INTERVIEW WITH
THE
BROOKSIDE HAND
Brooksider has been put in a very privaleged position. We’ve been granted the exclusive opportunity to interview one of the biggest stars and one of the most popular characters to emerge from Brookside.
Forget about your Dean Sullivans and your Jennifer Ellisons - WE GOT THE BROOKSIDE HAND!!!
When I met the ‘Hand’ (as he’s known in professional circles), he was having a manicure at Elizabeth Arden’s in London. As he’s a hand, his answers to my questions were in written form only, so one had to be patient.
I wanted to know how the ‘Hand’ came to be in show business.
Well, he wrote, it’s in my blood, really. My mother started out as an ingenue, playing the part of Grace Kelly’s hand in Dial M for Murder. You remember the scene. It’s when she’s being strangled and then the camera pans to a close-up of her hand reaching out and grabbing a pair of scissors and then duly plunging them into the assailant’s back. It was a very physical part, and Mum had to go through months of training to get fit.
Dad was in films too, and surprisingly enough, he also got his start playing a murderous hand. It was Dad’s hand you saw in Psycho every time Norman Bates went on a stabbing spree. Of course, his most famous scene was his close-up wielding a knife aloft as he was about to stab Janet Leigh in the shower.
After that, he got regular work in the 1960’s sitcom The Addams Family, playing their dexterous relative ‘The Thing’. He enjoyed regular recognition because of that.
And how did YOU get started in Brookside?
The ‘Hand’ drummed his fingers on the table for an instant before answering. Well, Brookside HAD to have Trevor Jordache’s body discovered, and Phil Redmond thought it would be a bit much to show old Trevor all mouldy and smelly, so they latched onto the idea of having someone discover just his hand protruding from the hole that had just been dug. I didn’t mind getting my hand dirty, so I got the part. When Jimmy Corkhill jumped into Eddie Banks’s arms, it was all I could do to keep a straight face.
I thought my appearance would be a one-off, but I was called back at the end of 1994, when Paul Usher walked out unexpectedly. I started the programme off then - there were repeated shots of me, dressed in Barry’s sleeve, yanking clothes out of a cupboard and packing them. Then later that year, I got my most challenging role to date on Brookside - I got to play the dead Beth Jordache. Now THAT was a challenge. I had to shave my wrist and diet extensively beforehand - I didn’t have much time either, considering the fact that Anna Friel was sacked without notice.
The role called for Sandra Maitland to cradle me against her face. Ever since then, I’ve developed a passion for Givenchy. Sandra smelled nice.
Then it seemed as though you disappeared from our screens entirely, I pointed out.
Oh, pas du tout! Minced the ‘Hand’. I’m pleased to say that I was able to reprise my father’s greatest role in the two remakes of The Addams Family. My funniest scenes were in the sequel when I had to get a job in a postroom and there was an extended shot of me running on all my fingers down the centre of the office; and in the original, I had a ‘hand’ in rescuing Uncle Fester. I was the hero.
After that, I’ve done a lot of modelling professionally both in the U S and Europe - jewellery and things like that.
But you’re coming back to Brookside? I asked. A dying soap. What are your thoughts on that?
Well, I don’t really know what I’ll be doing, but I’m led to believe it might be a multiple role. In one scene, I’m seen a bit roughed up and clutching a fag-end. Then in another, I get blown out of a beauty salon. I liked that, because before the scene was shot, I got to sample all the hand lotions on display. Then I was in make-up for about four hours one day, because I had to play an old codger.
But Professor Redmond was generally pleased. So pleased, as a matter of fact, I’ve got an extended role on the soap from now until the end of November. Again, I play a feminine hand, and again, I’ve had to be heavily shaved and made up. Those false nails are murder, I can tell you! Hence, the manicure.
During your recent return, Hand, I asked, have you ever been tempted to give anyone of the cast a good slap?
Funny you should ask that, he replied. Brookside, this time around, just isn’t what it used to be. A lot of the cast need a good slapping, especially that long-haired girl and the one with the false eye-lashes.
And does Professor Redmond reckon the reappearance of one of the show’s most beloved characters might turn its fortunes around?
Who knows? the Hand waves. After all, this is the age of ‘digital’ enhancement.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday the 13th begins with a shot of Max and Jax on the doorstep of Number 8, hanging a crudely-made sign, emblazoned with ‘Casa JacquiMax’ on its front.
Across the Close, a perturbed Dire puts the finishing touches on a birthday cake.
Leanne stands behind the counter of the garage, engrossed in a magazine entitled, The Patio Murders.
Now sitting on the doorstep, Max and Jacqui exchange a lingering kiss. Max asks her if she fancies having a drink tonight, to make up for the fiasco of the day before.
Jacqui’s not sure. Won’t the restaurant be heaving? She asks Max.
Max shrugs. He doesn’t care. He has lackies, servants. Lance can handle it, he remarks, casually.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemmmmmm, boot, she’ll have to find someone to cover for her at the Health Club, Jacqui stalls.
Well, what about Sammy? Max asks.
Sammy called the day before, Jacqui informs him, and why we didn’t know this, only God, Phil Redmond (who might very well be the same person) and his inadequate writers only know, as the day before was the Farnhams’ wedding anniversary. She’s asked for an extra week off. Apparently, Louise has taken ill in Spain and she’s too sick to travel.
Allegedly, Max says, pointedly.
Well, replies Jacqui piously, she likes to think Sammy’s not swinging the lead when it comes to Louise.
Then, Max suggests, how about a drink later with Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin?
Eeeeeeemmmmmmm, Jacqui begins, she thought Max and Gaby the Grin weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye about Marty Muddie at the moment.
It’s a chance to clear the air, Max explains.
Oh, then, is her company not good enough? Jacqui jests. (Well, to be frank ...)
Max hunches his shoulders guiltily. It’s just that, in the company of other people, he begins, he won’t harp on so much about Ron, on whom he seems to be morbidly fixated at the moment.
‘Hey,’ Jacqui tells him, ‘if it hadn’t been fer me dad, that barbershop quartet would have been the most romantic gesture anyone’s ever done for her - apart from the sign.’
The two get to their feet and walk down the drive, when Lance, booted and suited, suddenly appears. Max immediately takes Lance aside and starts praising him for his idea about the barbershop quartet. He was a genius for that! Why, because of Lance, Max is husband numero uno in Jacqui’s eyes.
‘Yer won’t think me sooch a star when yer hear the news,’ Lance says, grim-faced. The oven at the restaurant’s knackered, he tells Max. And worse, it can’t be fixed before next Friday.
What about the restaurant? Mouths Max, finally finding his voice.
They’ve got an early hen party, says Lance, then after that, it’s chokka. ‘Friday the 13th, eh?’ He jokes.
Max orders Lance to get back to the restaurant and get started on the cancellations, but Lance refuses. There’s got to be a way round this, he says, firmly.
Over at Sitcom House, the Muddies are preparing for Adele’s return from holiday, even though it seems to have lasted more than two weeks and well into the school term. Marty and Dire are in the sitcom kitchen and Brigid is in the lounge with an open suitcase on the sofa.
Will Dire tell Adele the news about Marty or will he? He asks his po-faced wife, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Then, glancing over his shoulder at Brigid finishing her packing, he remarks loudly that he supposes Adele will be the next to desert them and all.
Adele will be glad of the comfort some extra space will afford her, Brigid preaches. After all, she’s heard that there have been flash floods in Cornwall.
Goody, goody, quips Marty. We can all sit around and talk about the weather.
Brigid grimaces sympathetically and approaches Marty in a conciliatory mien. Look, she begins, she knows a lot of bad things have been happening all at once, but Marty’s been let off. It’s really not as bad as it seems. There’s no problem.
For now, sneers Dire.
Marty laughs mirthlessly. Adele’s coming home to a houseful of abject misery - Antony locked in his room, Plank never there, and Brigid - normally part of the fixtures and fittings - is moving out.
She’s leaving to give Antony some space, Brigid protests.
Hmph! Marty snorts. Antony’s usually her other half!
Ron Dixon NEEDS her, Brigid maintains.
‘Ron Dixon lives with his family,’ says Marty. ‘And he’s got more family next door. He has home help on tap!’
‘He doesn’t want to be a burden to his children,’ Brigid maintains.
‘And YOU can’t stand the heat,’ sneers Marty.
‘Maybe me moom does need a break,’ interjects Dire. ‘She’s only joost outta the hospital, herself.’
‘There’s no agenda,’ Brigid explains calmly (unlike the Official Forum). ‘It’s just best for all concerned if I go.’
Ray, meanwhile, is busy in the rear garden of the bungalow, blaring away on his power saw and wearing his earmuffs to deaden the sound. Between the sound of the saw and Ray’s earmuffs, he doesn’t see Jimmy approach him, carrying a rickety and worn deck chair, or what’s left of it. Jimmy has to nudge Ray on the shoulder to draw his attention.
He’s just stopped by to see how Raymundo’s doing, Jimmy explains, holding the chair aloft. He draws Ray’s attention to the object, excitedly. Look, he says, gleefully. He and Tim have managed to get everything Ray will need for his garden - the sand, the pebbles and some paint. Why, Jimmy planned to paint Ray’s garage a lovely pastel colour - just like a beach hut! He adds, raising his voice to a shout.
Just picture it, he tells Ray, asking the older man to conjure up images of him and Jessie, sitting outside in their deck chairs and eating sarnies. Jimmy places the knackered deck chair firmly onto the ground at his side and it collapses.
Ray looks at the object dubiously and says he’s going to have to think about this garden project. Why, he was thinking more along the lines of something like Capability Brown.
‘Well,’ mutters Jimmy, fumbling with the deck chair, ‘I’m Capability Corkhill. Besides, when have I ever let yer down?’ (Famous last words.)
As Ray returns noisily to his power saw, Marty helps Brigid to move her luggage across the Close to Ron’s. The sound of the tool is pervading everything.
Honestly, Brigid says, indignantly, as she follows Marty, who’s carrying her big case and a smaller overnight vanity bag, if that Ray Hilton wasn’t deaf before, he will be now!
Marty, looking weary with worry, remarks laconically that he welcomes the sound of the saw. It drowns out the sound of twitching curtains.
Brigid looks at her son-in-law steadily, imbuing him with the strength of her gaze. ‘It will pass,’ she says, stolidly and reassuringly. ‘Just bite your tongue and keep your dignity.’
Marty attempts to lighten the mood a bit. Well, what about Brigid and Ron Dixon then? Should Dire be buying a new hat?
‘Not in the least!’ Says Brigid, adamantly. ‘It’s just that since I came out of hospital, I’ve decided that as long as I’ve got colour in me cheeks, I’m going to do as much as I can. After all, you’ll spend a long time looking at lead!’
As the couple amble across the Close, the odious Brookside Bike strolls onto the street and lurks, smirking at Marty in the background. After a bit, Brigid notices, and remarks to Marty about that Gordon lad staring at them.
Marty immediately stops in his tracks, still laden with luggage, and whirls around to face the cretinous, little creep. ‘What are you staring at?’ He snarls.
Don’t sink to his level, Brigid warns, under her breath, but Marty repeats the question, as the rude, little piece of shit continues to stare insolently and smirk.
The insidious, little arsehole (sounds a lot like the poster Theodore on the Official Forum, whose tongue must be permanently brown from licking ‘mypiece’s’ arse), rocks back cockily on his heels. ‘Only the ex-caretaker of Brookie Comp,’ he sneers.
‘Marty’s on leave,’ cries Brigid, ‘and on full pay.’
The school must really want Marty out bad then, the thug-faced, little shit says, insolently.
Marty lowers his voice menacingly. ‘Whaddayer accusin’ me of?’ He growls.
‘Same as the bizzies,’ minces the ignorant, little toerag.
Suddenly, Marty drops Brigid’s bags and lumbers toward the little prick, grabbing him by the shirt collar, as the little arsehole asks if Marty’s got an axe in his bag. Dippy Ma is looking out the front window at that instant, and simultaneously - but from different directions - she and Brigid approach the scene.
Dippy Ma, who NEVER loses her cool, starts screaming at Marty to get away from her son, as she tries to wedge herself between Marty and the shit.
‘Say it out loud!’ Marty’s screaming at the Brookside Bike.
‘Is this how it started with Imelda Clough?’ The shitface taunts.
Ma turns to the Brookside Bike and screams like a banshee for him to get inside. He runs off, shitting his already foul pants. Then Ma turns back to Marty and whines that the Brookside Bike is ONLY a teenager.
‘Our Adele is ONLY a teenager,’ Marty reminds her, roughly, ‘but she doesn’t go round saying all sorts, because she’s been brought up properly!’ (Good on ya, Marty. That needed to be said!)
Unable to respond to a statement that’s patently true and obvious, Ma slumps her shoulders and walks away; but noting that poor white trash seldom display any sort of good manners, Brigid rightly calls out after the silly bitch that an apology wouldn’t go amiss.
Ma turns around to face Brigid and whines, ‘Boot he was about ter hit my son!’
‘And HE was calling my son-in-law all sorts!’ Brigid retorts.
‘Boot tha’s no reason ter poonch him!’ Whines Ma.
‘And people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ intones Brigid, piously.
‘Meaning?’ Asks Ma, truly not comprehending the remark. (Well, it’s hard, when you’ve only got one brain cell. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask: Does Annette Ekblom have false teeth? I’d ask on the Forum, but I don’t post on that shithole anymore. It’s just that when she smiles, her teeth really look like dentures.)
Brigid begins to recite a litany of offences the Gordons have managed to accumulate since arriving. ‘Drunken hardnuts, getting into fights with your family in the street, your sons always in trouble with the police,’ she says, with heavy disgust in her voice.
By this time, Jimmy and Ray have come around from the rear of the bungalow to have a gander.
Ma starts to panic. ‘Now who’s starting rumours!’ She cries, lamely at Brigid.
Brigid curls her lip in a sneer of distaste at the ignorant piece of trailer trash detritus stood in front of her. ‘It’s not very nice, is it?’ She purrs, and turning on her heel, returns to where Marty’s standing, looking at the cracked mirror inside her vanity case.
Brigid sighs lightly. Oh well, seven years’ bad luck, she quips.
It can’t get any worse, says Marty.
Ma, humiliated, storms into Bicker-Bicker House, where the Brookside Bike is sitting cockily on the mingey sofa. And just what was he playing at out there? Ma asks.
The Brookside Bike comes over all innocent and tries to lie his way out of the situation, saying that he was just trying to tie his laces, when Marty started on him. (What a thug!)
‘Don’t tell me that!’ Cries Ma, grabbing her ubiquitous mobile phone and furiously beginning to text. ‘I heard yer havin’ a go!’
The Brookside Bike argues that Marty deserved what he gave him.
Ma’s still texting - why the hell doesn’t she just pick up the damned land phone and call, the stupid cow. What about innocent until proven guilty? She parrots.
He’s guilty, argues the Brookside Bike, revealing that he’s at least as intelligent as the majority of people who post on the odious Official Forum - no ability to see any side of an argument but their own, turning debate into slanging matches for their petty little agendae. He’s been arrested and he’s got the sack, the Brookside Bike finishes.
Suspended, corrects Ma, still texting.
‘His garden’s a graveyard,’ replies the idiot, proving yet again that he’s his mother’s son.
‘For old tellies!’ Cries Ma, glancing at her watch. Now he’s made her late!
Who’s she texting, anyway? The Brookside Bike asks.
Ma tells him she’s texting Pa - because she’s forgotten how to use a telephone.
Oh, she’s not about to tell his dad, the shit over-acts. Why, he hasn’t done anything!
Ma begins gathering up her bag. ‘Now who sounds guilty?’ She snaps.
One minute she’s taking up for him, another and she’s blaming him! The Brookside Bike moans. Hormones or what?
‘I beg your pardon!’ Ma retorts, horrified. ‘And I stick up fer yer because I’m yer mother!’
The Brookside Bike then begins to lambast Marty. Why, he’s just a nutcase perv job!
Ma tells the Brookside Bike that she doesn’t care what he thinks of Marty Muddie, just keep it to himself. ‘You heard what that woman said?’ She reminds him. ‘This family’s getting a bad reputation!’
It’s Rabbity Ruth playing away that’s caused all the kick-offs, the Brookside Bike mutters.
Rather than have him criticise Rabbity Ruth, Ma tells him off. They wanted less of the aggro, she tells him. They have to live around here.
Lance is in the garage and approaches the counter, where Leanne is standing, laden with bags of charcoal. Leanne is bragging to an unimpressed Lance about her being made Head of Human Resources in the garage.
Lance, non-plussed, looks around blandly and remarks that Leanne seems to be the only person here.
That’s right, Leanne agrees. It’s only she who’s flying the flag. She notices the charcoal. Has Lance’s central heating broken? She asks.
He’s just trying to ensure that The Shelf doesn’t close down, he mutters. He’s now got to go off to the fishmongers’.
Leanne curls her upper life, derisively. Is Lance still skivvying for the Farnhams? She asks.
‘I’ve taken on extra responsibilities, yeah,’ says Lance, defensively.
Leanne leans conspiratorially across the counter. ‘Well, make sure yer get extra wages,’ she advises. ‘Yer haveter watch yer back with Max,’ she continues. ‘He goes all choommy and then he drops yer in it!’ Why, Leanne would be fully compensated if it hadn’t been fer that Max - oh, and that’ll be £87.00, she tells Lance.
Lance pats his pockets, embarrassed. He’ll have to get Max’s card, he says, apologetically. Leanne DOES trust him, doesn’t she?
‘Hm, yes,’ says Leanne, ‘boot you joost make sure yer don’t get shafted by that Max Farnham.’
‘Yer mean like what happened once before, in that bar across the road?’ Says Lance, pointedly. ‘A body doesn’t forget a thing like that ... Or forgive.’
Leanne looks abashed.
Marty’s returned home to Sitcom House and sits dejectedly in the kitchen opposite Dire at the sitcom table. He’s just told her about the encounter with the Gordons.
‘For one day, joost for one day,’ Dire whinges, ‘I wish you’d keep a lid on it, for Adele’s sake. Having a go at her boss won’t help things!’
Marty heaves a sigh. She should have kept that brat’s mouth shut! He exclaims. He slumps back helplessly in his chair. When the Muddies moved here, he says, they were really happy. Does Dire remember that?
Now look at them. He’s ostracised by his job and his neighbours. AND HE’S DONE NOOTHINK! He wants to move away, he says, wearily.
And how are they going to do that? Dire shouts more than questions.
Just sell up and go, says Marty.
Dire’s pop eyes bulge near to explosion. ‘Oh, and a "For Sale" sign would joost fuel the gossips!’ She cries. ‘Yer may as well read, "You’re guilty"!’
The police have already tattooed that on his forehead, quips Marty.
And what does he think will happen when this case reaches a certain level? Dire asks, rhetorically. Why, the police would be at their next house, and the next! No. They’re going nowhere, because they’ve nothing of which to be ashamed.
He’d feel a lot less ashamed, says Marty, if he had a job to go to.
The comments there would crush him, Dire says.
At least he could defend himself, Marty replies.
‘Like outside?’ Dire shrieks. ‘One kid stares at yer and yer crack oop! Imagine hoondreds! Yer mad ter want ter go back!’
‘My job’s finished,’ remarks Marty, bleakly. ‘Even if I’m cleared, the reputation will follow. I’m stuck in limbo and stuck in here!’
He’s better off here, Dire says, coldly. He’s protected.
From what? Marty cries. Killing a kid?
‘From having a go back,’ Dire says through clenched teeth. ‘Challenge does yer no favours.’
Marty jumps from his chair. ‘I can’t stand it anymore!’ He cries, near breaking. He storms toward the door of the kitchen. Dire rises and follows. She tries to placate him, unconvincingly. ‘We’re all feelin’ the strain,’ she says, lamely.
Marty puts on his jacket and turns to look at her, as if looking at a stranger. ‘Yer the only one who can get me through this,’ he whispers. ‘But yer already dead behind the eyes.’
Dire starts at the comment, as Marty turns and stomps through the lounge on his way to the front door.
‘Where are yer goin’?’ Shouts Dire after him.
Marty turns at the front door and looks at her. ‘Do you care?’ He asks, simply.
BRAVO, NEIL CAPLE. BRILLIANT PERFORMANCE.
As Ma Gordon wanders aimlessly in the background in the garage, trying to read the prices on various items, Leanne serves Bev at the counter.
Leanne eyes Bev suspiciously. Does Jacqui Farnham know Bev’s skiving? She asks, nastily. Bev’s buying a small box of tampons. Actually, Bev replies. These are for Jacqui.
‘Oh?’ Leanne feigns amazement. ‘Barmaid and errand girl now as well!’
Bev ignores her taunts and turns to leave. After she’s taken a few steps, Leanne calls out in a loud voice, ‘It’s the kid I feel soddy fer - stook in a flat and never seein’ his moother.’
Bev turns again and returns to the counter, leaning across it menacingly at Leanne. Does Leanne want to wake up on the forecourt with a small crowd around her? Bev asks, in a low voice.
Is that a threat? Preens Leanne, pointing to the CCTV camera. Because the camera will get all the action, and the camera never lies.
‘Three sugars?’ Ma calls out. Ma is so stupid, she makes coffee for Leanne!
‘And does your boss know she’s employing an ex-con prossie?’ Bev smiles. ‘Because I could always encourage her to re-check your references.’
Coming toward the two women, Ma’s suddenly twigged that they’re not the best of mates. Something wrong? She asks, smiling dopily.
‘There could be,’ says Bev.
Later that evening, Max, Jacqui, Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin are seated around a booth in (where else?), Bar Brookie, enjoying rounds of drinks. Max attempts to rise from the table to order another bottle of wine, but Gaby the Grin protests vehemently that it’s their round.
Max insists that this evening out is a peace offering for not originally seeing Gaby the Grin’s viewpoint of Marty Muddie’s treatment at the hands of the Board of Governors.
Ooooh! Remarks Jacqui, feigning that she’s impressed. She should get such a peace offering from Max, she jokes. Marriage Year One, Nil respect, she assesses.
Gaby, however, attunes to what Max is saying. So he NOW thinks Marty shouldn’t have been suspended?
Max takes a big breath and begins hesitantly. Well, he’s beginning to think about what Marty will go through, and especially the stigma attached to his family.
Exactly, pronounces Gaby the Grin, definitely (so definitely that she’d feel at home with the one-sided arguments on the Official Forum). THEY are the victims.
Hang on a minute, Jacqui interjects, trying unsuccessfully to limber in on an intellectual discussion (which also qualifies her for contribution to the Official Forum), what if Harry and Emma were in a creche, where a nanny was arrested for hurting a child? Jacqui knows damned well Max would move heaven and earth to have the woman suspended, AND he would move the children elsewhere.
There’s a difference, says Dr Parr, when an adult has attacked a child.
As opposed to an adult attacking an adult, Jacqui agrees.
Gaby the Grin turns to her husband and asks tactlessly how he would feel if he’d been suspended for malpractice.
Does she mean when he was accused by Jacqui’s brother? Teased Dr Parr, managing to make his insipid wife look like the shit she is. Why, he would have simply put his feet up and had a long holiday. Anyway, that’s a hypothetical analysis.
It was best to be safe, Max reminds Gaby.
Dr Parr agrees. While it’s not fair on Marty Muddie and his family, it’s the only thing the Board of Governors could do under the circumstances. Damage limitation, if you will. (Not that any of the peabrains and pseuds on the Official Forum would understand the concept of damage limitation, but there you go. They’re Prof Redmond’s target audience). In the meantime, Dr Parr suggests, why don’t they carry on drinking? (Indeed, since this has become the pastime of most of the Brookside characters).
Gaby the Grin flops back against the booth in boredom at the fact that she’s not about to dominate the conversation anymore. Just because they’re not talking about something medical, she pouts.
Back at Sitcom House, Dire is trying to put on a brave face to Antony the Antichrist, who’s sitting at the sitcom table, playing with his little Gameboy toy, while she puts the finishing touches on Adele’s post-birthday cake.
It must be nice for Antony to have his room back, she coddles the babyish adolescent.
Antony concentrates on his Gameboy, answering a desultory ‘yes’.
Dire remarks that she’ll have to get him some books in order that he might keep up with his schoolwork while he’s being kept off school.
Antony asks where his father is.
Dire, looking uncomfortable, manages to lie and say that Marty just popped out for a few minutes. Antony then starts to fiddle with the birthday present for Adele that’s lying on the table. He asks if Plank will be back for Adele’s birthday tea.
Dire tries to concentrate on the cake. Plank’s head’s never out from under a car bonnet these days, she remarks. Still, she smiles, smarmingly at the child she’s managed to turn into a Class A religious bigot, at least Ant made the effort to be here.
Suddenly there’s the sound of a key in the front door, and we hear a hoarse, throaty voice: ‘It’s only me!’ Liverlips of Liverpool has returned.
Dire and Ant run excitedly into the lounge to be met by an entirely different Adele.
For a start, she’s about a stone heavier than since we last saw her, and in the wrong places. Her hair has been put into cornrows, and she’s wearing earrings, make-up and a decolletage top that reveals the REAL reason for Katy Lamont’s absence - SHE’S HAD BOOB IMPLANTS.
Dire, for once in her repressed life, is gob-smacked by the alteration in appearance. Antony is the first to find his voice:
‘I was expectin’ me sister, not soom grunge gasser.’
Dire examines Adele’s earrings, saying that she hoped the girl had them pierced in a reputable place. (For a start, Adele wouldn’t be able to wear earrings of that sort, two weeks after getting them pierced. Bad move there.)
Then she examines her step-daughter from head to toe. Goodness, Adele did manage to catch the sun after all, didn’t she? Dire wonders at what we know to be the ubiquitous fake tan. Why, they’d all heard that there’d been flash flooding in Cornwall.
Adele squares her massive shoulders and admits that, actually, they didn’t go to Cornwall after all. Instead, they went to Ayia Napa - oh, and before Dire kicks off, she adds, cheekily, no, Adele’s not pregnant, she’s STD-free, and there are no track marks on her arms. She then flounces past a visibly shocked Dire, imploring her to chill out.
‘What’s STD?’ Asks Ant.
Back at the Bar, a clearly drunken Gaby the Grin and an equally sodden Max prop each other up at the counter, whilst Gary Parr and Jacqui remain in the booth. Jacqui asks the doctor if Gaby the Grin is still on the nark with him. Dr Parr shrugs, glancing almost contemptuously at this wife’s barside performance of hanging all over Max like a bad rash. She’s just on her school governor’s soapbox, he says.
And is she still on the sleeping tablets? Asks Jacqui, something that’s clearly none of her business.
No, Dr Parr admits, but she’s still not sleeping very well. In fact, he keeps telling her she needs more exercise.
Jacqui nudge-nudges and wink-winks Dr Parr and infers that Gaby the Grin is ‘obviously not getting enough’. (Yes, and Brookside is obviously not getting enough viewers for this sort of remark to be inserted and treated as witty humour.)
Bev happens to pass by at that moment and twigs the double entendre, whose double-edged meaning is lost on her one-celled mind.
‘Who does?’ Asks Dr Parr, referring to exercise.
Well, Jacqui replies, she likes to squeeze it in as much as possible.
Bev’s head swivels sharply and she gives Jacqui a shocked look.
Actually, continues the doctor, STILL talking about exercise, he’s been looking for someone to do it with. He’s no good on his own. He really needs someone to get him going.
Bev, overhearing, now looks absolutely horrified.
In fact, Dr Parr says, he likes the old - and he makes an upward thrust of his arm, cocking it at a ninety-degree angle and sqeezing his bicep with his other hand.
Bev, misunderstanding the gesture, almost falls to the floor in exaggerated shock.
Meanwhile, Max and Gaby the Grin are doing a far more worthy impression of a couple about to cop off at the bar. Gaby’s hands are wrapped around Max’s shoulders - otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to stand, herself.
She’s SO glad he saw her viewpoint about Marty Muddie, she slurs, drunkenly. Does Max realise that, seeing her point of view, is actually the highest form of flirting?
Max protests uneasily.
Lance enters the bar at that point, and Max stops him. He asks how Lance is getting on with things at the restaurant.
Lance is beside himself with glee. The barbecue idea he had is a big success, Lance brags. He sold it as a Surf’n Turf evening - steaks, prawns, tuna etc - sort of a last days of summer thing. AND, he adds, he put disposable cameras on all the tables. They could then get the pictures developed and send them out on future promotional literature.
Max is well impressed with his maitre d’.
As Max returns his attention to Gaby the Grin, Bev hisses at Lance for HIS attention. Dixie at 10 past 2, she says, cryptically, nodding in the direction of the booth where Jacqui’s sitting with Dr Parr.
Jacqui is telling Dr Parr he should try swimming as an exercise. She used to swim, herself, for the County. Dr Parr reaches over and feels her shoulders. Hmmmmm, he should have known that by her shoulders, he says. Jacqui, in turn, feels his shoulders. Why, his aren’t so bad either, she grins.
Dr Parr puts on a funny (not) posh voice and intones that he’s not averse to getting a bit wet.
Well, Jacqui finishes, anytime Dr Parr wants a race ...
Max is ruminating to Gaby the Grin about Lance’s barbecue idea. That steak sounds delicious, he says.
Gaby replies provocatively that she likes hers rare.
That’s cannibalism! Says Max, feigning horror.
Carnivorous, Gaby corrects him. Cannibalism is eating people, and she slumps all over Max again.
Gaby reaches for and takes Max’s hand. Does Max know, she says, pushing herself against him, that they say the tastiest part of the human body is at the base of the hand, the fleshy bit near the thumb? In fact, she continues, the fleshier the bit, the higher the sex drive.
Max immediately wants to examine Gaby the Grin’s hand.
Lance and Bev stare at the performing couples. Bev is beside herself at their behaviour. They’re really throwing in the KEYS! She squeals to Lance.
What? Responds Lance. Swap partners?
‘It’ll be tears after bedtime,’ Bev predicts.
No way, insists Lance, rigidly. Max wouldn’t.
Fiver says they would, says the newly-ignorant Bev.
Seated on the sitcom sofa, Adele is turning her nose up at the bevy of birthday presents laid before her. She holds up a hair straightener, a present from Dire. This is useless, she says, tactlessly.
Dire is, understandably, furious. The straightener, she can put to use in the Salon, she says. And not only that, she’s taking away the vouchers for Adele’s contact lenses.
No way! Adele sulks, petulantly. They’re for HER!
She’s a fine one to talk! Dire begins her rant. Adele phoned them from Cornwall, telling them all she loved them! Why, she even sent a postcard from Cornwall.
Laura has a cousin who lives in Cornwall, Adele explains, smugly. Adele sent him a random postcard with a picture of a cow and asked him to post it for her. It seemed like a laugh at the time, she adds, selfishly.
‘I don’t believe this!’ Dire exclaims. ‘And how exactly didyer pay fer the trip?’
‘Er, hello?’ Taunts Adele. ‘Plastic.’
‘Yer’ve gorra credit card!’ Exclaims Dire, in horror.
Adele smiles smugly. ‘I’m an adult now.’
(Sorry, it’s been raised before on the inadequate Official Forum, but met, unsurprisingly, with OFFICIAL silence. THIS IS ADELE’S 17TH BIRTHDAY!!! ONE CAN’T HOLD A CREDIT CARD IN ONE’S OWN RIGHT UNTIL ONE IS EIGHTEEN. OR HAVE THEY ADVANCE ADELE, WHO - IN REALITY - SHOULD ONLY BE SIXTEEN, YET ANOTHER YEAR?)
‘That’s not money,’ quips Dire. ‘That’s debt.’
Antony comments that he hopes Adele didn’t use her credit card to pay for her hairstyle.
Adele preens, tossing her head. EVERYONE in Ayia Napa wears this sort of style, she brags.
Antony replies by mimicking his sister. Well, EVERYONE in Ayia Napa must be a ming.
‘You are SO last week,’ says Adele, laconically, inviting the few remaining viewers with wit to reach through their television screens and smack her face.
Again, Ant mimics her behaviour.
‘Like whatever,’ Adele shrugs. (Er, sorry, but do the Brookside writers ACTUALLY think teenagers talk this 21st Brit adaptation of 1980’s Valley Girl?) And by the way, it’s nice of her dad to show up, she remarks, sarcastically. Where is he?
Maybe he was held up, Dire lies.
In some pub, surmises Adele.
Dire tries to change the subject by pushing a plate of cake in Adele’s direction. Is Adele going to eat some of the cake Dire made? She asks.
Adele ignores her step-mother, instead lumbering up from her position on the couch and flouncing toward the kitchen. She’s just going to pop a CD on ...
Dire shrieks at the fat bitch to sit down, but Adele only starts wittering on about some DJ in a bar in Ayia Napa.
Then Dire stops her with a blast from Dire’s foghorn mouth.
‘YER HAVEN’T GORRA SODDY BONE IN YER BODY!’ She shouts. But by this time, Adele’s managed to waddle into the kitchen and take a gander at the back garden.
‘Why’s the back garden such a mess? She asks.
(Er, did Brookside realise that Ayia Napa is the rape capital of Europe?)
Bev and Lance watch the Parrs and Farnhams closely, as Dr Parr touches Jacqui’s cheek. Should have bet a tenner, Bev whispers to a shell-shocked Lance.
Lance retorts that Leanne doesn’t trust Max Farnham as well.
Don’t mention Leanne, Bev stops him. She’s had enough of that vixen today.
What did Leanne do? Asks Lance.
Only got onto Bev about Josh, Bev explains.
And Bev seriously values Leanne’s opinion? Lance asks, truthfully.
Leanne has a point, Bev admits, miserably. Josh is upstairs with an over-paid stranger, and she’s here in the bar. They don’t spend any quality time together, and when they do, it’s fraught with tension.
Is it really that bad? Asks Lance. Anyway, Josh will soon be back at school.
Lance just hasn’t gorra clue, Bev sighs, as Ma and Pa Gordon enter the bar.
This is torture, Pa mutters, disgruntledly. What’s the point of coming for a drink if you can’t have a fag? What’s the point of living? He pats Lance on the back as he passes him.
Ma, lost in her own self-centred world, is still wittering on about her encounter with Marty. There’s just no way out of apologising to that Marty Muddie, she says. Why, he would have used force with the Brookside Bike if Ma hadn’t intervened.
Well, if he tries it again, Pa growls, Marty Muddie will have to answer to him (and the Mitchell fairmly of Wawford).
God only KNOWS what that Marty Muddie is capable of! Ma whines.
Be reasonable! Pa admonishes. This isn’t like the trendy Ma at all. Marty Muddie has a go at the Brookside Bike, who isn’t blameless, and now she’s got the man pegged as a child murderer.
Ma reasons that she just has a FEELING about him. (Of course, Ma would know, not having been on the Close long enough to let a smelly fart!) Everyone thinks the same, she says, arrogantly.
At that moment, Gaby the Grin shouts out at Pa. ‘It’s ALAN, isn’t it?’ (Now how would she know?) She then introduces herself and explains that her husband has pointed Alan Gordon out to her. (Look, Gaby, that’s the ignorant, East End lager lout who’s trying to give up smoking and causing the tax payer so much money with his subsidised patch! Yeah, sure, sounds about right - as if Gaby’s interested in her husband’s career or his patients).
Max introduces Ma to her, explaining that the Gordons are ‘newish’ residents of The Close.
Gaby the Grin asks if the Gordons are out on the razz.
The poor whites look a tad uncomfortable in the midst of such middle-class merriment.
Just one drink, Pa insists. At that, Gaby the Grin insists that she buy the couple a round of drinks. Pa protests, but Gaby meets his protest with a shouted, ‘RUBBISH!’ And she insists that the Gordons join the Parrs and the Farnhams. She then turns to the booth and shouts loudly to Dr Parr and Jacqui, telling Dr Parr to ‘put that blonde down and come here’.
Lance, witnessing the scene, asides to Bev: ‘Fiver, please.’
The night’s not over yet, Bev tells him.
Lance excuses himself, saying that he has to return to The Shelf to see how the barbecue is going. He chucks Bev under the chin fondly and tells her to keep her chin up re Josh.
Now, the remaining Muddies have moved into the kitchen and are seated around the sitcom table. Where’s Marty now? Asks Adele, petulantly. Dire admits that she doesn’t know.
Well, is he coming home? Adele demands.
He did before, Ant blurts.
‘Before?’ Echoes Adele. ‘Yer mean he’s doon a roonner before?’
Dire busies herself with clearing the table. ‘Yer dad’s been oonder a lorra pressure here,’ she explains, calmly.
But why didn’t someone tell her? Adele wants to know.
As if she could have done a lot, Dire remarks.
Now Adele turns to Antony, having been told of the events which occurred in her absence. ‘And why did YOU have ter go and write that letter?’
‘WOONDER WHERE HE GOT THAT IDEA FROOM?’ Dire quips, snidely, putting the wretched fat girl in her place.
Adele sullenly avoids her step-mother’s hard, bug-eyed gaze. ‘Don’t look at me!’ She cries.
‘YOU forged that parental consent letter fer the holiday!’ Accuses Dire, rightly.
Adele slumps back sullenly in her chair, muttering that she was glad she was away from all this.
Dire’s control snaps at that remark. ‘YER SELFISH, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE!’ She shrieks at the wretch. ‘WE were goin’ through merrr-der here, and yer dad’s off out God knows WHERE, and all yer can think about is how it would have spoiled Ayia flippin’ Napa!’
Adele purses her liver lips into a constricted, little, constapetic line. ‘Are we gettin’ the computer back?’ She asks, coldly.
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?’ Shouts Dire.
‘Only soom o’me course werk’s on it,’ replies Adele, unperturbed.
Dire throws her a hopeless look.
Jimmy’s called round the Hiltons’ with some news for Ray, finding him at work in the garage. Happy Smiling Fat-arsed Fart-arsed Helen’s just fun Jimmy, he tells the old codger. Sylvia’s been in touch. Apparently, she’s coming back.
Ray glances up from his workbench, startled. When? He asks.
Jimmy shrugs, couple of days.
Ray’s puzzled. Something must have made Sylvia turn on a penny, he reckons. He thought she didn’t want anything to do with Helen.
Guilt, probably, assesses the Sage.
Ray nods, agreeing that guilt can do terrible things to people.
Jimmy’s worried about Helen. He hopes Happy Smiling Fat-arsed Fart-arsed Helen’s strong enough, he muses. (Helen? Built like the proverbial brick shithouse?) All this dithering about by Sylvia Morgan, he continues, toying with Helen. No, he reckons Sylvia wants something.
Ray promises Jimmy that he’s going to make it right for Helen. He doesn’t have many years left, he knows, but he wants to make sure that Helen knows he’s sorry about the abortion.
Jimmy eyes Ray suspiciously, assessing that Sylvia Morgan still exerts a hold over Ray.
Ray turns away from the omniscient Sage. No, he insists, he’s not living in the past anymore.
‘What if the past come back ter visit on a regular basis?’ Jimmy asks.
Ray swallows hard. As long as it’s healthy for Helen, he replies.
Back at the Bar, in the midst of Farnham and Parr chatter, Pa whispers to Ma that he’s bored with this impromptu party. Ma, however, selfish to the core, is enjoying herself, associating with her social betters, and she’s in full flow. Does that Ray Hilton get on anybody else’s nerves with that saw? She asks, stirring the shit like a trooper on the Official Forum.
Oh, sighs Jacqui, that saw’s going ALL the time!
Ma turns to Pa, asking if he’s managed to have a word with Ray yet.
No, says the beleagured Pa.
Well, when? Demands Ma.
As soon as, promises Pa, desperate to get back to Wawford.
Honestly, Ma preens, turning to the other two couples, she’s lived for years to move to an area as nice as this. She doesn’t want it spoiled by neighbours from hell. (Er, think you’d best look in the mirror, Ma).
Max laughs falsely. Surely, she doesn’t mean the Farnhams? He jokes.
‘Don’t be soft!’ Laughs Ma.
Jacqui remarks to Gaby the Grin that Dr Parr says she’s not into exercise.
Shopping’s her work-out, Gaby blags.
Well, then, Jacqui continues, Gaby the Grin won’t mind if Jacqui and Dr Parr go training together.
Why should she mind? Gaby shrugs. The fitter her husband, the more SHE benefits.
Then Jacqui, playing wifey, turns to Max and scolds him for not going jogging for ages. She pats Max’s stomach, whereupon Gaby pointedly asks the couple if they shouldn’t want to be alone this evening.
Max explains to Ma and Pa that it’s his and Jacqui’s first wedding anniversary the day before.
Oooh, Ma exclaims, Pa got her a breadmaker last anniversary.
Pa laughs uneasily. ‘Everyone eats bread,’ he jokes, lamely.
Oh, boot he’s making oop fer it this year, she continues, bragging. They’re taking the trip of a lifetime - all the way across Route 66!
‘The mother road,’ remarks Pa, ecstatically.
Not to be outdone, Jacqui brags that Max had her serenaded with a genuine barbershop quartet.
‘You old romantic!’ Gaby teases Max, pointedly.
Less of the old, Max scolds.
Grabbing Jacqui suddenly, Dr Parr makes a crude joke about only being as old as the woman you feel.
With that remark, Pa abruptly announces that the Gordons must be going. As they depart, Ma joins in the ribaldry with a remark about Pa being an early riser.
The couples laugh. (The audience doesn’t).
Across the way, at the garage, Marty Muddie is buying a bouquet of flowers. He’s watched by Leanne, who’s glancing up now and then from her Patio Murders magazine. As he approaches the counter, Leanne remarks snidely that flowers can only mean one thing - guilt.
Marty sighs, exhausted. How about a birthday? He suggests. The flowers are for his daughter. And he reaches into his pocket for the money.
‘Yer diggin’ deep,’ sneers Leanne. ‘Coom on, where’ve yer put her?#
Marty looks at the girl, puzzled. ‘Who?’ He asks.
‘Tryin’ ter be clever, are yer?’ Retorts Leanne. ‘Is that how yer get round the bizzies?’
Marty, looking stressed and weary, wipes his forehead. He’ll use another newsagents the next time, he vows.
If he’s out that long, chides Leanne. She holds up the magazine she’s been reading. Why, it says in here that the police had someone in 10 times for questioning before charging the person. And Marty has plenty of time on his hands, now that Brookie Comp’s confirmed everyone else’s suspicion.
Marty stares coldly at Leanne for a couple of seconds before remarking, in a low voice, that if they cut her in half, both parts would live.
A look of uncomprehending fear crosses Leanne’s dim face. Cut her in half? She babbles.
Marty, finding the money for the flowers, slaps the price down onto the counter.
Don’t try anything, shouts Leanne, pointing to the CCTV camera above. Big Brother’s watching.
Marty ignores her, and storms outside, where he kicks a nearby bush, in helpless rage.
From across the way, we view the scene, as a man’s legs walk into the foreground and watch Marty’s actions.
The Parrs and the Farnhams are now ensconced in their booth once more. Jacqui remarks that Katie is seeming a lot happier these days, and Dr Parr attributes that to one Nick the Builder.
Bev leans over the booth to ask if Jacqui would mind locking up for her, as it looks as though the party were staying on.
Sorry, says Jacqui, looking up with wide-eyed innocence, but they were planning on going into town. Hearing this, Max protests; but Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin are anxious to go. Even he’s up for that, jokes Dr Parr.
If Dr Parr can last the distance, so can Max, says Jacqui to her husband.
Bev protests that she wants to tuck Josh in, but Jacqui vetoes the idea.
Max is now using the Farnham kids as an excuse. Surely, Jacqui knows how early the children get up.
Gaby the Grin witters that she can’t imagine what it’s like to have children and plan one’s life around their activities.
Gaby has enough trouble dressing herself, quips Dr Parr.
So, no babies on the horizon then? Noses Max.
Gaby says she dreads the stretch marks.
Well, Jacqui’s a mum, says Dr Parr, and she’s in great shape.
Jacqui and Max exchange a kiss, as Gaby the Grin and Dr Parr get up, urging the Farnhams to join them.
‘Come on,’ says Jacqui to Max. ‘The night is young and you’re not.’
(Er, sorry, but I take exception to this as ageism).
Back at Sitcom House, Adele is beginning to worry at last about her father. Marty’s never missed her birthday before, she wailed.
Well, it’s not her birthday, really, says Dire, coldly.
But it’s the longest she’s ever been away on her own before, she moans. Doesn’t he want to see her? (Er, if you had a daughter like Adele, would you? My point, exactly.)
Adele’s been out of the country long enough, Dire sighs, shortly. A few more hours won’t make any difference. Anyway, she’s going to bed. As she walks toward the kitchen door, she turns to Antony, telling him he’s got five more minutes to remain downstairs. And then she addresses Adele. If Adele thinks she’s got an earful from Dire, just wait until Marty comes home! And she goes upstairs.
After Dire leaves, Adele breathes to Antony that she can’t believe Marty was arrested.
It was awful, Ant tells her. The bizzies kept him in for ages.
‘What for?’ Asks Adele. ‘Noothink’s been done.’
They found a telly buried under the pond, Ant informs her.
Well, what did they hope to find! Adele exclaims. Marty’s not a killer! He’s her dad! The police are just hopeless, pathetic!
They did let him off, Ant informs her.
But for good? Asks Adele.
Marty walks across the Parade in the dark, carrying the bouquet, on his way home. As he crosses to the corner of the Parade, someone comes out of the darkness and punches him viciously in the stomach. He falls to the ground, breathless, and another person lifts him by the shoulders and drags him into a van, waiting nearby. As he’s dragged along the ground, he drops the floral bouquet.
SOO-PRISE! SOO-PRISE!
This crock of shit was written by Heather the Hack.
INTERVIEW WITH
THE
BROOKSIDE HAND
Brooksider has been put in a very privaleged position. We’ve been granted the exclusive opportunity to interview one of the biggest stars and one of the most popular characters to emerge from Brookside.
Forget about your Dean Sullivans and your Jennifer Ellisons - WE GOT THE BROOKSIDE HAND!!!
When I met the ‘Hand’ (as he’s known in professional circles), he was having a manicure at Elizabeth Arden’s in London. As he’s a hand, his answers to my questions were in written form only, so one had to be patient.
I wanted to know how the ‘Hand’ came to be in show business.
Well, he wrote, it’s in my blood, really. My mother started out as an ingenue, playing the part of Grace Kelly’s hand in Dial M for Murder. You remember the scene. It’s when she’s being strangled and then the camera pans to a close-up of her hand reaching out and grabbing a pair of scissors and then duly plunging them into the assailant’s back. It was a very physical part, and Mum had to go through months of training to get fit.
Dad was in films too, and surprisingly enough, he also got his start playing a murderous hand. It was Dad’s hand you saw in Psycho every time Norman Bates went on a stabbing spree. Of course, his most famous scene was his close-up wielding a knife aloft as he was about to stab Janet Leigh in the shower.
After that, he got regular work in the 1960’s sitcom The Addams Family, playing their dexterous relative ‘The Thing’. He enjoyed regular recognition because of that.
And how did YOU get started in Brookside?
The ‘Hand’ drummed his fingers on the table for an instant before answering. Well, Brookside HAD to have Trevor Jordache’s body discovered, and Phil Redmond thought it would be a bit much to show old Trevor all mouldy and smelly, so they latched onto the idea of having someone discover just his hand protruding from the hole that had just been dug. I didn’t mind getting my hand dirty, so I got the part. When Jimmy Corkhill jumped into Eddie Banks’s arms, it was all I could do to keep a straight face.
I thought my appearance would be a one-off, but I was called back at the end of 1994, when Paul Usher walked out unexpectedly. I started the programme off then - there were repeated shots of me, dressed in Barry’s sleeve, yanking clothes out of a cupboard and packing them. Then later that year, I got my most challenging role to date on Brookside - I got to play the dead Beth Jordache. Now THAT was a challenge. I had to shave my wrist and diet extensively beforehand - I didn’t have much time either, considering the fact that Anna Friel was sacked without notice.
The role called for Sandra Maitland to cradle me against her face. Ever since then, I’ve developed a passion for Givenchy. Sandra smelled nice.
Then it seemed as though you disappeared from our screens entirely, I pointed out.
Oh, pas du tout! Minced the ‘Hand’. I’m pleased to say that I was able to reprise my father’s greatest role in the two remakes of The Addams Family. My funniest scenes were in the sequel when I had to get a job in a postroom and there was an extended shot of me running on all my fingers down the centre of the office; and in the original, I had a ‘hand’ in rescuing Uncle Fester. I was the hero.
After that, I’ve done a lot of modelling professionally both in the U S and Europe - jewellery and things like that.
But you’re coming back to Brookside? I asked. A dying soap. What are your thoughts on that?
Well, I don’t really know what I’ll be doing, but I’m led to believe it might be a multiple role. In one scene, I’m seen a bit roughed up and clutching a fag-end. Then in another, I get blown out of a beauty salon. I liked that, because before the scene was shot, I got to sample all the hand lotions on display. Then I was in make-up for about four hours one day, because I had to play an old codger.
But Professor Redmond was generally pleased. So pleased, as a matter of fact, I’ve got an extended role on the soap from now until the end of November. Again, I play a feminine hand, and again, I’ve had to be heavily shaved and made up. Those false nails are murder, I can tell you! Hence, the manicure.
During your recent return, Hand, I asked, have you ever been tempted to give anyone of the cast a good slap?
Funny you should ask that, he replied. Brookside, this time around, just isn’t what it used to be. A lot of the cast need a good slapping, especially that long-haired girl and the one with the false eye-lashes.
And does Professor Redmond reckon the reappearance of one of the show’s most beloved characters might turn its fortunes around?
Who knows? the Hand waves. After all, this is the age of ‘digital’ enhancement.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Friday the 13th begins with a shot of Max and Jax on the doorstep of Number 8, hanging a crudely-made sign, emblazoned with ‘Casa JacquiMax’ on its front.
Across the Close, a perturbed Dire puts the finishing touches on a birthday cake.
Leanne stands behind the counter of the garage, engrossed in a magazine entitled, The Patio Murders.
Now sitting on the doorstep, Max and Jacqui exchange a lingering kiss. Max asks her if she fancies having a drink tonight, to make up for the fiasco of the day before.
Jacqui’s not sure. Won’t the restaurant be heaving? She asks Max.
Max shrugs. He doesn’t care. He has lackies, servants. Lance can handle it, he remarks, casually.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemmmmmm, boot, she’ll have to find someone to cover for her at the Health Club, Jacqui stalls.
Well, what about Sammy? Max asks.
Sammy called the day before, Jacqui informs him, and why we didn’t know this, only God, Phil Redmond (who might very well be the same person) and his inadequate writers only know, as the day before was the Farnhams’ wedding anniversary. She’s asked for an extra week off. Apparently, Louise has taken ill in Spain and she’s too sick to travel.
Allegedly, Max says, pointedly.
Well, replies Jacqui piously, she likes to think Sammy’s not swinging the lead when it comes to Louise.
Then, Max suggests, how about a drink later with Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin?
Eeeeeeemmmmmmm, Jacqui begins, she thought Max and Gaby the Grin weren’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye about Marty Muddie at the moment.
It’s a chance to clear the air, Max explains.
Oh, then, is her company not good enough? Jacqui jests. (Well, to be frank ...)
Max hunches his shoulders guiltily. It’s just that, in the company of other people, he begins, he won’t harp on so much about Ron, on whom he seems to be morbidly fixated at the moment.
‘Hey,’ Jacqui tells him, ‘if it hadn’t been fer me dad, that barbershop quartet would have been the most romantic gesture anyone’s ever done for her - apart from the sign.’
The two get to their feet and walk down the drive, when Lance, booted and suited, suddenly appears. Max immediately takes Lance aside and starts praising him for his idea about the barbershop quartet. He was a genius for that! Why, because of Lance, Max is husband numero uno in Jacqui’s eyes.
‘Yer won’t think me sooch a star when yer hear the news,’ Lance says, grim-faced. The oven at the restaurant’s knackered, he tells Max. And worse, it can’t be fixed before next Friday.
What about the restaurant? Mouths Max, finally finding his voice.
They’ve got an early hen party, says Lance, then after that, it’s chokka. ‘Friday the 13th, eh?’ He jokes.
Max orders Lance to get back to the restaurant and get started on the cancellations, but Lance refuses. There’s got to be a way round this, he says, firmly.
Over at Sitcom House, the Muddies are preparing for Adele’s return from holiday, even though it seems to have lasted more than two weeks and well into the school term. Marty and Dire are in the sitcom kitchen and Brigid is in the lounge with an open suitcase on the sofa.
Will Dire tell Adele the news about Marty or will he? He asks his po-faced wife, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Then, glancing over his shoulder at Brigid finishing her packing, he remarks loudly that he supposes Adele will be the next to desert them and all.
Adele will be glad of the comfort some extra space will afford her, Brigid preaches. After all, she’s heard that there have been flash floods in Cornwall.
Goody, goody, quips Marty. We can all sit around and talk about the weather.
Brigid grimaces sympathetically and approaches Marty in a conciliatory mien. Look, she begins, she knows a lot of bad things have been happening all at once, but Marty’s been let off. It’s really not as bad as it seems. There’s no problem.
For now, sneers Dire.
Marty laughs mirthlessly. Adele’s coming home to a houseful of abject misery - Antony locked in his room, Plank never there, and Brigid - normally part of the fixtures and fittings - is moving out.
She’s leaving to give Antony some space, Brigid protests.
Hmph! Marty snorts. Antony’s usually her other half!
Ron Dixon NEEDS her, Brigid maintains.
‘Ron Dixon lives with his family,’ says Marty. ‘And he’s got more family next door. He has home help on tap!’
‘He doesn’t want to be a burden to his children,’ Brigid maintains.
‘And YOU can’t stand the heat,’ sneers Marty.
‘Maybe me moom does need a break,’ interjects Dire. ‘She’s only joost outta the hospital, herself.’
‘There’s no agenda,’ Brigid explains calmly (unlike the Official Forum). ‘It’s just best for all concerned if I go.’
Ray, meanwhile, is busy in the rear garden of the bungalow, blaring away on his power saw and wearing his earmuffs to deaden the sound. Between the sound of the saw and Ray’s earmuffs, he doesn’t see Jimmy approach him, carrying a rickety and worn deck chair, or what’s left of it. Jimmy has to nudge Ray on the shoulder to draw his attention.
He’s just stopped by to see how Raymundo’s doing, Jimmy explains, holding the chair aloft. He draws Ray’s attention to the object, excitedly. Look, he says, gleefully. He and Tim have managed to get everything Ray will need for his garden - the sand, the pebbles and some paint. Why, Jimmy planned to paint Ray’s garage a lovely pastel colour - just like a beach hut! He adds, raising his voice to a shout.
Just picture it, he tells Ray, asking the older man to conjure up images of him and Jessie, sitting outside in their deck chairs and eating sarnies. Jimmy places the knackered deck chair firmly onto the ground at his side and it collapses.
Ray looks at the object dubiously and says he’s going to have to think about this garden project. Why, he was thinking more along the lines of something like Capability Brown.
‘Well,’ mutters Jimmy, fumbling with the deck chair, ‘I’m Capability Corkhill. Besides, when have I ever let yer down?’ (Famous last words.)
As Ray returns noisily to his power saw, Marty helps Brigid to move her luggage across the Close to Ron’s. The sound of the tool is pervading everything.
Honestly, Brigid says, indignantly, as she follows Marty, who’s carrying her big case and a smaller overnight vanity bag, if that Ray Hilton wasn’t deaf before, he will be now!
Marty, looking weary with worry, remarks laconically that he welcomes the sound of the saw. It drowns out the sound of twitching curtains.
Brigid looks at her son-in-law steadily, imbuing him with the strength of her gaze. ‘It will pass,’ she says, stolidly and reassuringly. ‘Just bite your tongue and keep your dignity.’
Marty attempts to lighten the mood a bit. Well, what about Brigid and Ron Dixon then? Should Dire be buying a new hat?
‘Not in the least!’ Says Brigid, adamantly. ‘It’s just that since I came out of hospital, I’ve decided that as long as I’ve got colour in me cheeks, I’m going to do as much as I can. After all, you’ll spend a long time looking at lead!’
As the couple amble across the Close, the odious Brookside Bike strolls onto the street and lurks, smirking at Marty in the background. After a bit, Brigid notices, and remarks to Marty about that Gordon lad staring at them.
Marty immediately stops in his tracks, still laden with luggage, and whirls around to face the cretinous, little creep. ‘What are you staring at?’ He snarls.
Don’t sink to his level, Brigid warns, under her breath, but Marty repeats the question, as the rude, little piece of shit continues to stare insolently and smirk.
The insidious, little arsehole (sounds a lot like the poster Theodore on the Official Forum, whose tongue must be permanently brown from licking ‘mypiece’s’ arse), rocks back cockily on his heels. ‘Only the ex-caretaker of Brookie Comp,’ he sneers.
‘Marty’s on leave,’ cries Brigid, ‘and on full pay.’
The school must really want Marty out bad then, the thug-faced, little shit says, insolently.
Marty lowers his voice menacingly. ‘Whaddayer accusin’ me of?’ He growls.
‘Same as the bizzies,’ minces the ignorant, little toerag.
Suddenly, Marty drops Brigid’s bags and lumbers toward the little prick, grabbing him by the shirt collar, as the little arsehole asks if Marty’s got an axe in his bag. Dippy Ma is looking out the front window at that instant, and simultaneously - but from different directions - she and Brigid approach the scene.
Dippy Ma, who NEVER loses her cool, starts screaming at Marty to get away from her son, as she tries to wedge herself between Marty and the shit.
‘Say it out loud!’ Marty’s screaming at the Brookside Bike.
‘Is this how it started with Imelda Clough?’ The shitface taunts.
Ma turns to the Brookside Bike and screams like a banshee for him to get inside. He runs off, shitting his already foul pants. Then Ma turns back to Marty and whines that the Brookside Bike is ONLY a teenager.
‘Our Adele is ONLY a teenager,’ Marty reminds her, roughly, ‘but she doesn’t go round saying all sorts, because she’s been brought up properly!’ (Good on ya, Marty. That needed to be said!)
Unable to respond to a statement that’s patently true and obvious, Ma slumps her shoulders and walks away; but noting that poor white trash seldom display any sort of good manners, Brigid rightly calls out after the silly bitch that an apology wouldn’t go amiss.
Ma turns around to face Brigid and whines, ‘Boot he was about ter hit my son!’
‘And HE was calling my son-in-law all sorts!’ Brigid retorts.
‘Boot tha’s no reason ter poonch him!’ Whines Ma.
‘And people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ intones Brigid, piously.
‘Meaning?’ Asks Ma, truly not comprehending the remark. (Well, it’s hard, when you’ve only got one brain cell. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask: Does Annette Ekblom have false teeth? I’d ask on the Forum, but I don’t post on that shithole anymore. It’s just that when she smiles, her teeth really look like dentures.)
Brigid begins to recite a litany of offences the Gordons have managed to accumulate since arriving. ‘Drunken hardnuts, getting into fights with your family in the street, your sons always in trouble with the police,’ she says, with heavy disgust in her voice.
By this time, Jimmy and Ray have come around from the rear of the bungalow to have a gander.
Ma starts to panic. ‘Now who’s starting rumours!’ She cries, lamely at Brigid.
Brigid curls her lip in a sneer of distaste at the ignorant piece of trailer trash detritus stood in front of her. ‘It’s not very nice, is it?’ She purrs, and turning on her heel, returns to where Marty’s standing, looking at the cracked mirror inside her vanity case.
Brigid sighs lightly. Oh well, seven years’ bad luck, she quips.
It can’t get any worse, says Marty.
Ma, humiliated, storms into Bicker-Bicker House, where the Brookside Bike is sitting cockily on the mingey sofa. And just what was he playing at out there? Ma asks.
The Brookside Bike comes over all innocent and tries to lie his way out of the situation, saying that he was just trying to tie his laces, when Marty started on him. (What a thug!)
‘Don’t tell me that!’ Cries Ma, grabbing her ubiquitous mobile phone and furiously beginning to text. ‘I heard yer havin’ a go!’
The Brookside Bike argues that Marty deserved what he gave him.
Ma’s still texting - why the hell doesn’t she just pick up the damned land phone and call, the stupid cow. What about innocent until proven guilty? She parrots.
He’s guilty, argues the Brookside Bike, revealing that he’s at least as intelligent as the majority of people who post on the odious Official Forum - no ability to see any side of an argument but their own, turning debate into slanging matches for their petty little agendae. He’s been arrested and he’s got the sack, the Brookside Bike finishes.
Suspended, corrects Ma, still texting.
‘His garden’s a graveyard,’ replies the idiot, proving yet again that he’s his mother’s son.
‘For old tellies!’ Cries Ma, glancing at her watch. Now he’s made her late!
Who’s she texting, anyway? The Brookside Bike asks.
Ma tells him she’s texting Pa - because she’s forgotten how to use a telephone.
Oh, she’s not about to tell his dad, the shit over-acts. Why, he hasn’t done anything!
Ma begins gathering up her bag. ‘Now who sounds guilty?’ She snaps.
One minute she’s taking up for him, another and she’s blaming him! The Brookside Bike moans. Hormones or what?
‘I beg your pardon!’ Ma retorts, horrified. ‘And I stick up fer yer because I’m yer mother!’
The Brookside Bike then begins to lambast Marty. Why, he’s just a nutcase perv job!
Ma tells the Brookside Bike that she doesn’t care what he thinks of Marty Muddie, just keep it to himself. ‘You heard what that woman said?’ She reminds him. ‘This family’s getting a bad reputation!’
It’s Rabbity Ruth playing away that’s caused all the kick-offs, the Brookside Bike mutters.
Rather than have him criticise Rabbity Ruth, Ma tells him off. They wanted less of the aggro, she tells him. They have to live around here.
Lance is in the garage and approaches the counter, where Leanne is standing, laden with bags of charcoal. Leanne is bragging to an unimpressed Lance about her being made Head of Human Resources in the garage.
Lance, non-plussed, looks around blandly and remarks that Leanne seems to be the only person here.
That’s right, Leanne agrees. It’s only she who’s flying the flag. She notices the charcoal. Has Lance’s central heating broken? She asks.
He’s just trying to ensure that The Shelf doesn’t close down, he mutters. He’s now got to go off to the fishmongers’.
Leanne curls her upper life, derisively. Is Lance still skivvying for the Farnhams? She asks.
‘I’ve taken on extra responsibilities, yeah,’ says Lance, defensively.
Leanne leans conspiratorially across the counter. ‘Well, make sure yer get extra wages,’ she advises. ‘Yer haveter watch yer back with Max,’ she continues. ‘He goes all choommy and then he drops yer in it!’ Why, Leanne would be fully compensated if it hadn’t been fer that Max - oh, and that’ll be £87.00, she tells Lance.
Lance pats his pockets, embarrassed. He’ll have to get Max’s card, he says, apologetically. Leanne DOES trust him, doesn’t she?
‘Hm, yes,’ says Leanne, ‘boot you joost make sure yer don’t get shafted by that Max Farnham.’
‘Yer mean like what happened once before, in that bar across the road?’ Says Lance, pointedly. ‘A body doesn’t forget a thing like that ... Or forgive.’
Leanne looks abashed.
Marty’s returned home to Sitcom House and sits dejectedly in the kitchen opposite Dire at the sitcom table. He’s just told her about the encounter with the Gordons.
‘For one day, joost for one day,’ Dire whinges, ‘I wish you’d keep a lid on it, for Adele’s sake. Having a go at her boss won’t help things!’
Marty heaves a sigh. She should have kept that brat’s mouth shut! He exclaims. He slumps back helplessly in his chair. When the Muddies moved here, he says, they were really happy. Does Dire remember that?
Now look at them. He’s ostracised by his job and his neighbours. AND HE’S DONE NOOTHINK! He wants to move away, he says, wearily.
And how are they going to do that? Dire shouts more than questions.
Just sell up and go, says Marty.
Dire’s pop eyes bulge near to explosion. ‘Oh, and a "For Sale" sign would joost fuel the gossips!’ She cries. ‘Yer may as well read, "You’re guilty"!’
The police have already tattooed that on his forehead, quips Marty.
And what does he think will happen when this case reaches a certain level? Dire asks, rhetorically. Why, the police would be at their next house, and the next! No. They’re going nowhere, because they’ve nothing of which to be ashamed.
He’d feel a lot less ashamed, says Marty, if he had a job to go to.
The comments there would crush him, Dire says.
At least he could defend himself, Marty replies.
‘Like outside?’ Dire shrieks. ‘One kid stares at yer and yer crack oop! Imagine hoondreds! Yer mad ter want ter go back!’
‘My job’s finished,’ remarks Marty, bleakly. ‘Even if I’m cleared, the reputation will follow. I’m stuck in limbo and stuck in here!’
He’s better off here, Dire says, coldly. He’s protected.
From what? Marty cries. Killing a kid?
‘From having a go back,’ Dire says through clenched teeth. ‘Challenge does yer no favours.’
Marty jumps from his chair. ‘I can’t stand it anymore!’ He cries, near breaking. He storms toward the door of the kitchen. Dire rises and follows. She tries to placate him, unconvincingly. ‘We’re all feelin’ the strain,’ she says, lamely.
Marty puts on his jacket and turns to look at her, as if looking at a stranger. ‘Yer the only one who can get me through this,’ he whispers. ‘But yer already dead behind the eyes.’
Dire starts at the comment, as Marty turns and stomps through the lounge on his way to the front door.
‘Where are yer goin’?’ Shouts Dire after him.
Marty turns at the front door and looks at her. ‘Do you care?’ He asks, simply.
BRAVO, NEIL CAPLE. BRILLIANT PERFORMANCE.
As Ma Gordon wanders aimlessly in the background in the garage, trying to read the prices on various items, Leanne serves Bev at the counter.
Leanne eyes Bev suspiciously. Does Jacqui Farnham know Bev’s skiving? She asks, nastily. Bev’s buying a small box of tampons. Actually, Bev replies. These are for Jacqui.
‘Oh?’ Leanne feigns amazement. ‘Barmaid and errand girl now as well!’
Bev ignores her taunts and turns to leave. After she’s taken a few steps, Leanne calls out in a loud voice, ‘It’s the kid I feel soddy fer - stook in a flat and never seein’ his moother.’
Bev turns again and returns to the counter, leaning across it menacingly at Leanne. Does Leanne want to wake up on the forecourt with a small crowd around her? Bev asks, in a low voice.
Is that a threat? Preens Leanne, pointing to the CCTV camera. Because the camera will get all the action, and the camera never lies.
‘Three sugars?’ Ma calls out. Ma is so stupid, she makes coffee for Leanne!
‘And does your boss know she’s employing an ex-con prossie?’ Bev smiles. ‘Because I could always encourage her to re-check your references.’
Coming toward the two women, Ma’s suddenly twigged that they’re not the best of mates. Something wrong? She asks, smiling dopily.
‘There could be,’ says Bev.
Later that evening, Max, Jacqui, Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin are seated around a booth in (where else?), Bar Brookie, enjoying rounds of drinks. Max attempts to rise from the table to order another bottle of wine, but Gaby the Grin protests vehemently that it’s their round.
Max insists that this evening out is a peace offering for not originally seeing Gaby the Grin’s viewpoint of Marty Muddie’s treatment at the hands of the Board of Governors.
Ooooh! Remarks Jacqui, feigning that she’s impressed. She should get such a peace offering from Max, she jokes. Marriage Year One, Nil respect, she assesses.
Gaby, however, attunes to what Max is saying. So he NOW thinks Marty shouldn’t have been suspended?
Max takes a big breath and begins hesitantly. Well, he’s beginning to think about what Marty will go through, and especially the stigma attached to his family.
Exactly, pronounces Gaby the Grin, definitely (so definitely that she’d feel at home with the one-sided arguments on the Official Forum). THEY are the victims.
Hang on a minute, Jacqui interjects, trying unsuccessfully to limber in on an intellectual discussion (which also qualifies her for contribution to the Official Forum), what if Harry and Emma were in a creche, where a nanny was arrested for hurting a child? Jacqui knows damned well Max would move heaven and earth to have the woman suspended, AND he would move the children elsewhere.
There’s a difference, says Dr Parr, when an adult has attacked a child.
As opposed to an adult attacking an adult, Jacqui agrees.
Gaby the Grin turns to her husband and asks tactlessly how he would feel if he’d been suspended for malpractice.
Does she mean when he was accused by Jacqui’s brother? Teased Dr Parr, managing to make his insipid wife look like the shit she is. Why, he would have simply put his feet up and had a long holiday. Anyway, that’s a hypothetical analysis.
It was best to be safe, Max reminds Gaby.
Dr Parr agrees. While it’s not fair on Marty Muddie and his family, it’s the only thing the Board of Governors could do under the circumstances. Damage limitation, if you will. (Not that any of the peabrains and pseuds on the Official Forum would understand the concept of damage limitation, but there you go. They’re Prof Redmond’s target audience). In the meantime, Dr Parr suggests, why don’t they carry on drinking? (Indeed, since this has become the pastime of most of the Brookside characters).
Gaby the Grin flops back against the booth in boredom at the fact that she’s not about to dominate the conversation anymore. Just because they’re not talking about something medical, she pouts.
Back at Sitcom House, Dire is trying to put on a brave face to Antony the Antichrist, who’s sitting at the sitcom table, playing with his little Gameboy toy, while she puts the finishing touches on Adele’s post-birthday cake.
It must be nice for Antony to have his room back, she coddles the babyish adolescent.
Antony concentrates on his Gameboy, answering a desultory ‘yes’.
Dire remarks that she’ll have to get him some books in order that he might keep up with his schoolwork while he’s being kept off school.
Antony asks where his father is.
Dire, looking uncomfortable, manages to lie and say that Marty just popped out for a few minutes. Antony then starts to fiddle with the birthday present for Adele that’s lying on the table. He asks if Plank will be back for Adele’s birthday tea.
Dire tries to concentrate on the cake. Plank’s head’s never out from under a car bonnet these days, she remarks. Still, she smiles, smarmingly at the child she’s managed to turn into a Class A religious bigot, at least Ant made the effort to be here.
Suddenly there’s the sound of a key in the front door, and we hear a hoarse, throaty voice: ‘It’s only me!’ Liverlips of Liverpool has returned.
Dire and Ant run excitedly into the lounge to be met by an entirely different Adele.
For a start, she’s about a stone heavier than since we last saw her, and in the wrong places. Her hair has been put into cornrows, and she’s wearing earrings, make-up and a decolletage top that reveals the REAL reason for Katy Lamont’s absence - SHE’S HAD BOOB IMPLANTS.
Dire, for once in her repressed life, is gob-smacked by the alteration in appearance. Antony is the first to find his voice:
‘I was expectin’ me sister, not soom grunge gasser.’
Dire examines Adele’s earrings, saying that she hoped the girl had them pierced in a reputable place. (For a start, Adele wouldn’t be able to wear earrings of that sort, two weeks after getting them pierced. Bad move there.)
Then she examines her step-daughter from head to toe. Goodness, Adele did manage to catch the sun after all, didn’t she? Dire wonders at what we know to be the ubiquitous fake tan. Why, they’d all heard that there’d been flash flooding in Cornwall.
Adele squares her massive shoulders and admits that, actually, they didn’t go to Cornwall after all. Instead, they went to Ayia Napa - oh, and before Dire kicks off, she adds, cheekily, no, Adele’s not pregnant, she’s STD-free, and there are no track marks on her arms. She then flounces past a visibly shocked Dire, imploring her to chill out.
‘What’s STD?’ Asks Ant.
Back at the Bar, a clearly drunken Gaby the Grin and an equally sodden Max prop each other up at the counter, whilst Gary Parr and Jacqui remain in the booth. Jacqui asks the doctor if Gaby the Grin is still on the nark with him. Dr Parr shrugs, glancing almost contemptuously at this wife’s barside performance of hanging all over Max like a bad rash. She’s just on her school governor’s soapbox, he says.
And is she still on the sleeping tablets? Asks Jacqui, something that’s clearly none of her business.
No, Dr Parr admits, but she’s still not sleeping very well. In fact, he keeps telling her she needs more exercise.
Jacqui nudge-nudges and wink-winks Dr Parr and infers that Gaby the Grin is ‘obviously not getting enough’. (Yes, and Brookside is obviously not getting enough viewers for this sort of remark to be inserted and treated as witty humour.)
Bev happens to pass by at that moment and twigs the double entendre, whose double-edged meaning is lost on her one-celled mind.
‘Who does?’ Asks Dr Parr, referring to exercise.
Well, Jacqui replies, she likes to squeeze it in as much as possible.
Bev’s head swivels sharply and she gives Jacqui a shocked look.
Actually, continues the doctor, STILL talking about exercise, he’s been looking for someone to do it with. He’s no good on his own. He really needs someone to get him going.
Bev, overhearing, now looks absolutely horrified.
In fact, Dr Parr says, he likes the old - and he makes an upward thrust of his arm, cocking it at a ninety-degree angle and sqeezing his bicep with his other hand.
Bev, misunderstanding the gesture, almost falls to the floor in exaggerated shock.
Meanwhile, Max and Gaby the Grin are doing a far more worthy impression of a couple about to cop off at the bar. Gaby’s hands are wrapped around Max’s shoulders - otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to stand, herself.
She’s SO glad he saw her viewpoint about Marty Muddie, she slurs, drunkenly. Does Max realise that, seeing her point of view, is actually the highest form of flirting?
Max protests uneasily.
Lance enters the bar at that point, and Max stops him. He asks how Lance is getting on with things at the restaurant.
Lance is beside himself with glee. The barbecue idea he had is a big success, Lance brags. He sold it as a Surf’n Turf evening - steaks, prawns, tuna etc - sort of a last days of summer thing. AND, he adds, he put disposable cameras on all the tables. They could then get the pictures developed and send them out on future promotional literature.
Max is well impressed with his maitre d’.
As Max returns his attention to Gaby the Grin, Bev hisses at Lance for HIS attention. Dixie at 10 past 2, she says, cryptically, nodding in the direction of the booth where Jacqui’s sitting with Dr Parr.
Jacqui is telling Dr Parr he should try swimming as an exercise. She used to swim, herself, for the County. Dr Parr reaches over and feels her shoulders. Hmmmmm, he should have known that by her shoulders, he says. Jacqui, in turn, feels his shoulders. Why, his aren’t so bad either, she grins.
Dr Parr puts on a funny (not) posh voice and intones that he’s not averse to getting a bit wet.
Well, Jacqui finishes, anytime Dr Parr wants a race ...
Max is ruminating to Gaby the Grin about Lance’s barbecue idea. That steak sounds delicious, he says.
Gaby replies provocatively that she likes hers rare.
That’s cannibalism! Says Max, feigning horror.
Carnivorous, Gaby corrects him. Cannibalism is eating people, and she slumps all over Max again.
Gaby reaches for and takes Max’s hand. Does Max know, she says, pushing herself against him, that they say the tastiest part of the human body is at the base of the hand, the fleshy bit near the thumb? In fact, she continues, the fleshier the bit, the higher the sex drive.
Max immediately wants to examine Gaby the Grin’s hand.
Lance and Bev stare at the performing couples. Bev is beside herself at their behaviour. They’re really throwing in the KEYS! She squeals to Lance.
What? Responds Lance. Swap partners?
‘It’ll be tears after bedtime,’ Bev predicts.
No way, insists Lance, rigidly. Max wouldn’t.
Fiver says they would, says the newly-ignorant Bev.
Seated on the sitcom sofa, Adele is turning her nose up at the bevy of birthday presents laid before her. She holds up a hair straightener, a present from Dire. This is useless, she says, tactlessly.
Dire is, understandably, furious. The straightener, she can put to use in the Salon, she says. And not only that, she’s taking away the vouchers for Adele’s contact lenses.
No way! Adele sulks, petulantly. They’re for HER!
She’s a fine one to talk! Dire begins her rant. Adele phoned them from Cornwall, telling them all she loved them! Why, she even sent a postcard from Cornwall.
Laura has a cousin who lives in Cornwall, Adele explains, smugly. Adele sent him a random postcard with a picture of a cow and asked him to post it for her. It seemed like a laugh at the time, she adds, selfishly.
‘I don’t believe this!’ Dire exclaims. ‘And how exactly didyer pay fer the trip?’
‘Er, hello?’ Taunts Adele. ‘Plastic.’
‘Yer’ve gorra credit card!’ Exclaims Dire, in horror.
Adele smiles smugly. ‘I’m an adult now.’
(Sorry, it’s been raised before on the inadequate Official Forum, but met, unsurprisingly, with OFFICIAL silence. THIS IS ADELE’S 17TH BIRTHDAY!!! ONE CAN’T HOLD A CREDIT CARD IN ONE’S OWN RIGHT UNTIL ONE IS EIGHTEEN. OR HAVE THEY ADVANCE ADELE, WHO - IN REALITY - SHOULD ONLY BE SIXTEEN, YET ANOTHER YEAR?)
‘That’s not money,’ quips Dire. ‘That’s debt.’
Antony comments that he hopes Adele didn’t use her credit card to pay for her hairstyle.
Adele preens, tossing her head. EVERYONE in Ayia Napa wears this sort of style, she brags.
Antony replies by mimicking his sister. Well, EVERYONE in Ayia Napa must be a ming.
‘You are SO last week,’ says Adele, laconically, inviting the few remaining viewers with wit to reach through their television screens and smack her face.
Again, Ant mimics her behaviour.
‘Like whatever,’ Adele shrugs. (Er, sorry, but do the Brookside writers ACTUALLY think teenagers talk this 21st Brit adaptation of 1980’s Valley Girl?) And by the way, it’s nice of her dad to show up, she remarks, sarcastically. Where is he?
Maybe he was held up, Dire lies.
In some pub, surmises Adele.
Dire tries to change the subject by pushing a plate of cake in Adele’s direction. Is Adele going to eat some of the cake Dire made? She asks.
Adele ignores her step-mother, instead lumbering up from her position on the couch and flouncing toward the kitchen. She’s just going to pop a CD on ...
Dire shrieks at the fat bitch to sit down, but Adele only starts wittering on about some DJ in a bar in Ayia Napa.
Then Dire stops her with a blast from Dire’s foghorn mouth.
‘YER HAVEN’T GORRA SODDY BONE IN YER BODY!’ She shouts. But by this time, Adele’s managed to waddle into the kitchen and take a gander at the back garden.
‘Why’s the back garden such a mess? She asks.
(Er, did Brookside realise that Ayia Napa is the rape capital of Europe?)
Bev and Lance watch the Parrs and Farnhams closely, as Dr Parr touches Jacqui’s cheek. Should have bet a tenner, Bev whispers to a shell-shocked Lance.
Lance retorts that Leanne doesn’t trust Max Farnham as well.
Don’t mention Leanne, Bev stops him. She’s had enough of that vixen today.
What did Leanne do? Asks Lance.
Only got onto Bev about Josh, Bev explains.
And Bev seriously values Leanne’s opinion? Lance asks, truthfully.
Leanne has a point, Bev admits, miserably. Josh is upstairs with an over-paid stranger, and she’s here in the bar. They don’t spend any quality time together, and when they do, it’s fraught with tension.
Is it really that bad? Asks Lance. Anyway, Josh will soon be back at school.
Lance just hasn’t gorra clue, Bev sighs, as Ma and Pa Gordon enter the bar.
This is torture, Pa mutters, disgruntledly. What’s the point of coming for a drink if you can’t have a fag? What’s the point of living? He pats Lance on the back as he passes him.
Ma, lost in her own self-centred world, is still wittering on about her encounter with Marty. There’s just no way out of apologising to that Marty Muddie, she says. Why, he would have used force with the Brookside Bike if Ma hadn’t intervened.
Well, if he tries it again, Pa growls, Marty Muddie will have to answer to him (and the Mitchell fairmly of Wawford).
God only KNOWS what that Marty Muddie is capable of! Ma whines.
Be reasonable! Pa admonishes. This isn’t like the trendy Ma at all. Marty Muddie has a go at the Brookside Bike, who isn’t blameless, and now she’s got the man pegged as a child murderer.
Ma reasons that she just has a FEELING about him. (Of course, Ma would know, not having been on the Close long enough to let a smelly fart!) Everyone thinks the same, she says, arrogantly.
At that moment, Gaby the Grin shouts out at Pa. ‘It’s ALAN, isn’t it?’ (Now how would she know?) She then introduces herself and explains that her husband has pointed Alan Gordon out to her. (Look, Gaby, that’s the ignorant, East End lager lout who’s trying to give up smoking and causing the tax payer so much money with his subsidised patch! Yeah, sure, sounds about right - as if Gaby’s interested in her husband’s career or his patients).
Max introduces Ma to her, explaining that the Gordons are ‘newish’ residents of The Close.
Gaby the Grin asks if the Gordons are out on the razz.
The poor whites look a tad uncomfortable in the midst of such middle-class merriment.
Just one drink, Pa insists. At that, Gaby the Grin insists that she buy the couple a round of drinks. Pa protests, but Gaby meets his protest with a shouted, ‘RUBBISH!’ And she insists that the Gordons join the Parrs and the Farnhams. She then turns to the booth and shouts loudly to Dr Parr and Jacqui, telling Dr Parr to ‘put that blonde down and come here’.
Lance, witnessing the scene, asides to Bev: ‘Fiver, please.’
The night’s not over yet, Bev tells him.
Lance excuses himself, saying that he has to return to The Shelf to see how the barbecue is going. He chucks Bev under the chin fondly and tells her to keep her chin up re Josh.
Now, the remaining Muddies have moved into the kitchen and are seated around the sitcom table. Where’s Marty now? Asks Adele, petulantly. Dire admits that she doesn’t know.
Well, is he coming home? Adele demands.
He did before, Ant blurts.
‘Before?’ Echoes Adele. ‘Yer mean he’s doon a roonner before?’
Dire busies herself with clearing the table. ‘Yer dad’s been oonder a lorra pressure here,’ she explains, calmly.
But why didn’t someone tell her? Adele wants to know.
As if she could have done a lot, Dire remarks.
Now Adele turns to Antony, having been told of the events which occurred in her absence. ‘And why did YOU have ter go and write that letter?’
‘WOONDER WHERE HE GOT THAT IDEA FROOM?’ Dire quips, snidely, putting the wretched fat girl in her place.
Adele sullenly avoids her step-mother’s hard, bug-eyed gaze. ‘Don’t look at me!’ She cries.
‘YOU forged that parental consent letter fer the holiday!’ Accuses Dire, rightly.
Adele slumps back sullenly in her chair, muttering that she was glad she was away from all this.
Dire’s control snaps at that remark. ‘YER SELFISH, THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE!’ She shrieks at the wretch. ‘WE were goin’ through merrr-der here, and yer dad’s off out God knows WHERE, and all yer can think about is how it would have spoiled Ayia flippin’ Napa!’
Adele purses her liver lips into a constricted, little, constapetic line. ‘Are we gettin’ the computer back?’ She asks, coldly.
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?’ Shouts Dire.
‘Only soom o’me course werk’s on it,’ replies Adele, unperturbed.
Dire throws her a hopeless look.
Jimmy’s called round the Hiltons’ with some news for Ray, finding him at work in the garage. Happy Smiling Fat-arsed Fart-arsed Helen’s just fun Jimmy, he tells the old codger. Sylvia’s been in touch. Apparently, she’s coming back.
Ray glances up from his workbench, startled. When? He asks.
Jimmy shrugs, couple of days.
Ray’s puzzled. Something must have made Sylvia turn on a penny, he reckons. He thought she didn’t want anything to do with Helen.
Guilt, probably, assesses the Sage.
Ray nods, agreeing that guilt can do terrible things to people.
Jimmy’s worried about Helen. He hopes Happy Smiling Fat-arsed Fart-arsed Helen’s strong enough, he muses. (Helen? Built like the proverbial brick shithouse?) All this dithering about by Sylvia Morgan, he continues, toying with Helen. No, he reckons Sylvia wants something.
Ray promises Jimmy that he’s going to make it right for Helen. He doesn’t have many years left, he knows, but he wants to make sure that Helen knows he’s sorry about the abortion.
Jimmy eyes Ray suspiciously, assessing that Sylvia Morgan still exerts a hold over Ray.
Ray turns away from the omniscient Sage. No, he insists, he’s not living in the past anymore.
‘What if the past come back ter visit on a regular basis?’ Jimmy asks.
Ray swallows hard. As long as it’s healthy for Helen, he replies.
Back at the Bar, in the midst of Farnham and Parr chatter, Pa whispers to Ma that he’s bored with this impromptu party. Ma, however, selfish to the core, is enjoying herself, associating with her social betters, and she’s in full flow. Does that Ray Hilton get on anybody else’s nerves with that saw? She asks, stirring the shit like a trooper on the Official Forum.
Oh, sighs Jacqui, that saw’s going ALL the time!
Ma turns to Pa, asking if he’s managed to have a word with Ray yet.
No, says the beleagured Pa.
Well, when? Demands Ma.
As soon as, promises Pa, desperate to get back to Wawford.
Honestly, Ma preens, turning to the other two couples, she’s lived for years to move to an area as nice as this. She doesn’t want it spoiled by neighbours from hell. (Er, think you’d best look in the mirror, Ma).
Max laughs falsely. Surely, she doesn’t mean the Farnhams? He jokes.
‘Don’t be soft!’ Laughs Ma.
Jacqui remarks to Gaby the Grin that Dr Parr says she’s not into exercise.
Shopping’s her work-out, Gaby blags.
Well, then, Jacqui continues, Gaby the Grin won’t mind if Jacqui and Dr Parr go training together.
Why should she mind? Gaby shrugs. The fitter her husband, the more SHE benefits.
Then Jacqui, playing wifey, turns to Max and scolds him for not going jogging for ages. She pats Max’s stomach, whereupon Gaby pointedly asks the couple if they shouldn’t want to be alone this evening.
Max explains to Ma and Pa that it’s his and Jacqui’s first wedding anniversary the day before.
Oooh, Ma exclaims, Pa got her a breadmaker last anniversary.
Pa laughs uneasily. ‘Everyone eats bread,’ he jokes, lamely.
Oh, boot he’s making oop fer it this year, she continues, bragging. They’re taking the trip of a lifetime - all the way across Route 66!
‘The mother road,’ remarks Pa, ecstatically.
Not to be outdone, Jacqui brags that Max had her serenaded with a genuine barbershop quartet.
‘You old romantic!’ Gaby teases Max, pointedly.
Less of the old, Max scolds.
Grabbing Jacqui suddenly, Dr Parr makes a crude joke about only being as old as the woman you feel.
With that remark, Pa abruptly announces that the Gordons must be going. As they depart, Ma joins in the ribaldry with a remark about Pa being an early riser.
The couples laugh. (The audience doesn’t).
Across the way, at the garage, Marty Muddie is buying a bouquet of flowers. He’s watched by Leanne, who’s glancing up now and then from her Patio Murders magazine. As he approaches the counter, Leanne remarks snidely that flowers can only mean one thing - guilt.
Marty sighs, exhausted. How about a birthday? He suggests. The flowers are for his daughter. And he reaches into his pocket for the money.
‘Yer diggin’ deep,’ sneers Leanne. ‘Coom on, where’ve yer put her?#
Marty looks at the girl, puzzled. ‘Who?’ He asks.
‘Tryin’ ter be clever, are yer?’ Retorts Leanne. ‘Is that how yer get round the bizzies?’
Marty, looking stressed and weary, wipes his forehead. He’ll use another newsagents the next time, he vows.
If he’s out that long, chides Leanne. She holds up the magazine she’s been reading. Why, it says in here that the police had someone in 10 times for questioning before charging the person. And Marty has plenty of time on his hands, now that Brookie Comp’s confirmed everyone else’s suspicion.
Marty stares coldly at Leanne for a couple of seconds before remarking, in a low voice, that if they cut her in half, both parts would live.
A look of uncomprehending fear crosses Leanne’s dim face. Cut her in half? She babbles.
Marty, finding the money for the flowers, slaps the price down onto the counter.
Don’t try anything, shouts Leanne, pointing to the CCTV camera above. Big Brother’s watching.
Marty ignores her, and storms outside, where he kicks a nearby bush, in helpless rage.
From across the way, we view the scene, as a man’s legs walk into the foreground and watch Marty’s actions.
The Parrs and the Farnhams are now ensconced in their booth once more. Jacqui remarks that Katie is seeming a lot happier these days, and Dr Parr attributes that to one Nick the Builder.
Bev leans over the booth to ask if Jacqui would mind locking up for her, as it looks as though the party were staying on.
Sorry, says Jacqui, looking up with wide-eyed innocence, but they were planning on going into town. Hearing this, Max protests; but Dr Parr and Gaby the Grin are anxious to go. Even he’s up for that, jokes Dr Parr.
If Dr Parr can last the distance, so can Max, says Jacqui to her husband.
Bev protests that she wants to tuck Josh in, but Jacqui vetoes the idea.
Max is now using the Farnham kids as an excuse. Surely, Jacqui knows how early the children get up.
Gaby the Grin witters that she can’t imagine what it’s like to have children and plan one’s life around their activities.
Gaby has enough trouble dressing herself, quips Dr Parr.
So, no babies on the horizon then? Noses Max.
Gaby says she dreads the stretch marks.
Well, Jacqui’s a mum, says Dr Parr, and she’s in great shape.
Jacqui and Max exchange a kiss, as Gaby the Grin and Dr Parr get up, urging the Farnhams to join them.
‘Come on,’ says Jacqui to Max. ‘The night is young and you’re not.’
(Er, sorry, but I take exception to this as ageism).
Back at Sitcom House, Adele is beginning to worry at last about her father. Marty’s never missed her birthday before, she wailed.
Well, it’s not her birthday, really, says Dire, coldly.
But it’s the longest she’s ever been away on her own before, she moans. Doesn’t he want to see her? (Er, if you had a daughter like Adele, would you? My point, exactly.)
Adele’s been out of the country long enough, Dire sighs, shortly. A few more hours won’t make any difference. Anyway, she’s going to bed. As she walks toward the kitchen door, she turns to Antony, telling him he’s got five more minutes to remain downstairs. And then she addresses Adele. If Adele thinks she’s got an earful from Dire, just wait until Marty comes home! And she goes upstairs.
After Dire leaves, Adele breathes to Antony that she can’t believe Marty was arrested.
It was awful, Ant tells her. The bizzies kept him in for ages.
‘What for?’ Asks Adele. ‘Noothink’s been done.’
They found a telly buried under the pond, Ant informs her.
Well, what did they hope to find! Adele exclaims. Marty’s not a killer! He’s her dad! The police are just hopeless, pathetic!
They did let him off, Ant informs her.
But for good? Asks Adele.
Marty walks across the Parade in the dark, carrying the bouquet, on his way home. As he crosses to the corner of the Parade, someone comes out of the darkness and punches him viciously in the stomach. He falls to the ground, breathless, and another person lifts him by the shoulders and drags him into a van, waiting nearby. As he’s dragged along the ground, he drops the floral bouquet.
SOO-PRISE! SOO-PRISE!
This crock of shit was written by Heather the Hack.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002