‘MYPIECE’ ON HEATHER THE HACK
Or
BROOKSIDE BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU
I am addressing this preamble to the regular posters on Alan’s Soapbox Forum and Annabelle’s Brooksider. I’m speaking now about the Official Forum. I’m asking if any of you who post regularly to that site have noticed something distinctly sinister brewing on the Forum since its relaunch in late August.
We all know what the Forum was like before. It was amazing that Brookside, of all proponents of media spin, actually allowed viewers to post their views freely. Then ... A few of us started speaking the truth about the character of Jimmy Corkhill until one day, out of the blue, the Official Site was ‘being relaunched’. This, I might add, was after an entire section was ‘accidentally’ wiped by TPTB or its representative.
So, up it started again, in due course. With loads of seemingly new, intelligent, articulate posters who had come from out of nowhere and praised Brookside to the hilt. Not only did they praise the show to the hilt, they dared anyone else who had previously posted there to criticise the programme. It was like a veiled threat in a velvet glove, never openly issued as a threat, but lurking creepily in the background.
Then another element shot up - yet another slew of apparently witless, illiterate, arse-ignorant adolescents - all seemingly from the same family/neighbourhood/school/detention centre who couldn’t spell, couldn’t read and couldn’t write. Their ploy is to insert an inane and meaningless sentence into the middle of a thread and thus, hijack the discussion (which was usually of a critical nature about the programme). Mission accomplished. Oh, and add to that a whining plea to ‘leave them alone, because they were only twelve’, followed by torrents of personal verbal abuse to anyone who dares question them, added to the authenticity.
The next step was the publication of Terms and Conditions, among which were admonitions against personal abuse and harassment of other posters.
The stage is set.
And Brookside shoots itself in the foot. Early in the autumn, an apparently articulate, well-versed individual appeared on the forum calling herself ‘mypiece’. ‘Mypiece’ started off blandly enough, but then seemed to take inordinate offence at the praises being heaped on Eastenders by other posters on the Brookside forum. ‘Mypiece’ then launched into a tirade of inexplicable hostility to Eastenders - inexplicable, because at the end of her rant, she admitted never having watched the show at all. It appears that EVERY time ‘mypiece’ tuned onto BBC1 on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, she caught sight of someone waving a gun around or someone being senselessly beaten up. Ergo, Eastenders was fraught with dire storylines involving guns and violence.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time we saw a gun on Eastenders was when Phiw Mitchell was shot. Prior to Jamie’s beating on Friday night, the closest thing to violence we saw was Phiw getting punched in the beer gut by Tom Banks and prior to that, Tom Banks stuffing Ian Beale’s head down the toilet.
Now that’s nothing compared to the phallic scenes of RLindz and her trusty metal piece, Ron Dikkon wasting the sainted Clint with a sawed off shotgun, and as for the beatings ... Well, Jamie got off lightly, compared to the graphic and gratuitous beating endured by Marty Muddie.
In a further post, when challenged, ‘mypiece’ stated that even though she didn’t watch Eastenders and didn’t intend to, she was entitled to her opinion, which was ‘right’ and deserved as much respect as another’s.
Er, sorry, it doesn’t. Why?
As I’ve said elsewhere. I don’t watch Emmerdale, mostly for time reasons. I don’t make comments about the show, because I don’t feel I’m qualified to do so, even though every soap pundit praises Emmerdale as, contextually, being better by far than either Eastenders or Coronation Street. I may begin to watch it and feel the same. Or, on the other hand, I may watch it and feel that it’s a load of rubbish. But without my firsthand feel of the show, any opinion I might develop is derived from the thoughts and words of others, and therefore, in my opinion, not very valid.
It’s like someone having an opinion on France and the French, never having known any Frenchman or never having travelled further than Dover. Margaret Thatcher didn’t have any time for the French, so they must be a scurvy lot. Doesn’t make sense, does it?
But then, ‘mypiece’ struck me as being ever so slightly sinister. Out of the blue one day, she chipped in on a discussion about the Gordons to say that Kirsty Gordon’s character was about to be altered by TPTB in an effort to make her character more popular, as she didn’t work at all well the first time around.
Prick up the ears and all that ...
It suddenly dawned on me that ‘mypiece’ is a part of the Mersey TV set-up. The statement was made in such a confident way, that it positively REEKED of insider trading. When challenged by me on that statement, TPTB who moderate the forum, promptly wiped the post. MORE proof positive. And the fact that she was especially sensitive about storylines made me feel that maybe, just MAYBE she might be a part of the writing team ...
Could it be? I mean, no, not really ... But MAYBE ... She wouldn’t sink that low, surely ... HEATHER THE HACK?
And that says something very sad to me about Brookside. How sad is it, that a programme has to have a paid employee ‘innocuously’ post on the site, pretending to be an ordinary member of the public, in an effort to generate positive feedback about the programme, and to alienate long-term viewers who are worried about the state of the show and criticise constructively?
Very sad, indeed.
As a matter of fact, bloody PARANOID. It smacks of desperation, and it sucks as pr.
And who are the only people responding positively?
The foul-mouthed, illiterate, lowest common denominator of adolescent. Brookside’s target audience.
Says it all, doesn’t it?
Discuss, please.
The doorbell rings at Number 7 and Ron Dixon slowly rises from the couch in order to answer it.
Outside, the hapless Sean pulls up in his red van, gets out and consults his watch, before ambling up the drive to Bicker-Bicker House.
At New You Salon, Dire is actually blow-drying a customer. But as she works on the woman’s hair, she stares blankly at her reflection in the mirror.
It’s Max at the Dixon front door, and he helps his father-in-law gingerly back into the lounge and sits him back on the couch. Is Ron all right? Max asks.
‘Joost let me catch me breath,’ gasps Ron, clasping his chest, and milking Max’s rare sympathy. What’s Max doing here anyway?
Max tells Ron that Jacqui asked him to stop by and check on Ron for her.
Where IS Jacqueline? Ron wants to know.
Max tells him that Jacqui’s had to work late at the Health Club. Anyway, he continues, is Mike not around?
Ron ruefully admits that Mike’s keeping well out of Ron’s way at present.
Max tries to surpress a grin. ‘Are you two still at each other’s throats?’ He asks.
Ron avoids the question, by asking Max to put the kettle on, but Max doesn’t have time for pleasantries. He glances at his watch. He’s got some school governor’s business to sort out at Bar Brookie.
This isn’t lost at all on Ron. ‘So that’s it,’ Ron remarks, sarcastically. ‘Yer’ve done yer duty.’
Well, he IS a busy man, Max protests, earnestly.
‘Too busy, all right,’ Ron grumbles. ‘Too busy and all ter buy RJacqueline an anniversary present, even. Yer shouldn’t have that Lance doin’ soomthink like that!’
Max adroitly changes the subject. Er, is Brigid due around later?
Ron’s face reddens. ‘It’s embarrassin’, ‘ he whinges, ‘havin’ her fooss about me like that. I know she means well and all,’ he continues, ‘boot now she wants a set o’keys made!’
Max thinks that’s a good idea. After all, it would save Ron jumping up and down.
The doctor wants him to get exercise, mutters Ron.
Max turns to leave, saying that he’s better to get off.
Ron stops him. ‘Look,’ he calls out, ‘wouldja do oos a favour and take me ter the toilet?’
Max’s face blanches at the thought, and Ron notices.
‘I don’t mean INTER the toilet,’ he explains, brusquely to the fastidious Max, ‘joost oop the stairs.’
Max does his party piece of moving his mouth without speaking and rolling his eyes, before the doorbell rings and he rushes to answer it. It’s Brigid.
Ron hears her call out his name and rolls his eyes upwards.
Brigid breezes into the lounge, carrying a pair of Ron’s trousers. She draws his attention to the fact that she’s managed to clean them.
Max’s face assumes a quizzical look at that remark, and Ron reddens; but Brigid quickly rescues the situation and Ron’s dignity, by saying that Ron was soft enough to have spilled soup down the front of his trousers.
The hapless Sean knocks at the front door of Bicker-Bicker House. It’s answered by mindless Ma, the jumped up piece of poor white trash. Ma’s looking particularly trashy today, with her greasy brown hair, with its black roots, hanging lankly around her face. Ma’s so stupid, that she thinks it’s Rabbity Ruth at the front door, even though she can see through the frosted glass the outline of a tall, dark man.
‘Oh,’ she whines, ‘Hit’s YEW!’
The hapless Sean, smiles and points proudly to his watch. He’s right on time, he maintains. Three o’clock.
Ma’s stupid eyes widen in ignorant wonder. ‘Ooooh,’ she breathes, ‘boot Ruth’s not back yet.’ Anyway, she’s sure Rabbity Ruth won’t be long. That’s not a problem, is it?
The hapless Sean looks disappointed. Er, after the kick-off last time when HE was late with Luke, he explains, yes, it IS a problem. (But the hapless Sean should understand by now that the Gordons, particularly Ma and her slutty daughters don’t give a flying fuck about other people’s problems, as long as they, themselves, are aptly accommodated.)
‘Ohhhhh,’ whines Ma, stupidly, like the dumb shit she is, ‘I’m sure everythink will be Ho-kay.’
In the background, suddenly, we’re diverted by the piercing sound of an electric saw. Ma and the hapless Sean glance about.
‘Ohhhhh,’ says Ma, in the manner of a true simpleton, she’s sure Rabbity Ruth’s not been late on perrrrr-pussss.
The hapless Sean, however, isn’t as stupid as the ignorant bitch at the door is, in reality. HE knows differently; and he doesn’t believe her half-baked, blind defence of her self-centred slut of a daughter. In fact, Sean alleges, Rabbity Ruth probably thinks this tit-for-tat thing is funny.
(And here comes the funniest line of the night ...)
Ma says, ‘Don’t be stupid.’
(Excuse me ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHA ... Why do the words ‘pot,’ ‘kettle,’ and ‘black’ come instantly into my head?)
Then Ma feels she has to ask the hapless Sean if he wants to wait inside. Sean, rightly, refuses. He’ll be back in half an hour, he says.
Ma stands at the door, smiling her smugly stupid, simpleton smile that always inhabits her face. How I’d love to wipe it off, just like the way posts are inordinately wiped on the Official Forum.
The hapless Sean stalks off, disconsolately.
Ray’s busy with his hi-tech power saw, when Jimmy enters the back garden of the bungalow and greets him loudly. When he’s finally got Ray’s attention, Jimmy points out that that saw makes a helluva racket.
Ray pets the saw fondly. That racket’s what makes all the difference in the world with that saw, he brags, proudly.
Er, the difference in what? Jimmy asks.
The difference in a good job and a bad job, says Ray. This tool is high-powered, he says. All the best tools make that sort of racket.
Jimmy examines Ray’s handiwork, as yet in its initial stages. What’s Ray making, anyway?
Ray lays a finger aside his nose, like Father Christmas, and leans towards Jimmy, confidentially. Ah, Jessie’s got this idea for new furniture for the bungalow, he whispers. But it’s all this new-fangles stuff she wants. Surely, Jessie must know what this new stuff is like. Why, it’s all nuts and bolts.
Jimmy half-heartedly agrees, anxious to discuss with Ray something of greater importance, but Ray won’t be deterred from offering his opinion about new furniture. Jimmy’s holding a buff envelope in his hand and wants to talk about ideas for Ray’s garden.
Why, everyone knows that self-assemled furniture either has too many parts or too little, Ray whines. Even now, Jessie is inside, trying to assemble a flat-packed table that’s just been delivered.
‘Better her than me,’ mumbles Jimmy.
Ray pushes past Jimmy and smiles smugly in the direction of the bungalow. Then he turns brightly to Jimmy, as if vindicated. Why, he’ll make a better table than hers! He exclaims. And it’ll be hand-made AND ready by the end of this week!
Jimmy finally manages to get a word in edgewise. Actually, he says, he’s come to talk to Ray about the garden.
Ray shrugs, unconcerned. Plenty of time for that, he says. Hey! He suddenly exclaims. He has an idea. ‘Let’s creep into the bungalo and see how builder Jessie’s getting on!’ And he scurries off, mischievously.
There are actually clients in the salon, as Dire brushes out a woman’s long hair and Emily is giving another client a manicure. Lance bustles into the Salon and greets the two women. Emily jokes with him about taking a seat. She’ll do his nails in a moment.
Er, actually, Lance confesses, he’s just popped in to pick their brains, as women. He’s trying to arrange an anniversary present for Jacqui Farnham on the QT and wants their advice.
Anniversary present? Scoffs Dire. Been awhile since she’s had one of those.
Emily suggests a cruise down the Nile or a trip on the Orient Express.
Lance shrugs. Oh, well, he’d hoped they’d be of some assistance, being in the beauty trade and all.
Well, roars Emily, if Lance is doing this on the QT and arranges a hair-do, Jacqui’s sure to know about it.
Lance is desperate. He has to come up with an idea by tonight, he says.
‘Soddy,’ Dire apologises. ‘Yer on yer own.’
‘The story o’me life,’ sighs Lance.
As he leaves the Salon, Marty Muddie enters. Emily glances up, and Dire remarks that Marty’s early.
He’s locked the school up, Marty sighs. There’s little to do now until the kids are back the next day.
Dire whispers to Marty, wondering if the governors’ had had their meeting yet.
Marty, instead, glances around the Salon. Thought Dire said the Salon wasn’t busy.
Dire looks at Emily for support. It’s been empty most of the morning, hasn’t it? She asks.
Marty asks Dire if she can spare him five minutes.
In about half an hour, Dire says, pretending to concentrate on her customer. She suggests Marty wait for her in the bar and she’d join him there. They could have a drink together. She abruptly ends the conversation, which signals to Marty that he should leave, as she’s turned her attention back to her client. When he’s gone, she glances apprehensively at Emily.
Ray and Jimmy poke their heads inside the back door of the bungalow to find Jessie seated cross-legged on the bare flore, a cup of tea in one hand and the directions for assembling the flat-packed table in the other. Ray, stifling a grin, asks her how she’s coming along with putting the table together.
Jess peers myopically at the instructions. It would help if the instructions were in English, she says absently.
Stepping inside the house, followed by Jimmy, Ray declares that that’s what you get when you buy foreign rubbish.
Jess raises her eyes from the instruction sheet and glares at him critically. It might be foreign rubbish, she remarks, but at least they’ll be able to use the table tonight and not next week.
Hmph! Snorts Ray, derisively. His will have a better finish.
Jimmy finally gets a word in edgewise, enough to greet Jess. He explains that he’s just come over to talk to Ray about some ideas he’s had for the garden, and he waves his buff envelope about over his head.
Not only Ray, but Jessie also, is now not listening or interested in what Jimmy has to say.
Well, Ray won’t FINISH his table by sticking around gloating in here, Jess sneers.
‘Got some pics!’ Says Jimmy, shaking the envelope some more.
As Ray turns to go, Jessie calls out that she might need a screwdriver. Would Ray be able to loan her one?
Ray turns around, rubbing the back of his head smugly. Sorry, he says, but he’s using the screwdriver. However, there might be a knife in the kitchen drawer that Jess could use. He nudges Jimmy, conspiratorily and mutters: ‘What is it they say about having the right tools?’ And laughing to himself, he walks away, leaving Jessie fuming on the floor.
Ron’s sitting on the couch as Brigid brings him a cup of tea and sits beside him. Ron thanks her for not divulging the fact to Max that he’d wet his trousers. He really appreciates Brigid’s tact, he says.
Brigid assures him that his secret is safe with her. She’s seen it all before.
He just doesn’t know how it happened, Ron surmises, helplessly. But he just doesn’t want Mike to know about it.
Brigid thinks Mike may already know, and Ron looks horrified.
Well, Brigid explains, Ron was dying to go. Really, Mike had no right to walk out on Ron the way he did.
They were narking, protests Ron.
That’s still no excuse, pronounces Brigid. Ron should make sure he tells Mike about it.
Ron shakes his head adamantly. He couldn’t, he maintains.
Why not? Insists Brigid. He should make Mike feel really bad about what he did.
‘It’s a dad and lad thing,’ Ron says, lamely. He simply doesn’t want the secret brought out in the family.
‘But why not?’ Urges Brigid. ‘If it had been me, I’d have told our Diane.’
Would Brigid promise not to tell Mike about it, all the same? Ron asks, humbly.
About what? Brigid teases. She’s forgotten already, she says.
Marty Muddie ambles into Bar Brookie to see Max Farnham, eyeing a menu and seated at a table on the elevated section. He approaches him, directly. What happened at the governors’ meeting? Marty asks him, abruptly.
Max glances up, startled at the interruption, and for the second time in the episode does his party piece of moving his mouth without uttering a sound. Why, er, he stutters, they, er, discussed school issues.
‘It was about me, wasn’t it?’ Marty cuts the crap.
Max sighs and his shoulders physically droop. Yes, he admits, it was. But Marty surely knew that.
What was decided then? Asks Marty.
‘I can’t really say,’ Max tries to elude the question. ‘You really should go through the proper channels to find out.’
Marty begs Max to tell him what was decided, but again Max refuses.
‘I thought we were mates,’ utters Marty. (Whoa, here! Since when were the Muddies mates with anyone on the Close, much less the Farnhams?)
Max looks uneasy. Well, er, yes, they are, he stutters again.
Then Max can tell him, Marty urges.
Max maintains that he can’t, simply because all the things discussed in the governors’ meeting were confidential. And besides, he really can’t discuss the situation right now, because he’s meeting someone at any minute.
‘Yer not goin’ ter tell me, are yer?’ Marty assesses.
Max starts to babble something about Mrs Plummer, but he’s cut short by Marty.
‘Thanks ... MATE,’ Marty sneers, and storms out of the bar.
Back in the Hilton back garden, Ray is more determined than ever to show Jessie a thing or two about furniture. Jimmy, however, insists on talking about the garden. Ray tries to brush him off by telling Jimmy that he’s busy now; but Jimmy persists.
Look, he says, opening his envelope. He’s got some lovely pictures here. And he waves the photos under Ray’s nose.
Finally, just to get shot of Jimmy, Ray throws up his hands in exasperation and tells Jimmy just to get on with the garden and leave him to sort out his furniture.
Jimmy is delighted with this suggestion.
Only one thing, Ray stipulates. How much did Jimmy want to be paid for his work?
Jimmy suggests that he just get on with the work and Ray can pay him what he likes when it’s done.
Ray is delighted with THAT suggestion, deeming it very decent of Jimmy. The two men shake on the agreement. Jimmy is chuffed.
Gaby the Grin dashes into Bar Brookie and straight to the table where Max is waiting, uncharacteristically drinking bear from a bottle. Marty Muddie sits on the lower level of the bar and clocks her entry. She notices Marty and smiles uneasily in his direction.
The following scene is almost unreal in its depiction. For some reason, with Marty within earshot, Gaby insists on speaking at the top of her voice, altissimo voce, like Dire at her worst.
SHE’S JUST SEEN MARTY MUDDIE, she informs Max, sitting down hurriedly. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE GOVERNORS’ MEETING?
Marty gets up from his seat at the bar, and storms off. As he does so, we notice that the hapless Sean is seated at the corner of the bar, nursing a beer.
Max watches Marty leave.
WHAT’S WRONG? Shrieks Gaby the Grin.
Max, speaking sotto voce, leans across the table and tells Gaby that Marty’s just been quizzing him about what happened at the meeting.
WHAT DID MAX TELL HIM? Shouts Gaby.
Max sits back, startled, either by the nature of the question or the booming tone of Gaby’s voice. Why, he told him that he’d have to go through the proper channels to find out, of course, Max replies.
WHAT’S HE GOING TO FIND OUT? Shrieks Gaby the Grin across the bar.
That he was suspended on full pay, indefinitely, Max whispers, glancing uneasily about the premises.
SURELY NOT! Exclaims Gaby the Grin.
The Board of Governors thought it was the fairest thing at the time, Max offers.
THERE WAS NO SHOW OF SUPPORT? Gaby enquires. IT’S AS IF THE GOVERNORS THINK MARTY GUILTY.
Max glances surreptitiously about the bar and lowers his voice again. For all they knew, he whispers, he could very well be.
WHAT HAPPENED TO INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY? Demands Gaby.
He’s only been suspended, explains Max.
FOR HOW LONG? Gaby asks. (Is she thick? This has been covered).
Until this Imelda Clough business blows over, Max sighs.
WHEN? Gaby demands.
When the girl is found, Max shrugs.
SHE MIGHT NEVER BE FOUND, reasons Gaby.
That might very well be, also, agrees Max.
IT STILL LOOKS AS THOUGH THE BOARD HAVEN’T GIVEN MARTY ANY SUPPORT, she shouts.
It’s a temporary measure, Max tries to explain again. They HAVE to take into consideration other people’s feelings. The truth is, he reasons, every parent of every child in that school has an opinion on the fact that Marty was arrested and banged up.
MARTY’S A PARENT TOO, shrieks Gaby the Grin.
Max says that he understands that, but at the moment, feelings are running high.
Down on the lower level, Lance walks into the bar and approaches Bev behind the counter. He talks to her about the dilemma of thinking up an anniversary present for Jacqui. It’s driving him up the wall, he moans.
He explains to Bev that Max has asked him to organise Jacqui’s anniversary present.
Bev looks sceptical. There’s Max just over there, she says, pointing to where Max sits with Gaby.
Lance makes a feeble excuse. Max just doesn’t have the time, he argues lamely.
Well, he has time for a chatty, little lunch, laughs Bev.
Max is very busy, says Lance, primly.
Hmmm, replies Bev.
Anyway, Lance continues, shrugging off Bev’s scepticism, he thought maybe Bev would have some good ideas. How about a surprise event for Jacqui?
Bev snorts derisively. Well, it won’t be much of a surprise event if it’s held at Bar Brookie. Now the Underbar, that’s the place Lance wants .There are surprise events there every night of the week.
‘Bev, take a brill pill,’ quips Lance. ‘What’s the address and telephone number? Where is it?’
‘Er, Brazil,’ admits Bev. ‘Soddy. Thought yer knew.’
Lance leaves, in a hopeless state.
Gaby the Grin shouts that SHE THINKS THE GOVERNORS HAVE ALL GONE ABOUT THIS IN THE WRONG WAY.MARTY SHOULD HAVE HAD A VOTE OF CONFIDENCE AT LEAST. INSTEAD, THEY SUSPEND HIM!
She has to understand, Max explains. They HAD to be seen to make a positive decision.
Down on the lower level, Marty re-enters the bar and sits down next to the hapless Sean at the counter.
‘YOU’VE THROWN HIM TO THE WOLVES!’ Gaby shouts at the top of her voice. AND SHE’S OFF FOR ANOTHER DRINK!
Back at Bicker-Bicker House, Ma’s on the phone to Rabbity Ruth. How long is she going to be? She whines. Only Sean was around here earlier, and his face was tripping him. Anyway, she continues, he said he’d be back at three-thirty. She doesn’t want him hanging round here, she vows. He looks as if he’s fit to start soomthink.
(A classic case of white trash dissing white trash). Ma hangs up.
Marty sits at the bar and stares coldly at Gaby as she approaches the counter to order another drink. Bev eyes Marty, shuddering, and whispers to Gaby. What on earth’s happening there? She asks. It’s like a threesome gone wrong. First Max is at Marty’s throat, then Gaby’s at Max’s throat.
Just governors’ stuff, Gaby explains, succinctly.
The hapless Sean is sitting nearby, staring into his half-finished beer.
Is it about that missing girl? Bev asks, nosily.
Gaby scrunches her feral, little face. She can’t REALLY say, she tells Bev, telling her everything with words unsaid.
Bev assumes the worst and stares pointedly at Marty, now sitting at a table nearby. She always thought that Marty Muddie was a shifty one, she vows.
How’s Josh? Asks Gaby, deftly changing the subject.
Upstairs chewing the furniture, Bev replies, rolling her eyes heavenward. She’s just waiting for Ruth to arrive so she can pop back upstairs and check on him.
Ruth? Queries Gaby the Grin. Is that the new girl? (Nearby, the hapless Sean jerks his head upward at mention of his wife’s name).
She’s nearly half an hour late, Bev moans. And she doesn’t have that for to come - she only lives on the Close, she adds.
Bev will be sure to manage, Gaby assures her.
Bev admits that she’s fed up with Ruth. Some people will insist on taking the mick, she says.
As Gaby departs, Sean asks Bev if it were Ruth SMITH that she was talking about.
Yes, replies Bev. Does Sean know her?
‘Let’s joost say that she’s taken me fer a ride as well,’ quips Sean.
Jimmy sits on the Corkhill sofa, studying plans for a garden lifted from an internet site. Tim stand behind him at the Corkhill breakfast counter, making himself a sarnie - that’s a buttie, for you Scousers. Tim is laughing at Jimmy. Still on the gardening kick? He asks.
Jimmy admonishes Tim not to be so hasty to laugh. There’s plenty of satisfaction in gardening, and a lot of dosh to be made as well, he adds. (Here’s another example of a 180-degree character change. A few months back, Jimmy told Helen he didn’t like gardening at all).
Tim snorts derisively. Dosh? He scoffs. From a couple of daffodils and a tonne of weeds?
Jimmy slaps his internet papers smugly against his chest, looking up at Tim. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘got me ferrst job terday?’
Sound, replies Tim, politely. Who?
Ray and Jessie want him to do their garden, says Jimmy. He hands Tim some of the pictures he’s taken from the internet. Tim glances through them, thinking them very nice, indeed.
Without moving, and glancing again at the internet pages, Jimmy tells Tim to put the kettle on and make Jimmy a cup of tea.
Can’t, replies Tim, gobbling his sarnie. He’s off out.
Turning in his seat and rising, Jimmy places an avuncular hand on Tim’s shoulder. ‘No, yer not,’ he says, pointedly. Yer stayin’ right here.’
He pokes his phallic, Hapsburg chin threateningly against Tim’s face and whispers, ominously, ‘Becuz I might be N--E-E-E-E-DIN’ yer later on.’
Back at the bar, the contretemps between Max and Gaby the Grin ensues. Neither of them notice Marty rise from his seat on the lower level and walk slowly toward them. Near enough to hear what they’re saying (which literally meant, he could have remained in his seat as far as Gaby’s mouth is concerned), he pauses a short distance from them skulks around a corner, eavesdropping. (Well, at least he’s learned something from Antony).
Gaby is still shouting at Max. SHE HONESTLY THINKS THAT THE BOARD HAVE FAILED MARTY MUDDIE.
Max, whose forehead is breaking out in a sweat, glances frantically about the bar (but fails to see Marty, who’s in his direct line of vision). He looks as though he’s about to shit himself. Once it gets out, he says in a low whisper through gritted teeth, that Marty’s been brought in for questioning in relation to Imelda, the mob mentality will set in properly, he warns. And they’ll be baying for blood.
THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY TODAY, Gaby the Grin rants, as Marty surreptitiously approaches the couple’s table. MARTY MUDDIE’S A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE, AND BY SUSPENDING HIM, THE BOARD IS SAYING THAT THEY BELIEVE HE’S GUILTY.
The camera pans to Marty’s face, which blanches in horror at the revelation.
It was a majority decision, Max tells her.
WELL, SHE’LL BE HAVING A WORD WITH THE MAJORITY AT THE NEXT MEETING, Gaby vows. In the meantime, she roughly gets to her feet and announces she’s going for another drink. Max rises at the same time and offers to get the drink for her, but he’s interrupted by Marty, who now makes his presence known.
‘Yer soospendin’ me?’ He asks for verification.
Max does his party-piece fish impersonation, opening and shutting his mouth wordlessly, whilst rolling his eyes, and finally replies, ‘Wa-awa-awa-er, we thought it in the best interests.’
‘What about MY interests?’ Marty demands. He looks at Gaby the Grin, sneeringly, as she drops her eyes in shame. ‘All you governors want is a scapegoat,’ he remarks, almost puking our the last word. Soomthink ter put in yer important files fer the end o’the year.’
Max tries to interject again. ‘Awa-awa-awa- I can assure you -’
‘You go ter hell!’ Exclaims Marty and pounds out of the bar.
Meanwhile, the hapless Sean has returned to the Close and is again situated at the front door of Bicker-Bicker House, confronting the snarly-haired, white-trashey Ma. Where is she? He wants to know, meaning Rabbity Ruth.
Ma moves her lazy hands nervously. She says she’s soddy, she replies, speaking about Ruth. She’e on her way now.
Does she think this is a joke? Sean asks.
Oooh, witters Ma, she’ll be here any moment.
Well, she better be, Sean replies, smugly, looking like the cat which ate the canary. Else, she’ll lose her job in the bar and all.
Ma’s eyes bug out. How does the hapless Sean know Rabbity Ruth works in the bar? She asks.
Because, Sean says, he’s just been in there, and her shift was supposed to start a half hour ago.
Ma makes another typically mindless comment. Well, she says, self-righteously, that’s a bit irresponsible of Sean, drinking on the day he was supposed to be seeing Luke. (Well, Ma, it’s a bit irresponsible of YOU, isn’t it, condoning adultery under your roof? Or what about your amoral daughter?) Besides that, she adds, he’s driving as well.
Sean looks at the crone as if he truly thinks that if she had one more brain cell, she’d be dangerous - and he’s right. What makes Ma think he’s been drinking? He asks.
He has, Ma insists, rigidly.
‘I had one drink,’ Sean admits.
Ma doesn’t believe it.
‘Quite honestly,’ replies Sean, with a condescending sneer in his voice which proves he’s miles above any social ladder Ma would ever hope to climb, ‘I could care less what you think.’
Rabbity Ruth won’t like it, rejoinders Ma in a silly, sing-song voice.
‘I had one beer,’ replies the hapless Sean, through gritted teeth. ‘I werrk all week. Surely, I’m entitled to have a beer if I felt like havin’ one.
Ooh, Ma taunts, she can see why Rabbity Ruth’s wuddied about him.
‘I have a life too,’ cries Sean.
She’s not denying that, Ma says, but coming around Bicker-Bicker House drinking won’t help. (Er, since when are the Gordons teetotal? And weren’t they downing beers, with Ali and the Brookside Bike UNDERAGE drinking at that awful barbecue, all around Luke? And forgive me, but weren’t Rabbity Ruth and the Talking Tit three sheets to the wind?)
‘I wouldn’ta been in the bar in the ferrrst place, snarls Sean, ‘if I hadn’ta had ter wait fer yer poxy daughter! She’s more than half an hour late in handin’ over MY son ter ME. Yer wanter think about THAT!’
Marty barges into the salon, just as Dire and Emily are cleaning up. Dire shoots Marty a phoney smile, telling him she won’t be long. Marty says nothing, simply glares pointedly at Emily, who takes the hint immediately and leaves.
Once she’s gone and they’re alone, Marty tells Dire tersely that he’s been suspended.
Can the do that? Asks Dire, stupidly.
They just did, says Marty.
Dire offers to make him a cup of tea. This only serves to exasperate Marty even more. He’s being set up for the abduction of a schoolgirl, he cries, rhetorically, his wife doesn’t believe in his innocence and ALL she can do is offer to make him a cup of tea! No wonder his life is a wreck! He’s done absolutely NOOTHINK wrong!
The hapless Sean is still trying to communicate his unjust treatment to the low-level brain cell inhabiting Ma Gordon’s trailer-trash skull. Rabbity Ruth kicked off the last time, he reminds her, when he was late, and all he did was take the kid to the pictures. (Er, I thought it was football).
Ma’s nervous now, being caught out for the idiot that she was. She bobs her head up and down frantically, bugging out her eyes. That won’t happen again, she promises, nervously.
It better not, threatens the hapless Sean, through clenched teeth, because he doesn’t have enough time with his son as it is.
Oooh, whines Ma, pathetically. This ALWAYS happens when coo-ples break oop.
Yeah, grunts Sean, and it’s always the fathers who suffer.
Not always, whines Ma.
‘Coom on,’ snaps the hapless Sean, ‘nearly EVERY single-parent family is a moother and a kid.’
Ma’s bug eyes widen in wonder and her mouth hangs slackly agape. Well, maybe it’s the father’s fault, she moans, sounding more and more like Waynetta Slob with a Scouse accent. Maybe they doan want the child.
(Like Rabbity Ruth and Dan?)
Not in his case, promises Sean. He wants his child, and he can’t have him.
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, soothes Ma, it’ll be sorted out soon, and he and Rabbity Ruth will coom ter an arrangement.
Yeah, sure, says the hapless Sean, heavy with sarcasm, one that will suit only Rabbity Ruth and Loverboy.
Marty is still putting his case before an intransigent Dire at the Salon. Why does Dire think Marty feels like this? He asks, helplessly. All that business with the police, the family’s reaction, Dire changing her mind about having his kid ...
Oh, she didn’t mean that, Dire tries to brush the last thing aside. That was heat of the moment.
But Marty disagrees. Sounds to him as though Dire were having some serious doubts.
Dire heaves a heavy sigh. Oh, she KNOWS he didn’t hurt Imelda Clough -it’s not in his nature.
But HE’s having doubts now, Marty confesses, about his relationship with Dire. He fears they’re falling apart and that she’s getting dragged away with the Imelda mess.
Dire now confesses she doesn’t know how to cope with the situation.
Ma is trying in her lack-of-common-sense-like way, to soothe the hapless Sean; instead, in her own inimitable fashion, she’s making things worse and winding him up. Trouble is, she’s so pig-shit ignorant, she can’t see it.
Sean’s moving in cerrrr-cles, she whines. Sean has ter move on and gerron with life.
How can he? Sean exclaims. That’s OK for her to say that, but it’s how HE feels. He throws himself limply on the mingey sofa.
He feels helpless, he cries. His head’s all over the place. One minute he’s with his wife, and the next minute she’s with that - IDIOT!
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, coos Ma, sitting down beside the hapless Sean, ‘yer were both too yoong ter get maddied.’ Then she adds salt to an already gaping wound by saying that she honestly thinks Rabbity Ruth never fell out of love with Dan the slimey man.
‘Then why did she maddy ME?’ Asks Sean, thumping himself on the chest.
Ooooh, whines Ma, scraping back her greasy hair, boot she knows Rabbity Ruth looved the scally in him.
So what happened when Sean got a proper job and stopped being a scally? Is Ma saying Rabbity Ruth fell out of love with him?
Yes, says Ma, stupidly, and looking stupid in the bargain. Then she pours more scorn on the hapless Sean by telling him that she and Pa weren’t keen on Rabbity Ruth maddying the hapless Sean.
Sean deducts that that couple of po-faced pieces of poor white trash thought he wasn’t good enough for their daughter.
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, whines Ma, is anyone ever?
Dan seems to be, snaps the hapless Sean, adroitly.
Ooooooooooooooooooh, breathes Ma, booot ... They’d known Dan a long time, and they were soddy when Dan and Rabbity Ruth broke up.
Well, she should be really happy now, the hapless Sean mutters, his voice breaking into a sob. He really loves Ruth, he says, but he really hates her too. Hates her with all his heart for what she’s done to him.
(We hate her too, Sean).
Marty confronts Dire by telling her his biggest problem is that Dire doesn’t believe him.
Dire loses her temper at that remark. ‘WELL, WHADDAYER EXPECT?’ She rants, walking back and forth across the salon floor and flailing her arms. ‘WHEN YER MADDIED TO SOOMONE FER NINE YEARS AND FIND OUT HIS FERRRST WIFE BATTERED’IM?’
He couldn’t tell her, Marty murmurs, because he knew she would react exactly the way she’s reacting now.
TROOST IS NEEDED IN A MADDAGE! Dire exclaims.
(Poor Marty’s ears must be pounding with pain after first Gaby the Grin and now Dire). Dire would have thought less of him if he’s told her, reasons Marty.
‘AT LEAST I WOULDA TROOSTED YER,’ Dire sneers. ‘NOW I’LL NEVER KNOW WHEN YER TELLIN’ THE TRUTH!’
He loves her, Marty pleads. They love each other.
Dire turns away from him. She doesn’t know if she does anymore, she admits.
Marty starts to beg openly. Please don’t do this to him, he cries. He needs her.
Dire turns around swiftly and looks at him with scathing dislike. THAT’S THE PROBLEM, she shouts. HE NEEDED A MOOTHER FER HIS KIDS AND A WIFE FER HIMSELF.
Is that what she believes? Marty asks.
Dire shakes her head. She doesn’t know what she believes anymore. She’s just tired ... Tired of nursing and coddling the kids and feeling guilty about it only to find out that the root of the kids’ problems lay in their moother.
Well, asks Marty simply, in a small voice, what does she think they should do?
Dire stares at him, coldly. He reads the inevitable answer in her face.
Split? He whispers.
Oh, she doesn’t know what to think, Dire sighs, wearily, but she can’t deal with lies and deceit.
Marty doesn’t answer at all, simply walks from the salon with the gait of a sleepwalker.
Back at the Dixons’, Ron lies recumbant on the settee, ostensibly doing exercises - raising and lowering his legs and wiggling his toes. Brigid is in the kitchen, sorting the laundry. Max enters, having let himself in, and pops his smiling face around the door into the lounge. Just dropped by, he explains, because he’s brought Ron his daily paper.
Brigid pokes her head around the door from the kitchen, peering at Max and Ron critically over her spectacles. Ron should be able to get his own paper, she points out, instead of lying there on the settee waggling his toes. He needs the exercise.
Max asks politely if Ron’s OK, but Brigid interjects to answer for the man.
‘Oh, he’s a narky, old thing,’ she echoes, breezily, ‘but WE know he appreciates us.’
Ron rolls his eye heavenward at this assessment.
Max notices. It’s only for the good of Ron’s health, he reminds his father-in-law.
At that remark, Ron prises himself up on one elbow into a semi-sitting position. He’s clearly exasperated with Max’s and Brigid’s concern. ‘Look,’ he begins his explanation, ‘twelve moonths ago, I was facin’ a lifetime in prison. Twelve moonths ago, soom nutter ploughed a plane into the Werrld Trade Centre, and killed thousands o’people. Now, I’m set in me own home, gettin’ better. Now, STOP FOOSSIN’!’
Max effects to beat a hasty retreat, but he suddenly returns. Oh, by the way, he asks, curiously, the electric bill for number eight -
Yes? Interrupts Ron, blanching briefly.
Was it always high when Ron lived there? Max wants to know.
Always, Ron affirms, po-faced.
It’s just that he and Jacqui had received their first bill, Max explains, and it was astronomical. They even had an inspector around to check, but everything was normal.
Well, Ron offers, maybe Maxie’s been leaving the lights on too long.
Maybe, Max grunts, eyeing Ron suspiciously, before leaving.
Ron waits a few moments after hearing the door close and suddenly jumps to a sitting positon, barking at Brigid to plug the leads to the washing machines into the extension unit. Brigid does so.
‘And do a BIG wash,’ Ron advises her.
Wiggling her nose and snorking her snot frantically, Rabbity Ruth and Luke finally hop home from the cabbage patch. When she sees the hapless Sean, Rabbity Ruth apologises for being late. She and Luke were delayed at the cabbage patch - er, the school, as the next day was Luke’s first day.
Don’t bother apologising, sneers the hapless Luke, as Ma whisks Luke away from his warring parents. It was just Rabbity Ruth’s way of getting back at Sean for being late, himself, the other day.
Rabbity Ruth rears back, to prevent the snot from dripping out of her nose, and eyes the hapless Sean condescendingly. Why, Sean’s about to kick off because Luke was late back with her! What was all this garbage he uttered the other day about not kicking off when he knows the kid is with his mother?
That’s not the point, Sean argues. Luke is with Ruth all the time. Whenever SHE’S late, he loses precious time spent with his son.
By this time, Luke has rushed to the hapless Sean and is sitting on his lap, being cuddled by his dad. Suddenly, Luke remembers to speak his lines, saying that ‘Daddy smells like beer.’
Rabbity Ruth immediately kicks off about the fact that Sean’s been drinking? And just exactly where has he been doing this? Here, in this house?
The hapless Sean admits he’s been at Bar Brookie, but assures Ruth he’s only had half a bottle.
She wipes the green snot away from her upper lip. ‘Well, that’s half a bottle more than yer shoulda had when yer have Luke!’ She exclaims. And the pair begin to argue, Sean reminding Ruth that she soon won’t have a job to go to, from what he heard from her boss at the bar.
Ma grabs Luke and heads for the stairs, telling the pair of them that if they want to argue, they can take it outside. She’s not having Luke hear them argue.
Across the Close, Jim and Tim are still studying plans for launching Jimmy’s gardening career. Tim’s not remotely interested. What is gardening, anyway, he scoffs, but a few rocks and garden ornaments? Surely, they wouldn’t cost much.
‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, kidder!’ Exclaims Jimmy, Dean Sullivan booming and overacting as per usual. He hands Jimmy a picture of five rocks tastefully arranged in a garden venue. How much does Tim reckon those rocks there in that photy cost? Eh? One hundred twenty nicker! Jimmy announces, proudly. There’s money ter be made there.
Suddenly, Tim is VERY interested. And where was Jimmy going to find gear like this? He wants to know.
Well, Jimmy replies, his eyes widening maniacally, that’s where the scam comes in. He giggles excitedly. This will be joost like old times, he witters.
Rabbity Ruth hops angrily outside Bicker-Bicker House, followed in her wake by the hapless Sean. Ruth can’t do this to him, he maintains, frantically.
Rabbity Ruth continues to hop away from him, smiling evilly and triumphantly at the camera. Oh, yes she can, she announces, and she will.
He had about five mouthfuls of beer, Sean pleads.
Never mind, Rabbity Ruth is enjoying using the flimsiest of excuses to torment Sean. Luke’s not getting in the van with Sean.
‘Look,’ Sean tries to explain. ‘I was mad, and it was all YOUR fault. If yer hadn’t been late, me’n Luke woulda been at home.’
****WARNING!!!!!! INANE COMMENT ABOUT TO BE ISSUED BY MINDLESS CHARACTER****
‘Well, why didjer haveter drink at the bar?’ Whines Rabbity Ruth, illogically. ‘Why didnjer joost drink in the van?’
(Excuse me ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA. So it’s OK to get sozzled in the van and take the kid, but not in the bar?)
Sean explains that he was on edge. Besides, he adds, he wanted to see Luke in his school uniform.
‘Well, there’s no chance o’that now!’ Bleats Rabbity Ruth, spitefully.
It’s the not being able to see his son that’s put Sean on edge, he complains. That’s why he drank.
Rabbity Ruth folds her arms and announces piously that she has the welfare of their son to think about, but the hapless Sean isn’t stupid. ‘This has noothink ter do with the welfare of OUR son,’ he snarls. ‘It’s all about scorin’ points.’
As the couple continue to row noisily in the background, Max Farnham is seen leaving his house, having a conversation with Lance on his mobile. He’s pleased with an idea Lance has had regarding Max and Jacqui’s wedding anniversary. It’s great, Max is saying. Jacqui will love it. But as Lance witters on on the other end, Max is distracted by the commotion across the street as Rabbity Ruth and the hapless Sean continue to argue like two poor whites in a whorehouse on a Saturday night.
Sean is shouting that Ruth has no business denying him access to his son, not when he was only too willing to support the child. Ruth shouts back that Sean can keep his money. She wants noothink to do with him.
Hearing that, lunges toward the canting bitch, pinning her up against the house and drawing his fist back as though to strike her.
Ruth laughs evilly in his face. Go ahead! She taunts. Hit her! Do that, and he’ll never see his son again! And THIS TIME she WOULD call the police. (So the evil slut was lying about having called the police before too). After all, Sean must miss the times when he was a scally and got locked up in the cells.
Sean thrusts his face slowly about two inches from Ruth’s. ‘Yer a right evil cow!’ He whispers, viciously.
‘That makes two of us,’ preens the slut, smugly.
Sean releases her and steps two paces back. He turns to go, but then turns to face her, pointing his finger at her. ‘Only Luke will suffer for this,’ he reminds her, but the bitch isn’t thinking of Luke at all, only of tormenting her husband.
‘Call me in two weeks,’ she taunts, as he departs, ‘and we’ll discoos seeing Luke.’
The hapless Sean whirls about to face her again. ‘Yer not gettin’ away with this!’ He cries. ‘I’m not waitin’ two weeks!’ Then suddenly, he turns and addresses the Close as a whole, raising his voice so all behind their curtains can hear.
‘DIDJER HEAR THAT?’ He cries. ‘ME WIFE IS SLEEPIN’ WITH ANOTHER MAN, AND SHE’S NOT LETTIN’ ME SEE ME SON! THAT’S WHATCHER NEW NEIGHBOURS ARE LIKE!’
Rabbit Ruth, still hugging the wall of Bicker-Bicker House, looks as though she wishes a hole would open up and swallow her.
Arthur Ellison wrote this.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002