behind her. Marty is beside himself with frustration.
ONE MORE WEEK, bellows Dire, plaintively.
‘That’s a long time in politics!’ Quips Marty.
BUT HER MOOTHER CAN’T GO BACK! Dire protests, vehemently. THE PLACE SHE LIVES IS LIKE A TIP.
Well, that would suit Brigid, says Marty. She loves cleaning.
‘SHE’S ME MOOTHER!’ Shrieks Dire.
‘And I feel like the lodger!’ Counters Marty.
Ron is strolling around outside on the Close when the Brookside Bike, ferrying a basketball, approaches him. It’s boiling, he announces, talking about the weather. Real stripping off weather, he says to Ron.
‘Hey, sunshine,’ Ron admonishes, gently, ‘you joost mind that ball doesn’t hit any of my windows!’
Rabbity Ruth sits entwined with Dan the Man on the mingey Bicker-Bicker sofa, whilst Luke the bunny sits on the arm of the sofa. Luke the bunny is playing with a remote control rat toy, which is noisy and keeps banging against Dan the Man’s feet. He’s trying not to show his annoyance with the child, whom he clearly doesn’t like.
It’s like a madhouse, living in this place, he complains.
All the more reason to get their own place, snorks Rabbity Ruth.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen has condescended to cross the Close to visit Ray, after coming up for air from the Sage. She’s amazed that Jessie’s doing so much ironing and Jess explains that she’s off on holiday to Tenerife soon.
Oh, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen witters politely, is Ray going too?
The UK is fine by me, mutters Ray, stubbornly.
Jessie explains that one of her friends from the bingo club paid for the holiday. Since the woman’s husband has died, she hates to go anyplace on her own.
As they walk toward the kitchen for coffee, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen notices the four washing machines running full blast. Doesn’t the noise bother them? She asks Ray and Jessie.
Eyeing Ray sceptically, Jessie remarks that Helen would be surprised what a person could get used to in life.
Ray asks Helen Jimmy’s whereabouts, and Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen says he’s gone up some street for a bit. Oh, sneers Ray, he’s surprised Jimmy has the energy, anyway, he continues, they would ask Helen to stay, but they were off out themselves - to the antiques show downtown.
‘That’s a slippery slope, if yer ask me,’ jokes Jess. ‘If we wanted to spend the afternoon looking at old things, we should just stay at home and look at each other.’
As the Brookside Bike makes a poor attempt to shoot baskets outside, Jimmy walks onto the Close. He stops briefly and calls out to the Brookside Bike. As the lad turns to face Jimmy, he notices that Jimmy’s ubiquitous denim jacket is partially opened to reveal the picture of Ron and Bev, on a teeshirt.
Jimmy asks the Brookside Bike how the family is settling in and tosses the basketball back to him. As Jimmy walks off, the Brookside Bike whips out his mobile from his pocket and quickly phones his fat friend Boz.
‘Mission accomplished,’ he reports, gleefully malicious.
As the Brookside Bike shoots baskets in the background, the next scene opens with Ron in the foreground of the Close, talking to Brigid as she continues with gardening for the Muddies. Ron’s explaining a new business prospect to Brigid. He’s been asked by a local rest home to quote for laundry services and has an appointment with them the next day for this purpose. This could be a veritable gold mine, he says, if he manages to take that lot on board as clients. Mind you, he adds, those sheets could be a bit whiffy ... But suddenly realising that Brigid, herself, is no spring chicken, he apologises.
Brigid laughs the remark off and Ron then compliments her, telling her that she still ‘goes in and out’ in the right places. Let’s hope he gets that contract, jokes Ron, and it will be a clean sheet for him and a clean sheet for the oldies in the home.
Suddenly, Ron stops talking and lightly beats his fist against his chest, in a manner that - to some - would indicate heartburn or indigestion. Jessie notices. ‘What’s the matter, Ron?’ She asks, lightly. ‘Jessie been feeding you up?’
‘Jessie’s been winding me oop more likely,’ Ron mutters. ‘No, loov, I’m afraid in that department with Jessie, it’s more of a burnt offering.’ As he says this, in the distance, Ray and Jessie step from Number 7. Look at’em, Ron mutters, disparagingly. He hopes the bloody bungalow is finished soon. It’ll be nice ter have the place ter himself. A man’s home is supposed ter be his castle, after all.
Brigid grimly observes that Marty feels that way, and she gazes wistfully at Sitcom House.
‘Boot me,’ moans Ron, ‘I’ve got codgers fer lodgers. Look at’em. Bill and Ben. Obble-bobble, yap-yap, Obble-bobble, yap-yap.’
Rabbity Ruth is getting ready for work. Having no babysitter and no organised childcare (what else is new?), she’s persuaded Dan the Man to mind Luke. She’s giving the child some last minute instructions to be good and do as ‘Uncle Dan’ says.
Dan the Man objects strenuously. He doesn’t want the child calling him ‘Uncle’, simply because he’s not. ‘Dan’ will do, he says, primly. Rabbity Ruth leaves for work, as Dan the Man sits down again on his favourite seat - the sofa. He suggests to Luke the bunny that they get out the Leggo set and build something.
Luke the bunny has other ideas. ‘I want the rat,’ he recites in monotone.
Dan insists on building something.
‘I want the rat,’ Luke insists.
‘OK,’ Dan says, through clenched teeth. ‘We’ll put Plan B into action.’
(And now we know that Dan the Man does not like kids - well, he doesn’t like THIS kid. How long, I wonder, before he clouts the boy? Now that’s a storyline. Heather Robson is furiously scribbling.)
As Dire and Marty sit at the sitcom table, they’re interrupted by the sudden appearance of Brigid with packed bags. Dire is astounded and wants to know what her mother means to achieve.
Brigid dismisses her daughter’s concern. Oh, she knows she’s not really wanted here, and she doesn’t like to impose. She thinks it’s time she got back to her own flat, she says.
Marty jumps up. He immediately offers to take her back in Plank’s car. Brigid obliges. It would make the Descent into Hell that much easier, she reckons.
Dan the Man is at his wits’ end with Luke the bunny, and he’s resorted to playing the old game of 52-Pickup, where you toss all the cards from a deck into the air and then make the other person pick them up one by one. Just as he reaches the end of his tether with the child, Ali the Ginger appears and notices the sour look on Dan’s face.
‘What’s this?’ He asks, sarcastically. ‘Sick o’playin’ Little House on the Prairie already?’
When Luke the bunny sees him, he runs happily to him, as Ali suggests a kick-around. (Hmmm ... Maybe Ali will get a job as Jacqui Dixon’s nanny? It wouldn’t be implausible. Wait and see.)
As Marty drives Brigid to her flat, he pulls out a Perry Como tape and inserts it in the cassette player, just to appease her with her favourite singer. Brigid clocks his intent, but tells him succinctly that, if he must know, she’s leaving in order that Antony might have his room back.
As they drive onto Brigid’s estate, Marty is visibly shocked. What kind of neighbours does Brigid have? He asks.
A drug addict on one side and an unmarried mum on the other, informs Brigid.
‘Well, at least she kept the baby,’ grunts Marty, unsympathetically.
‘Her name is Yasmin,’ says Brigid, and then adds sympathetically in a musing tone, that the girl looks as though she could do with three pints of blood. Oh, and by the way, Marty had a phone call earlier - someone named Alby from St Wilfred’s. Marty glances sharply in Brigid’s direction, as she says this, his face growing noticeably paler.
Wonder who’ll take yer phone messages now that I’m gone? Brigid snaps.
The going is slow at Bar Brookie as Ron Dixon sits at a central table, on the raised section directly in front of the bar. Dr Parr slumps morosely against the bar, looking downcast. Bev serves him and asks how he is. The doctor admits that things have got on top of him and he IS a bit down at the moment. Ron calls out to Bev about service and Bev says she’ll be there right away. Ron looks as though he’s not feeling at all well. He’s frowning in discomfort and clutching his chest. Dr Parr glances briefly in his direction.
Wait until Ron finds out that his Jacqui’s only upped the cost of latte by 10 pence, witters Bev. That’ll shave 10 years off his life. Dr Parr glances at him again, as Ron winces and clutches his chest. Bev interprets this as an age-old complaint of Ron’s. Honestly, she says, confidentially to Dr Parr, Ron’s acid! Why, when they lived together, she could write a book about his acid indigestion. No spicy food after 6pm, and when they’d go to bed for a cuddle, Ron had to sit upright. She sighs suddenly. ‘I wish we were still together,’ she says, softly.
But Dr Parr isn’t listening. He’s staring now at Ron, who’s visibly in distress. He approaches him and asks if Ron’s all right. Ron looks up at the doctor, unwelcomely. He’s joost feelin’ a bit sick, he admits. Someone must have let Bev loose in the kitchen.
Bev hears this and screws up her mouth in disdain.
Dr Parr leans over Ron’s table and asks if he feels any tingling or pain down his arms or wrists.
‘Whaddaya doin’?’ Growls Ron. ‘Checkin’ fer meningitis? I’ve joost got a spot of indigestion. If I feel this way in the mornin’, I’ll see a doctor - for PROFESSIONAL advice,’ adds Ron, coldly.
Dr Parr beats a retreat back to the bar, but his face still registers concern for Ron and he continues to keep a surreptitious eye on the man.
As Marty nears Brigid’s flat, he’s in awe of the state of the place. Brigid notices this, as the car pulls to a stop.
‘You see,’ she says, smugly. ‘I didn’t exaggerate.’
As Marty starts to unbuckle his seatbelt to help her into her flat, she stops him. ‘I shouldn’t bother coming in if I were you,’ she purrs. ‘You’d only find the car on bricks when you returned.’
Marty looks across the street to a block of flats. Outside one stands a thuggy-looking bearded man with a ferocious dog. Marty points to a flat beside the man. Is that on Brigid’s? He asks. Brigid confirms that it is.
‘No,’ says Marty, suddenly decisive. ‘I can’t leave yer here.’
Brigid witters a bit about who’ll take all Marty’s phone calls for him when she’s gone.
‘Belt up,’ Marty snaps, meaning the seat belt.
Brigid is shocked to silence.
‘I said, "Belt up", mother-in-law, dear,’ Marty repeats. ‘I’m takin’ yer home. And I been waitin’ nine years ter say that.’
As Dr Parr continues to stare longer and longer at Ron, who’s in extreme and almost constant discomfort now, Bev tries to deflect his attention. She asks how Gaby is.
Gaby? Dr Parr replies, coming out of his reverie of studying Ron. Oh, she’s visiting her parents. Anyway, he continues, Bev could tell him more about how Gaby was than he knew. Gaby seems to talk to Bev more than she talks to him.
Bev tells him that he should make Gaby talk more to him. She bottles too much up, she says.
As she and the doctor are talking, Jimmy saunters into the bar and stands at the side of the counter, staring lasciviously at Bev.
‘Whadda YOU want?’ Bev asks, annoyed at the smug stare Corkhill is giving her.
Jimmy replies jauntily that he merely wants to see how his number one pinup is faring.
Bev is put off by Jimmy’s ogling and tells him that he’s giving her the creeps and to go away.
Well, booms Jimmy, he only came in here to have a word with Ron Dikko. (And how did Jimmy know Ron would be found here? Is he truly God?)
Ron hears this. He’s now sitting listlessly at the table and he wearily looks up as Jimmy approaches him. He came in here for a little peace, he mumbles, tiredly, and now he’s got to listen to the rantings of this clown. What did Corkhill want?
Oh, a piece of advice, Jimmy says, his denim jacket buttoned up to his neck to hide the offending teeshirt. After all, Ron’s been around the block a few times, started a couple of businesses, employed some old biddies, even been to the altar a couple of times.
‘Joost say yer peace and get out,’ croaks Ron, clutching his chest.
Noticing this, Dr Parr turns from the bar and goes to stand beside Jimmy, warning him softly to leave Ron alone.
Jimmy ignores the doctor totally. Well, old Lizzie Windsor and her ANUS horribilus has got noothink on Ron Dikko, shouts Jimmy, as he pulls his jacket open and reveals to Ron the photo of him and Bev.
Ron’s eyes widen in shock. His mouth moves as he struggles for breath and tries to rise to his feet. Where- where did Jimmy get that? He gasps.
Dr Parr raises his voice and tells Jimmy to stop taunting Ron.
Jimmy affects not to hear him.
‘£7.99 down the street,’ Jimmy taunts. In fact, he was thinking of getting Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen one (extra-large, of course) - sort of a his and hers, ya know.
Ron is red-faced and struggling to breathe now, as Dr Parr cuts in and tells Jimmy to do one. Jimmy witters on, until Dr Parr takes him forcibly by the arm and says, ‘GOODBYE, JIMMY.’
Jimmy then stops suddenly and leaves.
Ron’s breathing easier now and looks up at the doctor. ‘Thank you,’ he sighs.
Ma Gordon has returned to the safety of the Bicker-Bicker sofa and sits beside Pa, having a heated discussion. She wants to apply for a licence to sell alcohol in the garage. (I should think Mr and Mrs Farnham would have something to say about that).
Pa doesn’t think it’s a good idea and Ma wants to know why.
(WARNING! MINI PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT)
Well, Pa explains, booze at a garage, drink and drive. It’s hypocritical.
Ma points out that people could climb into their cars, go to the supermarket and stock up on booze.
The Brookside Bike enters and leans over his father’s shoulders, asking him how many cigarettes he’d had today.
‘A big fat ZERO,’ smiles Pa.
Ma takes a whiff of the air and tells the Brookside Bike to leave his trainers outside the back door and to wash his feet.
Ali the Ginger slopes into the room then, along with Luke the bunny. Dan joins the fray. As Luke the bunny climbs on Ma’s lap, she notices the kid’s got jam all over his face.
‘I tried to wash it off,’ says Dan, with wide-eyed piety, ‘but he wouldn’t let me.’
Pa asks Ali if he’d manage to find a job.
Oh, yeah, sure, Ali jokes, as managing director of a multi-national conglomerate. It turns out that he’d been offered a job flipping burgers at McDonalds.
And how much did they offer you? Asks Ma.
Minimum wage, mutters Ali.
(Excuse me. Ali is sixteen years old, a schoolboy, with no skills and only GCSE qualifications. WHAT SORT OF WAGE DOES HE EXPECT? Minimum wage for this sort of person is not unreasonable.)
Never mind, Ma says, rising and taking Luke the bunny by the hand to wash his face, maybe there’ll be a job going at the Multi-Screen. After all, Ali likes films. (Ali? Work away from Brookside Close or the Parade? Never!)
When Ma leaves, Pa issues an ultimatum. He’s NOT planning on subsidising Ali for the whole summer. He’s giving him until Friday of the next week to find a job, or he’ll find one for him! (Pa’s a Londoner, see. They WORK).
Returned to the safety of Sitcom House, Brigid basks in Dire’s glow. Dire missed her mother and she’s so glad she’s returned. The three sit around the sitcom table. Marty tentatively mentions Alby’s phone call.
Oooh, that Alby, begins Dire. He said soomthink about the police bein’ round, questioning him. Ooh, he was one, she turns to Brigid. Always hittin’ on Marty fer a tenner, AND he made better wages. She turns back to Marty. She shouldn’t worry, if she were he, she tells him. It was only the bizzies being thorough, and anyway, Marty knows how Alby loved a goss.
Brigid goes upstairs to unpack and Marty leans over Dire, demanding to know what sort of questions Alby said the police were asking.
Dire insists that they were just routine questions, that the police were just doing their jobs.
Marty’s face is one of blind panic.
Back at Bar Brookie, the phone rings. It’s Mike Dixon for Bev. Mike is upstairs, babysitting Josh. Mike’s reporting to Bev about Josh’s latest escapade.
‘He joomped over what?’ Screeches Bev in disbelief. ‘Not the one that says "Dry Clean Only"!’
She puts the phone down suddenly, as Rabbity Ruth, in her first day at work, approaches the bar. Josh is acting up again, Bev says rapidly. She’s got to go upstairs, she adds, as Ruth makes sympathetic noises. The place is like a morgue, anyway, Bev says, looking at the near-empty bar; but she shouldn’t be long. Ruth should be able to cope.
Dr Parr is still propping up the bar, keeping an eye on Ron.
As Bev passes Ron, she stops briefly. ‘Go home, Ron,’ she pleads. ‘Yer look terrible.’
As she leaves, Dr Parr approaches Ron’s table, asking Ron’s permission for him to give him an exam down at the clinic, but Ron refuses. He rises to take Bev’s advice and leave, but after he’s taken two steps, he clutches his chest with both hands, lets out a groan and collapses.
Rabbity Ruth snorks back some strong snot and looks at Ron, wide-eyed with horror. Dr Parr immediately hits the ground to cushion Ron’s fall, shouting to Rabbity Ruth to high-arse it to the surgery and bring a nurse with cardiac equipment.
Oooh, wha’s happened ter him? Whines Ruth.
Ron’s having cardiac arrest, shouts Dr Parr and seeing the stupid bimbo standing and quivering behind the bar, he mightily shouts at her to get a nurse from the clinic. Rabbity Ruth jumps across the bar’s divide and scurries off, as Dr Parr phones for an ambulance on his mobile.
As Ron drifts into unconsciousness, Dr Parr tries to assure him, telling him he’ll be all right.
Ron gasps suddenly.
Dr Parr leans over him. ‘Stay with me, Ron!’ He urges frantically. ‘Stay with me!’
The wonderful CARMEL MORGAN wrote this. She’ll be missed.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002