LOOKING OUT FOR NUMERO UNO
It’s always interesting coming back from holiday and writing summaries remembered and/or watched with the benefit of hindsight. It’s a curious, detached feeling, which - according to a soap mag my sister-in-law saved for me - appears to be the way the Brookside cast are approaching their roles.
It seems as though the majority of the BETTER actors in situ have one eye on the script and the other eye on the set door with a view to hopping down to the local newsagents’ and buying the latest trade magazine to get their own futures in order.
What amused me the most, was reading a brief article in said soap mag, about Ben Hull. Now realising and remembering that these little paragraph snippets appearing in such literature, are little more than publicity blurbs released by the agents of the actor in question, it shows that Our Ben has his sights set definitely higher than Brookside.
The article quotes Hull as saying that he’s a MASSIVE Star Wars fan - has been since he was a kid. He’s collected all the gear, read the books, seen the movies and bought the teeshirts. Only one thing remains - he wants to appear in one of the flicks. He was practically BEGGING for a role in the next part of the trilogy, offering to appear with a blacked-out motorcycle helmet over his head as a non-speaking, heavy-breathing starship trooper.
Now this is what he’s really saying:-
HEY, GEORGE (Lucas, that is). HEY, OVER HERE. IT’S ME, BEN. BEN HULL. OH, YOU WON’T KNOW ME IN AMERICA, BUT I’M APPEARING ON THIS LITTLE-KNOWN BRIT SOAP OPERA CALLED BROOKSIDE - NOTHING NEAR THE LEAGUE OF EASTNENDERS, YOU KNOW, AS I UNDERSTAND THAT’S WATCHED EXTENSIVELY IN THE STATES - BUT HEY, IT PAYS THE MORTGAGE.
NOW GEORGE, I’M A MAN WITH AMBITION; AND QUITE HONESTLY, I CAN STICK WITH A YEAR OR SO OF MOUTHING THE POLITICAL PLATITUDES OF THE SHOW’S PRODUCER, BUT I’VE GOT TO BE WORTH MORE THAN JUST BEING A WALKING PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. I MEAN, THEY’LL HAVE ME LECTURING FLAMING ADOLESCENTS ON THE FACTS OF LIFE NEXT! BUT I DIGRESS ...
GEORGE, I’VE LONG BEEN A FAN OF STAR WARS, BACK SINCE I WAS A KID AND HARRISON FORD DIDN’T HAVE WRINKLES. AND I KNOW THAT YOU’RE ALWAYS ON THE LOOK-OUT FOR NEW TALENT TO APPEAR IN YOUR FILMS. AND I ALSO KNOW THAT THE NEXT PART OF THE TRILOGY DEALS WITH ANAKIN STARWALKER’S DEFECTION TO THE EMPIRE AND HIS EVOLUTION INTO DARTH VADER. I ALSO KNOW THAT IN THE NEXT FILM, HE’S SET TO BE A MAN IN HIS LATE TWENTIES-EARLY THIRTIES.
WELL ...
I’M YOUR MAN. HERE I AM. I’VE EVEN GOT THE SAME SORT OF COLOURING AS THAT CHRISTENSEN BLOKE WHO PLAYED THE ADOLESCENT STARWALKER. AND YOU KNOW WHAT? I’D EVEN DO IT FOR FREE IF IT MEANT I’D GET TO SNOG NATALIE PORTMAN.
SO COME ON, GEORGE. LISTEN TO MY AGENT AND HAVE A GANDER AT SOME OF THE BROOKSIDE TAPES HE’S SENT YOU. THEY INCLUDE SOME OF MY BETTER MOMENTS, LIKE ME TALKING TO THE OLD GUY ABOUT LOSING HIS ELDERLY MOTHER AND HAVING IT OUT WITH THAT SCOUSE PRICK WHOSE FATHER’S LIFE I SAVED.
GIVE ME A BREAK, AND I’LL BE SURE TO LEAVE TWO WEEKS FREE IN MARCH FOR THE OSCARS.
And quite honestly, George Lucas could do worse that Ben Hull!
Another day of trial and tribulation begins on the Close of woe. The Sage stands blankly in the middle of the lounge at Hotel Corkhill and stares about the empty room.
Mike Dixon sits nervously in the lounge at Number 8, jangling a set of keys and looking at his watch.
Over at Bicker-Bicker House, Pa Gordon slouches on the mingey sofa and reads a leaflet about smoking. In one hand he holds a biro, and unthinkingly, he lifts it to his lips to take a drag, before suddely realising that it’s not a ciggie, but a pen. He throws it down in disgust, along with the pamphlet.
Mike rises from the sofa and walks into the diminutive foyer, as we hear footsteps descending the stairs. It’s Jacqui. Mike encourages her to hurry up. It’s Ron’s operation today and they want to be sure to see him before he goes to theatre.
Jacqui’s distracted, however. She’s lost her keys. She remembers Harry playing with them the night before. She starts rummaging through some things on the coffee table.
They could be anywhere, moans Mike, before finding them and handing them to Jacqui. He wants to be off, but Jacqui is still hesitant. She wonders if perhaps she should phone Anthea.
Why? Mike wants to know.
Well, Jacqui reasons, Anthea and Ron were married (and still are by my estimation), and perhaps Anthea would like to give him some support.
Like she supported him during the trial and when he was in prison? Snorts Mike. No, thanks.
Well, continues Jacqui, uncertainly, what about telling DD? Surely, she has a right to know.
Again, Mike vetoes the idea, as he’s impatient to leave. Let’s just see how Ron gets through the op, he reckons.
Jacqui confesses uneasily that Ron’s not thinking that he IS going to survive the operation. He keeps talking about death and funerals, and he’s worried his heart is too weak for the strain. Why, he even had her organise a new will for him last week, she says.
Mike refuses to takea anything she’s saying seriously and ushers her toward the door, but she pauses for a moment to pick up a home-made get well card for Ron from Harry and Emma and a brown buff envelope, which is obviously the will, which Ron needs to sign.
Pa Gordon is still slouched sloppily on the couch like a beached whale, scoffing chocolate biscuits in record time. Rabbity Ruth, wiggling her snotty, little nose and gnashing her enormous buck teeth, hops into the room followed by Dan the Man, who oozes a trail of slime in his wake. Dan asks if Pa wouldn’t like to have a cup of tea to wash down the tin of biscuits he’s managed to scoff.
Rabbity Ruth, wipes the green snot from her face, the snot being the same colour as Dan’s slime, and grabs the container. She issues a sharp intake of breath in horror. The CALORIES in those biscuits!
‘Leave igh ahgh!’ Moans Pa, in Lewishamese. ‘Yer mum’ll only’ave me orn a doi-egh an’ igh’ll be cabbage an’ legh’ils orl’round!’
Dan the Man stands straight and tall and announces to the camera that he’s off to work in order to collect his wages. He did a bit of overtime the previous week and the firm hadn’t managed to pay him, so he was off to sort them out.
Pa asks Dan the Man if he were working tonight.
Oh, yes, Dan the Man replies smugly, but the boss isn’t, which is why he has to go in now to sort out his pay. ‘You know these management types!’ He remarks, cuffing Pa on his flabby shoulder.
Pa makes a face of disdain. He thinks: ‘SLIMEY LI’L NAWTHERN TOERAG.’
Across the Close, the Sage phones his number one fan, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen. When she answers after awhile, the Sage booms out a greeting to her, telling her that he was almost ready to hang up. He wants to know if she still plans on visiting him today, as he hadn’t heard from her in a long time. Oh, there was no rush to come around, as he’d be home all day. By the way, he now calls her ‘H’. Sweet, isn’t it? And would someone tell me how Jimmy manages to survive on nothing. He has no job, and when last checked, he didn’t even own the house, which was awarded Jackie in the divorce settlement - so by that right, Timily and the wusses otherwise known as Nikki and Jerome should be paying rent to her. I guess God doesn’t have to work.
And here’s another thing you won’t see much of ... DIRE MURRAY’S ACTUALLY AT WORK!!!!! (I’ll give you a moment to pick yourselves up off the floor).
OK ...
Ready now?
She’s at work when suddenly the door to the salon opens and Brigid enters, doubled over and clutching her back in agony. She was on her way into town for some shopping, she says, never ceasing to babble, when she bent over and ‘it went again.’ (Er, when did it go the first time?)
THAT’S IT, booms Big Dire, HER MOOTHER SHOULD GO RIGHT NOW, FORTHWITH, IMMEDIATELY TO THE MEDICAL CENTRE. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT £200!
But Brigid ignores her, instead settling herself into one of the plastic chairs in the salon. That’s much better, she lies. She tells Dire that she, Brigid, is like one of those vintage cars. It takes a bit of time each day before she’s up and running. As Brigid attempts to get up from the chair, Dire orders her sternly to sit right there where Big Dire can keep an eye on her. As Dire strides away, she mutters that she’s been waiting years to say that to her mother. (Psssst! This is supposed to be funny. Altogether now ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHA!)
Jacqui and Mike stand by Ron’s bedside as he coughs weakly. Mike assures Ron that he’s in good hands. The nurses told him that the surgical team attending Ron were one of the best in the country ... Why, they even operated on Gerard Houllier (maybe Ron shouldn’t tell them that he’s an Everton fan, eh?).
Ron jokes lamely, wondering if this means he could manage the Reds, and I wonder if this lot of bozo writers have forgotten where Ron’s football allegiance lies. Probably so.
Mike says that Ron might not manage Liverpool, but he’ll be back playing footie with Josh in the park in no time - basically because Mike, himself, can’t be arsed.
Ron tells Jacqui that there are two letters on his bedside stand that he wants her to give to Anthea and DD, especially Anthea, he says. The two of them parted in bad blood, and there are some things he never had the chance to say to her. Things he should have said (like, ‘Get out’.)
Jacqui protests that Ron could wait until after the operation and then he’d be able to say these things to Anthea in person.
Ron asks Jacqui if she’s brought something for him to sign today, and Jacqui removes the will from the envelope, in time for Ron to sign it before the nurse appears, saying that it’s time for Ron to go to theatre.
Ron is wheeled out, and Jacqui murmurs that she loves him, as he passes.
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Back at the Salon, Dire ACTUALLY has a customer, soddy, COOSTOMER. As she combs back a cheesy-looking woman’s hair, Emily serves Brigid with a humongous cup of tea. She bends down, careful that her arse isn’t in the direction of the camera and whispers to Brigid, asking how Dire’s coping with all the wuddy.
Brigid thinks she’s talking about Adele, who’s scarpered off to Cornwall with her pasty friends. Oh, Brigid assures her, Dire’s wuddied about Adele, all right.
Not Adele, Emily says, raising her voice. Marty.
What about Marty? Demands Brigid, in a loud voice. Of course, Dire hears and leaves her lady coostomer. Yes, what about Marty? Dire booms.
Emily glances apprehensively from one woman to the next, fearing for her life. Why, what’s being said, she says, assuming that they know.
What? By whom? Asks Dire, equally as puzzled.
‘Them lot in the gaddage,’ attests Emily. ‘That Debbie Gordon one. Adele told me. If it was me, I’d sort them out, sayin’ sooch things about me dad and all.’
Debbie Gordon? Repeats Dire. What did she say?
Emily rolls her eyes and tries to blush, looking down at the ground.
Dire demands that Emily tell her what Debbie Gordon said about Marty.
‘That ee wuz a merrr-derer,’ whispers Emily.
Jacqui walks up and down the hospital corridor outside her father’s room, trying to hold back her tears. She sits down, finally, in one of the plastic chairs that line the corridor, when the noble Dr Parr appears, in shirtsleeves and looking good. He greets Jacqui, sitting beside her, telling her he’s just popped down before surgery, hoping to see Ron before he went down.
Jacqui wipes a tear away and tells him that Ron’s already gone to surgery. Jacqui stands up, saying that she feels that she should go to work to take her mind off the worry, soddy, wuddy of Ron. But she tells Dr Parr that Mike’s still here waiting. Dr Parr is concerned for Jacqui, seeing that she’s on the verge of tears, and asks her how she’s coping.
Jacqui mumbles that she’s mostly tired and wuddied.
Dr Parr tells her not to worry, pronouncing the word in its correct form. This hospital has some of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the country.
Jacqui asks Dr Parr how Katie is and he tells her that Katie’s OK, thanks mainly to Nick the builder. As if we need to know.
Back at Hotel Corkhill, the Sage, wearing his maroon dressing gown, sits on the sofa, with Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen crushing his thighs with the weight of her massive arse. The two are eating chocolates, the Sage stuffing Helen’s gob with them. Helen is packing away the sweets like there’s no tomorrow. It’s disgusting, really.
Jimmy wonders why Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen doesn’t put her energies to better use, now that Sylvia Morgan’s let it be known that she’s not the woman for whom Helen was searching. Maybe she should go on a diet, he’s thinking (althouth he doesn’t really say that).
He explains that the letter from the man in Iceland effectively means that the search for Sylvia Morgan is really a closed case. It’s simply time to move on.
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen gobbles some more chocolate, bobs her head, and attests that she’s not entirely 100% about that letter from Iceland. She pauses to fart.
For example, she belches, why did Sylvia Morgan’s husband write the letter when it was addressed to Sylvia? She plops another chocolate in her mouth, chews it noisily, making sucking sounds and smacks her lips, licking her fingers. Know what she thinks? She asks Jimmy, chomping on yet another chocolate.
Jimmy raises his eyebrows, not wanting to reveal the pain her crushing, flatulant arse is causing his thigh muscles.
She thinks that Sylvia Morgan wrote the letter, herself, and signed it from ‘Bard Johannesen’. She’s got something to hide, reckons Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen, suddenly jumping up from Jimmy’s lap.
Jimmy exhales in relief.
Helen gives an exultant jump, which causes the whole room and the Muddie house next door to shake, and announces that she intends to go back to Iceland and SEE Sylvia Morgan. Just like that. No introductions. No ‘how’s yer father’. Just show up. (What an arrogant bitch!)
Jimmy suddenly begins to wail. Oh, he knew it would be like this! He knew it! (Now this is clever of the writers, because they knew old Deano would be hurting having to hold Kerry Peers weight like that for several takes, so they’ve given him an excuse to vent his pain). Nikki’s away in Europe and now Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen wants ter go off ter Iceland and leave poor, pitiful Jimmy on his own.
Happy Smiling Helen farts again and puts her hands on her massive hips. Nikki’s on holiday and SHE’S off to see her mum! She scolds Jimmy as if he were a recalcitrant schoolboy.
Oh, Jimmy joost knew it wouldn’t be long before Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen would go!
The COOSTOMER forgotten, the triumvirate of Dire, Brigid and Emily stand in the middle of the salon, discussing Ma Gordon and her gossiping, white trashey ways. What is it with that woman? Dire wants to know. She’s not here two minutes and already she’s branded Dire’s Marty a merr-derer!
Emily apologises for being the bearer of such bad news.
Actually, Dire admits, she’s more annoyed that Adele never told her about the incident, herself. And fancy someone like Ma Gordon mentioning that to Adele! Brigid admits that were Adele to have mentioned this, it might have meant her not being able to go on holiday. But Marty, a MURDERER! Really!
Any road, she continues, it’s different with Marty.
And just what does her mother mean by that? Demands Dire.
Well, Brigid explains, laconically, he landed on his feet, didn’t he? A man on his own with three kids, meeting her.
Dire corrects Brigid, saying that the children are HER children too. And she moves away from Brigid to stare moodily and broodily out the window. After all, she says, she took Marty’s kids on as part of the package.
But still Brigid can’t help wondering what their REAL mother was like. What kind of woman would abandon two small children and a baby, a BABY? And there’s poor Dire, slaving after that lot, and all the time unable to have a child of her own!
Dire continues to stare out the window, but one can tell by her face that she’s particularly rattled.
Pa Gordon’s returned home to try to encourage Rabbity Ruth to get herself around the table and start talking to the hapless Sean about arrangements to see Luke the bunny. Rabbity Ruth sucks back some snot and sarcastically asks her father if he’s seen his mate, Sean, lately.
Ma Gordon enters and asks everyone if there’s been any word from Bitch. (Hopefully, she’s been captured and eaten by cannibals somewhere in the rain forests). Pa Gordon’s in a foul mood and he’s off to see Dr Parr about his nicotine patch. Rabbity Ruth promises reluctantly to talk to Sean.
Dr Parr sits waiting Ron’s return with his new mate, Mike Dixon. Mike thanks him for coming, and the viewer notices that Mike’s happened to pick up Jacqui’s kids’ get well card, along with the brown envelope containing Ron’s will. Mike asks Dr Parr how long it will be before Ron’s fully back on his feet, and the doctor admits that it will be a good few months yet; but at least Ron won’t need his angina spray anymore.
A thought’s occurred to Mike. Jacqui had only just paid for private treatment the previous day; now because of Ron’s attack, the op had to be done on NHS. Surely, she would be due a refund?
Well, Dr Parr thinks, he hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposes Mike must be right. He’ll check with the bursar’s office and ask.
Mike thanks him profusely again, saying Jacqui would be made oop.
Dr Parr gets up and says he must be off to the surgery or else Katie would tell him off for being late.
Mike watches him go, and then he looks first at the homemade get well card. Then he decides to open the copy of Ron’s will. As he looks at the document, he sees the name of JACQUELINE FARNHAM spring out at him, as Ron’s sole beneficiary and executor of his estate.
Mike’s face hardens into a mask of jealousy.
Big Dire strides purposely onto the Close in the direction of Number 5. Brigid puffs along in her wake, urging her to calm down and be calm and collected in confronting Ma Gordon. Big Dire ignores her and begins to pound furiously on the front door of Number 5.
Ma opens the door, wondering aloud what all the rucus is about, but Dire pounces on her verbally.
‘JOOST WHERE D’YER GERROF CALLIN’ MY’OOSBOOND A MERR-DERER?’ Dire shrieks at the top of her expansive lungs.
‘Merr-derer?’ Whines Ma, jumping back and thus allowing Dire to push unceremoniously past her and storm into the Gordon house. ‘I hardly know the man,’ she protests.
Trailing after Dire, Brigid appeals for her to ‘caam down, caam down.’
Dire pays her no mind, however, whirling about on her toes to slam her hard-featured face inches from the tired, trailer-trash features of the lank-haired Ma. ‘AND WHAT A THING TER SAY TER A SIXTEEN YEAR-OLD!’ Dire continues ranting. ‘DID YER EVER IMAGINE HOW SHE MOOST FEEL, HEARIN’ YOU SAY SOOMTHINK LIKE THAT ABOUT HER DAD? HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF SOOMONE BARRRRGED INTER YOUR BUSINESS AND ACCUSED YER’OOSBOOND OF ALL SORTS?’
Ma begins to lamely protest. All she meant to say to Adele was that if there were ever any reason the girl couldn’t come into work for a time, she’d hold her job open. Besides, poor Ma was only acting on information she’d received from another member of staff.
The penny drops with Dire. She stands, arms akimbo, nodding her head knowingly. ‘Leanne Powell,’ she murmurs. ‘I thought as mooch.’ And then she begins to shriek again. ‘SHE’S POISON, THAT ONE!’
At that moment, Rabbity Ruth hops down the stairs, curious at the sounds of the argy=bargy. She sucks back some snot to feed her habit and warns her mother about the noise, citing ‘the baby.’ (What baby? Pa? The Brookside Bike? Dan? Surely, not Luke the bunny, who -unlike the other trailer trash occupants in the house, says nothing and thus, appears to be the only one with a modicum of common sense on the premises).
Dire continues ranting about Leanne, as Brigid urges her daughter toward the front door, trying to silence her and being followed by a distraught Ma. ‘YER OUGHTER ASK BEV ABOUT THAT LEANNE ONE, WHAT SHE DID TER BEV’S BUSINESS AND ALL!’
Ma begins suggesting that Dire leave, and then Dire puts the boot in. ‘AND AS FER YERSELF, YER OUGHTER WUDDY MORE ABOUT WHAT THEM LADS O’YOURS IS OOP TO, RATHER THAN MINDIN’ OOTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS. DON’T THINK WE’VE FERGOTTEN YER LADS’ LITTLE HOUSE-WARMIN’ PARTY BEFORE YOU LOT HAD EVEN MOVED IN!’
Ma and Rabbity Ruth exchange looks of curiosity. Brigid is now physically pulling Dire out the door, but Dire won’t be silenced. ‘YER WANT TER BE MORE CAREFUL, YERSELF, IN THE FUTURE, ELSE YER’LL HAVE THE BIZZIES ROUND HERE!’
Finally she leaves and Ma is left to catch her breath. What was that all about? Rabbity Ruth sniffs.
Oh, someone accused her husband of murdering some missing schoolkid, says Ma, dismissing it.
Suddenly Rabbity Ruth is wuddied by the prospect of living near a pervy paedophile.
It’s just gossip, sighs Ma. Although, she reckons that if anyone ever accused Pa of something like that, she’d laugh in their faces. (Would she, BOLLOCKS! Remember when she hadn’t been on the show for one episode when she was screaming blue murder for all to see after Ali the Ginger! She’d react worse than Dire, and imagine a screaming session in that AWFUL scratchy wannabe posh Scouse voice of hers!)
And now for something truly disgusting. If you have a weak stomach, skip the next part.
Jimmy and Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen emerge from the afterglow of the Corkhill extension (how’s that for a crude double entendre? Think I could write for Brookside?). Jimmy’s dressed, but now Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen is wearing his maroon dressing gown, and looking like a fat, slovenly, suburban housewife from the late Seventies. Helen waxes lyrical about the luxury of nookie and a shower in the afternoon. Why, that’s positively decadent! (Not to mention the fact that she hasn’t once mentioned her daughter’s name).
Well, they’re able to indulge themselves, preens the Sage, now that most of the kids have flown the coop. (Kids? What kids? Jimmy’s kids? Helen’s? Oh, no, he means the Shadwick-Johnson-O’Leary variety. Jimmy Corkhill, the paterfamilias of the Close. It’s sickening).
Nikki’s become like a daughter to him, muses the Sage, sadly. And now that half ‘the kids’ are gone, he misses things like the awful sounds that they call music. Ooh, dooes he sound like a dad?
Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen farts. Then she reminds Jimmy that he’s NOT Nikki’s dad. And how is he coping without her? She asks, wafting away the smell.
So far, so good, Jimmy admits, but now he’s more concerned with getting Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen fully into his fold, redolent flatulence and all. He feels as though he’s sharing Helen with a memory, he tells her. He offers her some unsolicited Sage advice about maintaining her level of intensity in her search for her mother. It simply can’t be done. (Oh, and Jimmy is SO articulate. This is so shitty, fucking awful! I am SO ANGRY at Brookside’s ineffectual, untalented, abysmal writers and production staff in their emphasis on this sublimely unwatchable character. God, it does ANGER me how they’ve fucked a good show up by thrusting this preening, prancing, over-acting drama queen WEEKLY down our throats! I hope the thing is ended and soon!)
Jimmy tells Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen that he’s tired of sharing her with Ray and Jessie and their various and assorted exes. He now wants her all to himself.
Helen farts.
(***WARNING! PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT***)
Pa Gordon sits in an examination room at the Walk-In Clinic, having his blood pressure taken by Dr Parr, who tells him it’s normal. The doctor then sits at his desk and asks Pa if there’s any history of diabetes et al in his family, to which Pa replies in the negative. Any stress? The doctor continues.
Just the normal variety of work and family, Pa lisps.
Dr Parr writes a prescription and tells Pa he’s starting the man on the 20mm variety of nicotine patch to begin with.
Pa looms over Dr Parr, thanking him profusely for the prescription. This will save him yonks of dosh, he says. Those patch things are over ten quid at the pharmacy.
Dr Parr shoots Pa a self-righteous po-faced look, of which the likes of Stephen Beale would be proud. If he had his way, he remarks primly, Pa would pay full whack for the patch, instead of having it subsidised on the NHS.
Pa demands to know why.
Well, continues Dr Parr, Pa’s problem was self-inflicted. NHS money should be used to treat people with genuine illnesses, not caused by their own indulgence. If Pa could afford to pay for cigarettes all those years, he should be able to afford to finance his own anti-addiction treatment.
‘Drainin’ yer resources, am Ah, doc?’ Asks Pa, sounding suspiciously like Frank Butcher. (How long before he screams at the Brookside Bike: ‘Whaddya take me for? Some kinda doughnut/pilchard/etc?’)
‘OUR resources,’ corrects Dr Parr. ‘I pay taxes too.’
Pa then says something VERY unusual. He whines to the doctor that people of his generation weren’t told the dangers of smoking when they were young. (ABSOLUTE BOLLOCKS! Pa Gordon must be in his mid-forties. He would have been a child in the Sixties. OK, perhaps he started smoking, as did a lot of lower class kids of that era when he was about nine. Surely, by the Seventies, he would have been amply advised about the dangers thereof! Although, I must admit, when I first arrived in Europe in the Seventies, I was amazed at how many people my age then smoked, whereas hardly anyone of my generation did so in the U S then.)
Dr Parr advises Pa that there’s a Smokers’ Support Group which he could attend, if he wanted to, but Pa refuses, as Dr Parr walks him to the door. Dr Parr advises him again that if the doctor had his way, Pa would pay full whack. Did Pa have any idea how much time, effort and money went into the paperwork of death?
Pa decides to quit whilst he’s a head and beats a hasty retreat.
An unconscious Ron, fresh from surgery, is being ministered to in his cardiac unit, whilst Mike stands, staring moodily through the open picture window, allowing him to view his father. His face is pressed against the glass and he wears an ‘angry-at-the-world’ look. Jacqui arrives, walking along the corridor, and joins her brother. She’s clearly distressed at seeing her father in such a state, but Mike assures her that the doctors say he’s come through the surgery well and should be better tomorrow.
Anyway, Mike continues, coldly, he’s been at the hospital all morning and now he has to go home to sort out the laundry. Jacqui asks if he’s coming back and Mike answers shortly that he is.
Well, Jacqui offers, if he waits a moment, she’ll give him a lift home.
No, ta, Mike refuses. He wants to walk home. A walk will clear his head. He turns to leave, and Jacqui asks why he’s acting so coldly toward her.
Mike turns back briefly. Oh, he almost forgot. He hands Jacqui the kiddie card and the will, back in its envelope. These are hers, he believes. At least one of them has her name on it, he sneers, and walks away.
Dire and Brigid have arrived back at the salon, and Dire is now belatedly wondering whether she should have shouted so at Ma Gordon. Brigid eats humble pie and apologises for making undue remarks about Marty, herself. Marty’s not a bad man, she asserts.
Dire shakes her head pensively. There’s soomthink going on at that school and soomthink about Marty’s ex-wife. But it’s not anything Marty’s done.
Emily approaches Dire and asks if she sorted Ma Gordon out. Dire nods, saying that there were some things that needed to be said. She HAD to make a stand and not let anyone get at what’s hers and her own. She knows Marty’s innocent. Emily tells Dire that she never thought Marty was anything but innocent.
Brigid suddenly has a dizzy spell and has to sit down.
The hapless Sean, spawn of Sid Vicious and Gareth Gates, all spikey hair and body piercings, takes his life in his own hands and rings the doorbell of Bicker-Bicker House. Rabbity Ruth answers the door, hopping and snorking back snot, and wiggling her little bunny runny nose.
Seeing the hapless Sean, she chops her massive buck teeth a few times.
‘Fa-fa-fa ... Go away!’ She exclaims, dripping. S-N-O-R-R-R-R-K!
The hapless Sean stops her from slamming the door in his face. He joost wants ter talk, he says, desperately. About Luke the bunny. He doesn’t want to cause any trouble. All he wants is ter see his son.
He’s not capable of looking after a kid when he’s droonk! Snaps Rabbity Ruth.
That only happened once, the hapless Sean pleads. And besides, he isn’t the one who ditched his marriage for an adulterous affair.
Dan the Man is right, Ruth proclaims. Sean can’t be troosted.
She tries again to slam the door, but the hapless Sean stops her. He joost wants to talk, he says, again. About the divorce. Couldn’t they sort the access matter out between them? He didn’t want ter drag young Luke through the courts - or her for that matter.
Rabbity Ruth’s bug-eyes stare at him coldly. ‘Time’s up!’ She snaps, finally succeeding in slamming the door.
The hapless Sean keeps knocking and begging her to talk to him. Inside, Rabbity Ruth parts the net curtain and watches the hapless Sean walk backwards toward the curb. He backs off the pavement and almost succeeds in colliding with a big silver M-reg Merc, which pulls to a stop on the Close.
An elegant, elderly woman emerges and looks around.
Inside Hotel Corkhill, Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen sits at the table in the Hotel Corkhill kitchen and combs and arranges her hair.
(THIS IS THE KITCHEN, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! IS THERE NO CONCEPT OF HYGIENE IN LIVERPOOL? JIMMY, QUITE RIGHTLY, PROTESTED EMILY GIVING HERSELF A PEDICURE AT THE KITCHEN TABLE ... WHAT THE FLATULENT HELEN IS DOING IS JUST AS BAD. WHY, OH WHY ARE WOMEN ON BROOKSIDE CONSTANTLY SHOWN COMBING THEIR HAIR AND PUTTING ON THEIR SLAP AT THE KITCHEN TABLE?!)
Helen farts and belches, as she hears the doorbell ring. She orders Jimmy to answer it, but Jimmy asks why she can’t do so.
‘The state of me!’ She cries.
Jimmy trudges to the door, remarking over his shoulder that Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen is just like Emily, who won’t come out of the toilet until she’s got her slap on. (At least she puts it on in an appropriate place).
Opening the door, he finds the same elegant, older woman on the step. She’s very well-spoken and she asks if Helen Carey is here. (How did she know Helen would be there?)
Jimmy calls out to Helen that there is someone to see her.
Helen comes into the lounge area, as the woman enters the room.
‘Hello, Helen,’ the woman greets her. ‘I’m your mother ... Sylvia Morgan.’
Helen farts loudly.
As the hapless Sean appears to give up and climb into his van, who should STRUT onto the Close but Dan the Man, oozing slime in his wake. He carries the keys to Bicker-Bicker House, jangling them loudly, as if to taunt the hapless Sean.
Sean leaves his van and trots after Dan the Man, careful not to slip up in the slime he oozes freely.
He wants a word with Dan, Sean shouts.
Dan keeps walking, not even deigning to look at the hapless Sean. Well, Dan has nothing to say to Sean, he replies, cockily. And what was Sean doing round here anyway? Ruth didn’t want to see him. She’d come to her senses about him. In fact, she was of the opinion that the hapless Sean was a loser. Always has been, always will be.
Sean notices the keys Dan’s carrying.
‘Got the keys ter the house, have yer?’ He shouts impotently. ‘Well, yer’ll never be a father ter me son!’
Now Dan the Man stops and turns to face Sean. He taunts him by saying that neither Ruth nor Luke wanted or needed the hapless Sean.
Goaded, the hapless Sean jumps onto Dan and the two begin to tussle. Almost as quickly as the fight’s begun, Rabbity Ruth, snorking and wiping her snot madly, hops from the house, followed by Ma Gordon. Pa appears from the direction of The Parade and Ruth and Pa manage to prise the two men apart.
Pa manages to pin Sean against one of the Gordon fleet of vehicles, telling him to calm down and let him sort the situation out; but Sean’s beyond trusting Pa. Why, all Pa was doing the whole time was feeding Sean a line about helping him, and all the time he was harbouring Dan the Man under his own roof! Well, he wanted Pa ter know that he TRIED ter do things Pa’s way ... He TRIED ter be sweet and reasonable, and now he’s being played fer a moog again, with Loverboy getting his feet oonder the table.
Well, he continues, righteously, he wants them ter know that he has rights and he wants ter see his son!
‘Yer forfeited those rights the day yer hit me daughter!’ Whines Ma from the back of the fray.
The hapless Sean looks directly at the guilty Rabbity Ruth. Why didn’t she tell him how oonhappy she was with him? Maybe they could have sorted soomthink out.
Rabbity Ruth resorts to her time-worn line of telling poor Sean that their maddage was dead long before Dan the Man arrived on the scene.
Now the hapless Sean looks directly at Pa, who’s too ashamed of his deception to meet the lad’s gaze. Pa lied ter him, he accuses, rightly. He lied about helping Sean and went and took Loverboy in oonder his roof.
Well ... He’d see them ALL in court, he pronounces.
Sylvia Morgan and Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen sit on the Corkhill sofa, talking in whispered tones, being watched jealously by the Sage, who’s been relegated to teaboy in the kitchen.
Sylvia tells Helen that she’s thought about Helen a lot, and shows her a picture she’s kept of herself with Helen as a young girl. It’s the same one Helen’s kept. Helen tells Sylvia that she’s heard nothing since she received the reply to her letter. Sylvia tells Helen that she had to keep Helen’s existence a secret from her husband.
Suddenly the front door clatters open and Emily bounds into the room, complaining loudly. If she ever sees another blue rinse terday, it’ll be too soon -
She stops suddenly, seeing Helen and Sylvia, a blue rinse. Helen introduces Emily to Sylvia, whereupon Emily smiles prettily and tells Sylvia that she feels she knows her already. Emily then goes into the kitchen area, where Jimmy is skulking.
That Sylvia one’s not at all what Emily expected, she whispers to Jimmy. For one thing, she’s dead posh.
Jimmy jealously suggests to Emily that the two of them make themselves scarce.
‘We’re not neeeeeded here anymore,’ he whines, self-pityingly.
Tom Higgins wrote this passable episode.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002