THE ODIOUS FALLACY
In the parlance of Brookside fandom, the initials ‘OF’ stand for one thing and one thing only - the Official Forum. A part of the OFFICIAL BROOKSIDE WEBSITE, it came into being late last year, as a place where Brookside fans could meet and discuss the show and all things pertainent to it.
I didn’t bother to check the revamped site out, in general, at first, due to the fact that it was all set up in Flash mode, which sometimes took up to ten minutes to download; but I was convinced to participate in the Forum, by one Robert Hampton, an intelligent soul, who felt himself adrift in a mindless sea of morons, who could only peck out ‘Tim is fit’ and ‘Steve is gr8’ and ‘Emily’s tits are boss’.
So I chipped in.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear from the beginning - and Annabelle and Alan know this: I care, or cared, passionately about Brookside. It was my favourite programme. I remember when the morning after an episode, it was postively de rigeur in the workplace to discuss this - moreso than either Eastenders or Coronation Street; but somewhere around 1997, someone started tinkering with Brookside as we knew it, and made a pig’s ear of the job. Since then, it’s gone from bad to worse.
Unfortunately, the OFFICIAL FORUM, whilst purporting to encourage criticism of the show and fresh and free debate, does anything but this. What it DOES encourage, and so tacitly that it has to be reminded from time to time about its duties, is abuse and intolerance of anyone thinking that the show, itself, and all who participate therein are the greatest things since sliced bread. Woe betide anyone who believes otherwise.
Since participating in the forum, I’ve been called some choice names, by posters whom, Graham Kibble-White, the moderator, has allowed to stand for days at a time. Names such as: ‘fucking bitch’, ‘sad bitch’, ‘fucking cunt’ (and those are only the nice ones). I’ve been accused of posting under multiple names - and by someone who’s doing just that right now; I’ve been called a racist, a ‘dumb Yank’ and an ‘old tart’. I’ve been told to ‘fuck off, you dog’ and I’ve had my children maligned. I’ve had my sexuality openly questioned. And I’ve received numerous abusive e-mails.
On any other medium, I could have rightly sued for libel and slander and won a packet. I’m still considering doing that.
Since the latest self-appointed member of the Forum’s thought police, a megalomaniac calling herself ‘mypiece’ (and variously referred to elsewhere as ‘mypiss’ or ‘mouthpiece’) has taken it upon herself to infer that I have a ‘disease’, I have taken it upon myself to stop posting on something that, instead of being an Official Forum, has become a mirror image of Brookside, itself - an Odious Fallacy.
In its short life, it’s become a centre of flame, hatred and intolerance that belies anything that used to appear on the old Newsgroup - and how coincidental that the chief agitator and seminal-fluid propagator of that enterprise has seen fit to crawl from the woodwork onto that forum - The Magic Rabbits, himself ... Paul Taylor.
Avoid it like the plague, if you’re seriously concerned about Brookside becoming anything but a vehicle for mind-numbing totty.
It’s a failure ... Like the show.
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Apologies to all for the lateness of these summaries. I’ve truly been busy and REALLY pissed off with the treatment I’ve received on the Odious Fallacy.
Anyway, this episode begins with Dire Muddie staring fixedly at the family pictures dotted about the sitcom lounge as she stands at the front window, silently willing Marty to come home.
Someone HAS come home, however ... Er, not Marty. The door opens to Naughty Nurse Towers and Sammy Rogers enters, laden with suitcases and shouting, ‘I’m ho-o-o-me!’
Back on the Close, Raymundo lovingly puts the finishing coat of varnish on his hand-made table.
As Dire continues to stare out the front window, Liverlips of Liverpool gallumps into the room. I don’t know what Adele’s been doing whilst recuperating from her requisite breast implants, but she’s surely been piling on the pounds. She stomps into the room, making rubbing motions with her hand upwards from her neck to her chin, whilst pulling back her rubbery lips in a grimace. She continues to do this for a few moments after taking a seat on the sofa.
Dire half-heartedly notices her. Adele notices her step-mother noticing her and proceeds to explain, whilst continuing the procedure. She wants to make sure she doesn’t get any wrinkles, Adele explains, ernestly self-absorbed. And to do so, one HAS to do this exercise twice daily. She rubs upwards her neck toward her chin. And THIS is to stop getting a double chin, she continues, to Dire’s open-mouthed amazement.
‘Yer shoulda seen them women in Ayia Napa,’ Adele preens. ‘They had chins like Jabba the Hutt.’ She and Laura reckoned that had a lot to do with drinking, she says seriously. When SHE goes back, Adele continues, casually, she’s not going to drink at all. Oh, and by the way, she adds, confidentially, she knew Dire wouldn’t kick off, but she and the girls had a few whilst on holiday. Not droonk or anything, she hastens to add, but with the sun and alcohol, it’s really merrrr-der on the skin.
She grimaces yet again and pauses for breath before continuing hoarsely. The sun dries the skin and makes it age really quickly, she explains to Dire, who’s not even concentrating on Adele’s conversation mainly with herself. And there’s simply NO WAY she’s about to walk around Ayia Napa looking like she needs a facelift by the time she’s twenty.
Dire’s near breaking point and Adele’s rattling tongue manages to snap her stepmother's reserve in two. She bends furiously over the sofa and pretends to plump a cushion, where in reality she would love to be using those fists on Adele’s collagen-enhanced cheeks.
‘WILL YER SHURRUP ABOUT AYIA BLOODY NAPA!’ Dire screams.
Instead of being shocked into silence, the new Lara Croft edition of Adele leans forward, under Uncle Phil’s direction, revealing to the world (er, what’s left of the viewing public as regards Brookside) her mighty cleavage. Eeeeeem (OMIGOD, she’s caught THAT disease too!), soddy, boot this is Adele’s future they’re talking about, she sasses her stepmother. And as mooch as Dire and Marty might not like it, they have to talk about it. After all, she witters, not waiting for Dire’s reply or even stopping to think about the whereabouts of her father, Dire and Marty were allowed to make THEIR choices when THEY were young. Isn’t that what being young is all about? Adventure? Yer do what yer do - and she knows Marty will kick off, but they simply have to get it sorted.
Dire slumps down on the sofa beside the selfish, fat bitch. Marty’s not here, she murmurs.
Adele flops back against the sofa cheekily. When he gets back from work, then, she decides.
Dire glares at her. He didn’t come home last night, she hisses.
Why? Liverlips wants to know.
‘WHY D’YER THINK?’ Dire shouts.
‘He had a nark?’ Adele suggests, stupidly ... And a thousand hands are ready to reach through the television screens and slap her.
It’s this Imelda Clough business! Exclaims Dire. Ever since that started, Marty’s been walking around like a condemned man.
But he hasn’t done anything, Adele protests.
‘LOOK AT THE BACK GARDEN!’ Screams Dire. They police were there just the other week, digging up the garden and asking all sorts of questions. Now people in the neighbourhood are beginning to talk.
Adele jumps up, jiggling her tits. Well, she’ll just go outside and TELL those people that her dad did NOOTHINK! She declares, stoutly.
Dire shakes her head sadly. She doesn’t know how Antony will react when he finds out, she sighs.
Well, don’t tell him, Adele urges. Say that Marty’s round Christy’s helping sort out soomthink.
Dire says she’s tried Marty’s mobile, but it’s on voicemail.
Adele sits down beside her stepmother again and leans her tits into the camera. Has Dire tried Christy’s mobile?
Dire shrugs listlessly. The same, she admits. Marty did this the other week, she admits, but now, it seems different. He seems ... More down. (Is it any wonder, with the treatment he’s been receiving from Dire - hardly the most supportive of wives!)
They simply HAVE to find Marty, Adele declares, as she and Dire both rise simultaneously and stare out the front window.
In the semi-darkness of an obscure lock-up, Marty lies, beaten and unconscious, on the floor.
Back at Naughty Nurse Towers, a miserable-looking Katie (some things never change) sits in the background at the breakfast bar, wearing grubby pyjamas. In the foreground, Sammy puts on a CD, turns the stereo volume up full blast and starts to sway and dance, announcing that she loves that particular song.
Katie watches her sister for a long moment, and then grunts the observation that she had been under the impression that Sammy had emigrated.
Hah! Sammy laughs. Jacqui Farnham would have loved that.
Jacqui will be in a right nark anyway, says Katie, because of Sammy taking an extra week’s holiday.
Oh, she’s cleared it all with Jacqui, breezes Sammy, turning down the CD. She simply told Jacqui that Louise was under the weather and they couldn’t travel.
Katie’s big gob falls open. ‘Wharra yer like!’ She exclaims in horror.
Well, she kept her fingers crossed when she said it, Sammy protests, sillily. Anyway, if Jacqui fishes, she says, that’s Sammy’s story. And she begins to rummage for something in her suitcase. Katie suddenly notices that Sammy’s wearing a white dress to show off her fake tan. ‘Always wear something light, to show off a tan,’ parrots Katie.
Sammy starts to reminisce about the holiday. It was 30 degrees most days, she says, and they sat sipping cocktails by the pool. The villa had a maid and a resident chef, she continues.
Slumming it, eh? Quips Katie.
And Katie should have seen Ted’s and Sheena’s villa! Sammy enthuses. The places she and Richard had were always nice, she says, grudgingly, but in a conservative way. But the Morans’ villa was pure state of the art (which means it’s tacky, over-decorated and in extremely bad taste).
Katie reminds Sammy of the fact that Sammy has a daughter by asking if Louise had a good time.
Oh, she loved it, Sammy enthuses - horseback riding on the estate in the morning, then the beach, where she windsurfed and para-glided. Oh, and then there was Mr Pig’s boat.
So, fishes Katie, has Sammy been down South for the last week, then?
Sammy shoots her sister a puzzled look. Er, no, she says. Mr Pig flew the two girls home, and she stayed on an extra week with Mr Pig and Sheena.
Oh, pursues Katie, delicately raising her eyebrows. So Sammy, Mr Pig and Sheena ALL flew back together then., on the same plane and the best of mates?
Sammy briefly looks a tad uneasy, before recovering her composure and assuming a defensive mode. Er, no, she says. Actually, Sheena had to stay on another week; so Sammy and Mr Pig flew back yesterday, and she flew into Manchester this morning.
So, remarks Katie, pursing her lips, Sammy and Mr Pig stayed in his house on their own.
In response, Sammy pulls a lacy red basque from her luggage and throws it over Katie’s head. It’s a present for her sister, as if one ALWAYS buys sexy lingerie in Spain ... Maybe she should have bought Katie a green one, Sammy sniffs.
As Ray puts the finishing touches of varnish on his table, a football bounces into the Hilton back garden and bounces off the table. The Brookside Bike then pokes his thug-ugly gob around the corner and cheekily asks:
‘Can I have my ball back, mate?’
(That Ma Gordon! Hasn’t she raised her children well? They’re so pig-shit thick ignorant, that they have no idea how to address politely their elders!)
Ray, immediately, grabs the ball and holds it defensively against his chest. And just who is the Brookside Bike calling ‘mate’? He wants to know.
The Brookside Bike is too self-absorbed, having been brought up to be that way by the odiously white trash Ma, and ignores the remark. ‘That’s it!’ He declares, pointing to the ball. ‘Gi’s it.’ (What a moron!)
Ray, holding the ball tightly in one hand and a brush in another, steps around the table, wagging the brush in the Brookside Bike’s face. (I would have smeared the little toerag in varnish). This is a residential area, he lectures, severely. Not a football pitch.
The Brookside Bike asks again rudely if he can have his ball back. He’s going to be late for school, otherwise.
Ray refuses. ‘Consider it confiscated,’ he says.
Then Rabbity Ruth appears, hopping around the corner, wiggling her snotty, drippy nose and gnashing her choppers. What a pity Brookside’s being cancelled! Otherwise she would have been able to have had her teeth done, the way Brookside did Claire Sweeney’s - not that it did her any favours.
‘What’s the matter?’ Rabbity Ruth snorks.
The Brookside Bike begins a lying whine about how his ball ACCIDENTALLY fell into the area of the Hiltons’ garden and now mean, old Ray won’t return it.
This could have caused a terrible accident, Ray informs Rabbity Ruth.
The Brookside Bike, raised to be a mindless philistine, moans that it was only a bit of varnish that was knocked.
Has he tried saying ‘soddy’? Ruth asks her brother. (Soddy? Sorry, that’s not a word in Ma’s vocabulary. Neither is ‘sorry’.)
The Brookside Bike reluctantly explains to Ray that this was an accident, so could he have his ball back? Then, noticing Rabbity Ruth glaring so hard that she’s forgot to wipe the globule of snot resting on her brief upper lip, he enters into a poor excuse for an apology.
‘Soddy, mate - er, Mr Hilton.’
Rabbity Ruth promises Ray that this won’t happen again.
He’’ll hold her to that, Ray says, and hands the ball back to the Brookside Bike. This is a final warning, he tells the yob.
‘Ta, mate,’ taunts the little toerag, as Ray groans.
Ruth hops after her despicable, little brother, who should have been drowned at birth - better yet, Ma Gordon is a walking advertisement for sterilisation of poor whites. Rabbity Ruth warns the Brookside Bike to stay out of Raymundo’s way.
He should be in a home, pronounces the Brookside Bike, ignorantly (which echoes Phil Redmond’s sentiments to all those people over 34. Er, someone should remind Dr Redmond that he’s over 34 as well. And wouldn’t it be NICE to see Paul Merton and Ian Hislop have a go at Dr Phil on HIGNFY?)
Just get to school, warns Ruth.
Rabbity Ruth then hops home, to find Dan the slimey Man playing with Luke on the mingey sofa, as Ma Gordon fiddles with a lamp. It’s beyond her ken, never having had lighting before. Ooooh, she breathes with wonder, it moost be a fuse.
Ruth relays the story about the Brookside Bike’s altercation with Ray.
Oooooh, remarks Ma, slowly, looking up from fiddling with the lamp, ooooh, did’ee do it on perrrrrr-pooose?
Probably, remarks Dan, wryly.
Ruth raises her non-existent eyebrows and remarks that Dan’s becoming a Gordon now, with answers like that.
Well, Dan replies, he wishes Rabbity Ruth were a Morrissey.
Ma leans over the back of the sofa and pushes her poor white face with its rancid breath full in Dan’s. There’s a small matter of a divorce to contend with first, she reminds him.
Hopefully, she WILL be a Morrissey soon, Ruth enthuses.
Dan, pushes Luke away suddenly, and looks shifty. Er, Ruth’s not still on about marriage, is she? He asks, in a surly tone.
Oh, she’s thought of nothing else, Ruth jokes, since the 6th form common room when they should have been revising.
You mean when Ruth was feeling Dan’s leg up? Dan retorts.
The other way around, Ruth says.
Oh, when Dan was feeling his own leg up, Dan jokes. (This is supposed to be funny. One ... Two ... Three ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA! HOW ABOUT CANNED LAUGHTER?)
Oh, remember how they used to sit in class all those years ago, Ruth reminisces, planning engagement and marriage? (Sorry, but I beg to differ? We’ve all been there - sixth form, or its equivalent, I mean. How many of you actually KNEW boys of 18, planning engagements, marriages, families etc.? Maybe I’m deprived, but all the 16 year-old boys I knew at that time, were planning uni careers, work etc - if anything to do with a girl, it was how to get a leg over and have his wicked way, without the girl falling pregnant.) Discuss please.
And kids, remembers Dan. He always thought he and Ruth would have kids together.
Still time for that, Ruth promises.
But Dan wanted her FIRST kid to be his, he grumbles, petulantly.
Ruth, who’s been sitting next to him on the filthy sofa, pulls away suddenly. It’s a bit too early in the day for something as heavy as that, she says.
Ma stomps back into the room, showing everyone something wonderful she’s found. It’s a 5-amp fuse.
Dan immediately jumps up and offers to help Ma change the fuse. Ma refuses. After all, it’s Dan’s day off and he must have other things to do.
Too right, he has, says Dan and bounds off, living up to his bounder reputation.
As he leaves, Ma notices Rabbity Ruth’s face falling.
Everything all right? She asks in that dopey, high-pitched voice we’d love to silence.
Ruth lies and says she’s OK.
Meanwhile, back at a tension-filled Sitcom House, Dire’s on the phone to the police about Marty’s disappearance. Of course, we only hear her side of the conversation. Yes, she says, with frustrated patience, she knows the time ... Yes; she answers, he’s done this sort of thing before, just a couple of weeks ago ... No, there’s no pattern, it’s just not like him. (Er, sorry, but if he’s done this sort of thing before, hasn’t this become a part of his behavioural PATTERN?) He’s under pressure, asserts Dire - and who wouldn’t be, living with her!
As she puts the phone down, she answers an unspoken question of Adele’s by informing her that the police say she has to wait 24 hours before officially reporting Marty missing.
Adele stands in the doorway of the kitchen, squeezing her tits together with her elbows to make her cleavage look more massive. Adele can’t understand why the police don’t seem to be interested in her father’s disappearance.
They’re simply not interested in an adult who’s done this sort of thing before, snaps Dire. The police say that they have to wait and give him a chance to come home. (Eh?)
He’s been gone too long now! Asserts Adele, and she says that they’ll just have to call Christy again.
‘I’ll do one better than that,’ announces Dire, firmly. ‘I’ll go over there!’ (Dum-de-dum-dum-DUMMMMMMMMMM!)
Adele offers to come with her, but Dire tells the girl to stay put in case Marty shows up, and if he does, she’s to ring Dire.
‘Boot,’ Adele asks, ‘what if me dad isn’t at Christy’s?’
‘Yer better hope he is,’ snarls Dire.
Where is Marty?
Well, he’s lying on the filthy floor of an abandoned lock-up. He wakes up from a fitful sleep, and his eyes just manage to focus on a door opening and two blurry male images entering.
‘The joke’s over now, lads,’ Marty croaks.
A light attached to a car battery is turned on, and we see Marty’s assailants as, none other than the Clough brothers, played by Philip Olivier’s cousin and some other ferret-faced little toerag snatched from the streets of Liverpool for easy money for nothing and the brain-dead chicks on the Official Forum for free.
The younger Clough thug assures Marty that this is no joke.
Marty maintains weakly that he’s cold, thirsty and hungry.
‘That’s why we left yer here all night,’ says the older thug, who’s named Paul. ‘Ter have a good think.’
About what? Marty asks.
Ferret-face the Younger whips a crumpled poster of Imelda from his pocket and shoves it in Marty’s face. About where their sister is and what he’s done with her! He shouts. (Tell me, does EVERYONE shout in Liverpool?)
Marty says he doesn’t know where Imelda is, and with that, Ferret-face Cloug crumples the poster of Imelda and shoves it into Marty’s mouth. Marty emits a stifled scream.
It’s no use screaming, says Ferret-face Clough, viciously. No one comes around here anymore.
Paul Olivier Clough tells Marty that he’s not getting out until he tells them where Imelda is.
Back at NNT, Katie’s stuffing the washing machine full of laundry (that doesn’t look dirty in the least) and telling Sammy about Marty Muddie’s arrest. Apparently, she says, Dire didn’t have a clue.
Sammy asks if they’ve actually charged him with the merr-der.
How can they? Katie asks. They haven’t found a body!
Those poor parents must be out of their minds, Sammy muses.
As Katie’s rummaging through some of Sammy’s things on the kitchen counter, she finds a strange jewelry box, as you do. What’s this? She asks. Sammy immediately reaches out and grabs the small case, accusing Katie of being ‘a nose’. (Well, hers does resemble a ski jump). Sammy removes an expensive bracelet from the case, explaining that it’s a gift from Mr Pig.
He’s very generous, she purrs.
Oh, yeah? Says Katie, suspiciously, and just what was Sammy generous with?
Nothing, maintains Sammy, all wide-eyed innocence. She just spent a few nights in with the girls so he and Sheena could go out.
Oh, so SHEENA chose the bracelet then? Pursues Katie, like a dog worrying a bone he can’t reach.
Actually, Sammy preens, a tad uncomfortably, Mr Pig chose it, wrapped it and gave it to her on the plane home.
And Sheena knows this, does she? Katie continues.
Sammy studiously avoids her sister’s gaze. ‘She might know,’ she says, evasively, ‘and she might not. Who cares?’
‘Sheena, if she finds out,’ blurts Katie.
Sammy now occupies herself with primping in front of the mirror. There’s nothing TO find out, she says. Oh, she wishes she’d stayed in Spain instead of coming back to Liverpool. (So do we). Working for a pittance at that Health Club!
Well, Katie admits, she’s happy Sammy had a good time in Spain. She just doesn’t want Mrs Pig taking out a contract on Sammy’s life when she finds out what Mr Pig’s been up to.
Sammy smiles smugly. ‘She won’t,’ she promises Katie. ‘Anyway, it’s part of the buzz to live dangerously.’
Marty still protests to the Cloughs that he hasn’t touched Imelda. Needless to say, the boys don’t believe him. Marty protests that the police actually let him go.
Only because he wouldn’t tell them! Sneers Ferret-face Clough. Where is she?
Marty tries to say that Imelda’s been seen in London.
Rubbish! The Cloughs maintain. And isn’t it funny how Marty’s the only person who believes that?
Look, reasons Marty, desperately, he’s got kids, himself. He wouldn’t do something like hurting another child.
Ferret-face reminds him that he pushed Imelda on occasion ... And he hit her.
She was bullying his son! Argues Marty.
‘YER STILL BELIEVE THAT?’ Screams Ferret-face.
Well, forget about that, then, urges Marty. There’s still no way he’d do what they were accusing him of.
The bizzies dug up his garden, says Ferret-face, because THEY have him sussed, but Marty’s being clever, he says. Never mind, they’ll get a confession out of him. And he starts beating and kicking Marty viciously, before Paul Olivier Clough stops his actions.
Ferret-face won’t be calmed however, screaming that Marty killed Imelda and he wants to know what he did with her! And he lands Marty a resounding kick in the ribs.
Back at NNT, there’s a knock at the door, and Sammy opens it to find Nick the Builder on the doorstep. Nick jokes that he was in the area checking boilers, and Sammy turns and calls for her sister, shouting to Katie that Nick is here to check her plumbing. (Great, crude remark).
Nick replies cheekily that he has warm hands as well (and a cold heart, eh?)
Katie is surprised to see Nick, especially since she thought he was on his way to Ibiza. Oh, that’s first thing in the morning, Nick says.
So it’s Nick’s and Katie’s last day together for a couple of weeks, pries Sammy.
Ten weeks, to be precise, Nick tells her.
Sammy coyly replies that she’d best make herself scarce then, in that case, and Katie’s embarrassed.
After Sammy leaves, Nick gets straight to the point. He and Katie, or Kaa-teh, as he calls her, STILL have things to discuss. He wants Kaa-teh to come with him to Ibiza, he says. But before Kaa-teh says no, he and Kaa-teh will have to talk about the situation.
Back at the deserted lock-up, Marty lies, semi-conscious, on the floor. The Clough brothers stand nearby and discuss what to do with him. Ferret-face, the younger one, is convinced Marty’s killed Imelda; but Paul Olivier Clough isn’t so sure they’re cracking anything other than ribs with Marty. Ferret-face picks up a shovel and tells Paul Olivier Clough that a couple or whacks with that, would help to loosen Marty’s tongue (and his brain too, for that matter, shit-face).
From the floor, Marty raises his head and weakly asks for some water.
Ferret-face thinks he’s John Thaw in The Sweeney and tells him to ‘Shut it!’
Marty begins to beg for water, but this only annoys Ferret-face Clough even more and he gets shirty, until Paul Olivier Clough tells him to pack it in. But he doesn’t. Ferret-face picks up the shovel and brutally threatens Marty with it. He’s about to hit the older man, until his older brother grabs him from behind and sends him out to cool off, telling him to get some water, take a walk around the block, but settle down.
Ferret-face leaves and the older boy is left alone with Marty.
Adele is sitting in the Sitcom lounge, when Dire returns from Christy’s. She wants to know if Marty was there. Dire tells her he wasn’t, but Adele thinks that maybe Christy’s lying.
No, says Dire, with surprise in her own voice. In fact, Christy was surprised that Marty hadn’t been in touch. Anyway, she’s called Plank, who says he’ll keep an eye out. Suddenly, Dire grabs the Yellow Pages.
Who’s she ringing now? Adele wants to know.
Hospitals, snaps Dire. She simply can’t put it off. Why, he may have had an accident.
Surely, the hozzie would have found Marty’s wallet and rung them, Adele suggests.
‘I JOOST CAN’T SIT AROUND AND DO NOOTHINK!’ Screams Dire.
Alone with Marty, Paul Olivier Clough kneels by the older man’s side. Marty should BE in the Clough house at this time, the lad says, softly. He should hear their mother crying every night. She sits and goes through all Imelda’s stuff - photos of the girl when she first started school, holiday videos, baby clothes - she holds them up to her face, trying to remember her daughter. Oh, he continues, their mother pretends that she’s got it all together; but they’ve seen her tranquilisers. She’s cracking, he adds.
The one thing that would help her would be the one piece of information Marty could provide. Where’s the body? Their mother accepts that Imelda’s dead, but she can’t rest until she has her daughter’s body.
Marty asserts weakly that he never touched the girl.
‘Liar!’ Exclaims Paul Olivier Clough.
No, it’s true, pleads Marty. The last time he saw the Clough girl was the day she came back to school.
For a moment, a brief look of belief crosses Paul Olivier Clough’s face; but it’s broken by the return of Ferret-face with the water. The younger brother approaches Marty, removes the bottle cap from the water and pours it derisively over the older man.
‘Here’s yer water, scoom!’ He says.
The table finally finished, Ray leads Jessie into the back garden. Well, Jess asks impatiently, where is this work of art?
Ray proudly shows her the table and proceeds to go over its features in detail, emphasising the smooth edges, including the impact guard against knocks - hips for Jess, thighs for Ray. Because they’re different sizes, he adds. Although, he adds critically, the legs ARE a bit uneven, but never mind. One thing Jess must NEVER do, he warns, and that’s to stand on this table.
Jess looks mildly annoyed and puzzled. Why would she want to do that? She asks.
Er, she, er, she might want to change a light bulb, Ray offers.
What’s wrong with a step ladder? Jess quips.
Ray, however, is enthusiastic about his table and wants to know what Jessie thinks.
Jess is at a loss of words, but the look on her face clearly states that she doesn’t like the table. Finally, she admits that she likes the colour of wood.
Oak, announces Ray, tapping the table. Cost a fortune!
Who’s it for? Teases Jessie.
Us, says Ray.
‘But we already have a table,’ purrs Jessie, smiling maliciously.
But this one’s handmade, protests Ray.
Couldn’t he give it to someone as a present? Asks Jess, tactlessly. Like Helen?
Ray’s more than a bit miffed. Jess sounds as though she doesn’t like the table, he pouts.
Now Jess lets her feelings fly. It looks as though it was knocked up in night school, she bitches.
Ray immediately begins to blub. Well, he could have done it better if he’d had more time, he protests.
Oh, she’s past having handmade stuff, Jess huffs, storming to the back door. She wants the best money can buy - stuff professionals make!
Nick and Katie are having their much-heralded discussion. Nick admits to Kaa-teh that he really should have been in Spain three weeks ago - but then his dad got ill, and there was the bungalow and Ray with which to contend. He NEEDS a holiday after dealing with Ray Hilton. But, he adds, he had another reason for staying.
(What DUMBASS DIALOGUE!)
‘Yer dad was ill,’ says Katie, stupidly, playing along with an inadequate scriptwriter.
Nick admits that he’s hardly seen his dad. No, he stuck around because he was chasing Kaa-teh. He fancies her.
Katie protests that Nick DID stay for his dad’s benefit, but Nick tells her again that he wants her to come to Ibiza with him.
She can’t, says Katie.
Can’t or won’t? Asks Nick.
Well, Katie protests lamely, she can’t afford it. But Nick offers to pay.
She hats debts, Katie argues. Besides, she’s got work. (Well, taking time off work never seemed to bother her before).
Nick begins to lose patience with the wretch. What, exactly, is Kaa-teh playing at? He demands. They’re not kids. They’re both adults, with past relationships. So Katie’s been burned once (er, how about about five times?), Nick just wants her to give him a chance. Then she’d come to know that he wasn’t a bad guy. Nick just wants to spend time with Kaa-teh, walk along the beach with her and 8 million ravers. He wants a proper reason for her not coming with him.
Katie blurts out that she can’t commit right now.
To a holiday? Nick coyly asks.
‘We both know it would be more than that,’ reasons Katie. ‘I can’t commit to two weeks’ company with anyone right now.’
The Brookside Bike suddenly appears on the Close in the middle of the day, a time when he should be safely locked up in school somewhere. He saunters onto the Close, imagining himself a part of some thuggy Liverpool football team, taking on the likes of Manchester United. In his limited imagination, he shunts along, imagining him feinting past the likes of Roy Keane (who’d chew him up like a wad of baccy, David Beckam, who’d spit on him and finally encountering Barthez, he shoots, aiming squarely at the front door of the bungalow as the imaginary goal - deliberately, I might add.
As soon as the thud of the ball hits the door, Ray’s out like a shot, scolding the uncaring Brookside Bike as he approaches him. The lad’s a pest, Ray rants, shaking his finger at the little toerag.
The Brookside Bike turns rudely away and mutters under his breath, ‘And you’re not, slaphead.’
But Ray’s not as deaf as he’d have us imagine, and he hears every word. Rhetorically, he asks the yob to repeat what he’d said, as he grabs the football.
‘Nuttin,’ replies the erudite Brookside Bike, who’s been impeccably brought up by his philanthropic and intelligent parents - not. In fact, he only sliced the ball, and that happens all the time.
As he speaks to Ray, Dan slithers to the front door of Bicker-Bicker House, clocks what’s going on and calls for Ma, who pops up beside him. She shrieks out the Brookside Bike’s name, thundering toward him, her greasy hair flying. What’s the Brookside Bike doing out of school this time of day, anyway? She demands.
The Brookside Bike spreads his hands wide, in an air of affected innocence. He only forgot his PE kit, he whines, and now big, bad Ray has his football.
‘Go get yer kit,’ snaps Ma, as the lazy, little thug trudges toward Bicker-Bicker House.
Ma now turns a falsely repentant face to Ray, whining about how soddy she is and promising effusively that this sort of incident won’t happen again.
Hmph! Grunts Ray, sceptically. That’s what her lad told him only just this morning. Ray narrows his eyes and studies Ma with a critical gaze. He’ll have her know, he begins, clearing his throat, that she’s got a looming problem on her hands there with that lad. He has no respect for authority, continues Ray, truthfully, and he’s ill-mannered.
Ma squirms visibly under Ray’s apt assessment of the result of her lack of parenting skills, but she’s not about to give up without a fight.
Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, she whines, the boy only kicked a ball into a garden. That’s hardly a car-jacking.
He’s a cheeky youth, Ray states, matter-of-factly, wagging his finger in Ma’s scrawny, white trash face. Why, only just the other day, he heard the Brookside Bike back-chatting Mr Muddie.
Ma pokes her lower lip out and assumes a sullenly defeated mien. Please give the ball back, she whines. If Ray will do that, she’ll promise not to let the Brookside Bike have it for a week.
Ray narrows his eyes even more, not trusting the abject piece of trailer trash shit. Ma swears blindly that she’ll hold to her promise, and Ray relents. He clears his throat again, remarking that it’s nice to see a parent with some sort of notion of responsibility.
Back at the lock-up, Marty’s kicked from unconsciousness again. Ferret-face Clough leans over him, menacingly, asking sarcastically if he enjoyed his ‘sleep.’ Anyway, Paul Olivier Clough chips in, they’re off now.
Marty raises his head, wearily. Do they REALLY think there aren’t people out there looking for him right now? How long do they plan on leaving him here?
Ferret-face replies that they meant it when they said it didn’t matter how long they left him. After all, Liverpool is a big city. (Is it, really?) Did Marty seriously think the bizzies would search every deserted lock-up for paedo child-killers? Does he think they’ll just give him a pat on the back when he confesses?
Marty wonders aloud where he is, an action, which - for some reason - sets Ferret-face Clough off on an orgy of violence, beating and kicking Marty repeatedly and viciously, and crowning the deed by banging down a broken bicycle frame over Marty’s head, as he lies on his stomach, unconscious again.
He’s about to do more, but Paul Olivier Clough steps in and stops him. Does Ferret-face want to get done for merr-der? He asks. Now Paul Olivier Clough begins to panic, as he bends over and feels Marty’s neck for a pulse.
Oh, just look at the state of him, Paul Olivier Clough worries. They have to get Marty out of there, now and fast.
Panic infects the younger Ferret-face, who’s basically a coward and a bully, like his sister. He starts to piss and shit his pants.
Swiftly, Paul Olivier Clough orders him to back the van up to the door of the lock-up. Besides, some smackheads might come down to this region and hear Marty moaning.
Ferret-face hesitates, but the older lad screams him into action.
Back at Sitcom House, Adele’s made two sandwiches and sets one on a plate in front of Dire, who’s seated at the sitcom table. Dire refuses the food. Adele importunes her step-mother, telling her that she has to eat; but Dire clutches the white phone to her ample and natural bosom.
‘Soomthink’s’appened,’ announces Adele. ‘Where is he?’
Ma Gordon opens her front door to find the hapless Sean, smiling on her doorstep. He’s early, the hapless Sean announces proudly, as if this is a major accomplishment.
Ooooooh, witters Ma, pleased as punch, she’s noticed.
Well, the hapless Sean shrugs, he thought it best that he kept in everyone’s good books.
That’s a good idea, Ma replies, encouragingly.
Sean apologises about kicking off the other day. The present situation gets to him, so he thought he’d best chill a bit.
Ma, ever the trendy, open-minded fool, nods sympathetically. She and Pa understand, she assures the hapless Sean. But getting narky with Ruth, who’s basically a spoiled bitch - and especially getting narky with her around Luke - isn’t a good idea.
Sean promises her that he’s put all that behind him now.
As they stand on the doorstep, Rabbity Ruth and Luke hop onto the Close, having just returned from school. Luke’s shouting for his daddy. Ma offers to put the kettle on.
Kneeling down, Sean remarks how good Luke looks in his uniform, and he thanks Ruth for allowing him to have the boy overnight.
Ruth snorks back some green snot and wipes her nose on the white sleeve of her cardigan. It’s only because the hapless Sean promised that there’d be no more kick-offs.
If Dan the Man’s not around, the hapless Sean promises, there’ll BE no more kicking off.
Don’t even go there, snaps Ruth, taking Luke off to change out of his uniform.
Nick the Builder and Katie stroll languidly toward the door of the flat. Did they have sex? Only time and a Predictor test will tell - or will it take the earth moving to an explosion? Watch this space.
So, Nick remarks, Kaa-teh’s turning down two weeks of unadulterated passion with the man of her dreams. They exchange a lingering kiss, when the door opens and Sammy enters.
Whoops! She says, coyly. She thought for sure the pair of them would be finished their good-byes by now.
Nick quips that they haven’t even got started, or else Kaa-teh wouldn’t be up for air before Christmas.
Sammy advises Katie to hold onto Nick, as Nick says good-bye, promising to send her a card. And with that, he’s gone.
Sammy stands with her arms akimbo and stares at Katie in disbelief. Well, she huffs, if that wasn’t the WORST good-bye to a lover she’d ever seen! Why, Katie should be snogging the face off Nick.
Katie slinks over to the breakfast bar, disconsolately. He only wanted her to go to Ibiza with him the following day, she whines. (Er, sorry, but how can people just up stakes and LEAVE work?)
Oh, and she bets Katie said no, surmises Sammy.
Katie says it didn’t feel right.
Katie could get used to living in the sun in Ibiza, says Sammy, with a self-employed builder. She grabs her mobile. What’s his number? She asks Katie. Katie starts to give her the number of Nick’s mobile, but stops. No, she says, stoutly. She’s made her decision. She’s not going.
The bluff Cloughs stop the dingey red van. Ferret-face is in the back, surveying Marty, lying amidst the filth. He’s wuddied. Marty looks a lot worse, he says, nearly in tears.
‘Yer haven’t given it ter him again!’ Exclaims Paul Olivier Clough.
Ferret-face shakes his head, stoutly denying this.
Now Paul Olivier Clough climbs into the back, and examines Marty. They can’t take him to a doctor, he muses. They’ll just have to dump him someplace. He feels Marty’s neck for a pulse, as Ferret-face is ordered to drive off.
Now Luke, dressed in his play clothes, stands in the driveway with Rabbity Ruth and Sean. Sean instructs the child to kiss his mummy good-bye, and Luke braves the green bile on Ruth’s upper lip to do so. Suddenly, Rabbity Ruth remembers that she’s forgotten to pack Luke’s school uniform for the next day and dashes off to get it.
Once she’s disappeared inside, Dan the Man saunters onto the Close, oozing a trail of slime in his wake. Is Sean still here? He sneers, condescendingly.
‘No,’ replies Sean, ‘I’m a mirage.’
Oh, Dan raises his eyebrows and laughs to himself. He always knew Sean was a big nothing. Oh, and by the way, he radges, Dan and Ruth have been talking, he says ... They’ve decided that if the hapless Sean manages to get Luke back on time this time, they’ll let him see the child again.
Ruth steps onto the drive, carrying the uniform.
Seeing her, Sean decides to let the jibe pass and takes Luke to his waiting van.
Ruth senses an atmosphere, even in her thick, self-absorbed brain, and asks if everything’s OK.
‘No,’ Dan says, winding her up, ‘because Sean with probably end up drunk and kick off.’
Why? Ruth wants to know.
‘Because it’s in his genes,’ Dan says, sneering at the form of Sean. ‘He’s a dim-witted slugger.’
With Luke safely in the van, Sean approaches Rabbity Ruth to confront her about Dan’s remark. What’s this about Sean seeing his son?
Ruth frowns. She doesn’t know what Sean’s on about, she swears.
The hapless Sean jerks his head in Dan the Man’s slimey direction. ‘This one jibed about him having a say in when I can see me son,’ he says.
The sound of a phone ringing is heard inside.
‘What he needs is a good slap,’ Sean tells Ruth, indicating Dan.
‘Off YOU?’ Laughs Dan, cruelly.
Ma rushes out, sensing something’s about to erupt. What’s all the fuss? She wants to know. She turns to Sean. And what’s all this about chilling?
Dan has no say in when Sean can see his son, the hapless Sean complains.
Dan aggravates the situation by cockily inviting Sean to take a pop at him, before Ruth roughly orders Dan the Man to slither into the house.
And Sean should go as well, Ma adds. His son’s waiting in the van. The she looks pointedly at Sean. ‘You made an agreement,’ she reminds him.
‘Soddy,’ replies the hapless Sean, crestfallen.
Now Ma turns suspiciously to Dan the Man, who’s lurking about the front door, earwigging. ‘Did YOU start that?’ She demands.
Like the Brookside Bike, Dan assumes an air of injured innocence. No, he swears. Sean came on with all this macho stuff. Really, Dan didn’t want any kind of altercation.
Anyway, Ma suddenly remembers, the phone’s for Rabbity Ruth.
Ruth turns to hop inside, snorking back some excess snot, but she stops to briefly have a word with Dan. She appreciates him looking out for her, she says, but she doesn’t want any violence - and not in front of Luke.
Sean, meanwhile, stomps to the van and climbs behind the wheel, slamming the door.
Luke gazes up at his father tranquilly. ‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’ He asks, innocently. ‘Don’t you like Daddy Dan?’
Sean snaps his head downward at the child. ‘Who?’ He asks.
‘Daddy Dan,’ repeats Luke. ‘Mummy’s boyfriend. Don’t you like him?’
Sean leans his face within inches of his son’s. ‘DON’T YER EVER CALL HIM THAT AGAIN, D’YER HEAR ME?’ He shouts. ‘I’M YER DAD!’
Dire stands, staring longingly out the front window, as Adele approaches her from behind.
If they don’t hear soomthink soon, says the girl, Dire will simply have to call the police.
Dire still continues staring out the window. ‘The police aren’t interested,’ she replies, dully.
Well, SHE’LL call them, then! Exclaims Adele.
Now Dire turns, as Adele dashes toward the phone. It’s too soon! She cries.
Adele begins to cry, hopelessly. ‘We know me dad,’ she sobs. ‘We know he’s not like that, except fer the other week. But even YOU say that was different. Wharrif he’s herrrrrt soomwhere?’
Dire gathers the gallumping girl into her arms.
The rattletrap red van of the Clough brothers stops beside a large wheelie bin on what appears to be a deserted industrial estate. The back door of the van opens, and they drag the unconscious Marty out. They lift him up, opening the wheelie bin, and dump him inside, after rearranging the rubbish bags to cover his body. Then they pile into their dilapidated van and thunder off.
Maurice Bessman wrote this. Not one of his better efforts.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002