ODE TO DIRE MUDDIE (and others)
(To be sung to the tune of ‘Poor Jud is Dead’ from ‘Oklahoma’)
Jimmy Corkhill sings: Poor Dire is Dead
Dire Muddie is Dead
A Helicopter crashed
And hit her square on the head
Ron Dixon: She was veddy veddy proud,
Though her voice was veddy loud
I soomtimes couldn’t her meself think.
Marty Muddie sings: My Dire is dead
My poor Dire is dead
But I’ll not mourn for long
Because I’ve got Jan instead
She may have beat me blue
But I’m here a-tellin’ you
I’m glad she never severed the link.
Dan the Man sings: Poor Pa is Dead
Pa Gordon is Dead
A drooked-up robber took his car
And shot him in the head
But his family shouldn’t fear
Coz I’ll continue sitting here
Counting money I’ll be putting in my bank!
Ma Gordon screeches: Poor Pa ain’t dead
My poor Pa ain’t dead
He’s just gone down to Walford
To visit relatives instead
I’ll be ready for a fight
When I find his Marlboro Lights
When he comes home to share his maddage bed.
Jacqui and Nikki sing: Emily’s dyin’
Poor Tim’s a-cryin’
Head tooked between Rkelly’s boobs
Boot if he wants his Em to see
He’ll have ter watch the BBC
She’ll be on TOTP there on the tube.
Brookside Ventilator: Crrrrrrr! Whishhhhhhhhhh crrrrrr ssssssshlllllepppp
Crrr whissshhhhhhh crrrr crrrr sshhlepppppp
Hesshhhhhhhhhhhh crrr kkkkkkkkk crrr shhhhhhlep, shelp schlep
Whooooooooooo pffffffffffffffff ker-cchleppppppp
Phoooooooooooo piffffffffffffff ker-cchleppppppp
A-huuh a-huuh a-huuh a-huuh ke-cchleppppppp.
Nisha and Katie: We are two sluts
We’re caught in a rut
And we cannot fathom
Joost what we should do
Nisha: I slept with a maddied man
Katie: I take any man I can
Both: And now we’re both up to it in the poo.
Uncle Phil Brookside is dead
My Brookside is dead
That nasty old Mark Thompson
Drove a nail into its head
He did it all too soon
Brookside Saturday afternoons
And I’ve lost all my street cred.
C4 considered me a prozzy,
I’d like to send them ter the hozzy
Think I’ll consult Carole Caplin instead.
Boo-hoo.
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When this episode begins, we first see Bev,eyeing herself in the mirror of her compact as she applies make-up to her face in a vain attempt to disguise the black eye and bruised cheek she received in her brawl with Josh.
At Bicker-Bicker House, the post is arrived, collected by Ma. She pulls out an envelope, as Pa appears, stuffing his gob with toast and chewing with his mouth opened, like an oaf. Tight-lipped, Ma hands him the envelope, which is addressed to Ruth and from a firm of solicitors.
Meanwhile, it’s breakfast time at the bungalow as well. Ray sits in the foreground at the glass-topped table, eating his breakfast and eyeing the newspaper. In the background, in the sparsely furnished house, Jess sits, glaring at Ray, at her Ikea table. She gets up and removes her breakfast dishes. Ray pretends to read the paper.
Ma and Pa now move back to the Gordon lounge, where Ali, whom we haven’t seen for ages, is lying on the mingey sofa, watching MTV at this early hour of the day.
Oooooh, screeches Ma, upon seeing her eldest son, look what’s dragged itself up.
Ali, manipulating the remote control, remarks that he’s a growing lad, who needs his sleep. Pa leans over, grabs the remote and turns the television off.
Hasn’t Pa gorrany work ter go ter? Ali snarls.
Nope, replies Pa, planting his fat arse in a nearby chair and pulling out a magazine. It’s his day off.
Ma, like any true, self-respecting poor white, is combing her greasy, snarly hair in the nearby mirror. Then if it’s Pa’s day off, she remarks, he can get started on the garden, and then get a start on decorating the house.
Pa begins to protest, like the lazy piece of poor white trash he is. That garden will take ages to do, he whines.
Rabbity Ruth, snorking back some snot and chomping on her massive choppers, hops downstairs in the midst of this.
Well, Ma answers Pa’s complaint, the sooner he gets started, the sooner the garden will be finished. By the way, is the Brookside Bike awake yet?
From his position on the sofa, Ali screams for his brother, whilst Rabbity Ruth tries to shy away from any family duties by saying that she promised Bev she’d get into work early to help Bev. As she turns to go, however, Pa shoves the letter into her hands. Ma, Pa and Rabbity Ruth exchange uneasy glances.
Ray’s still reading his paper, whilst Jess sits eyeing him in the corner, with a magazine in her hand. Finally, she speaks.
‘I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,’ she says, ominously.
Ray hunches his shoulders and pretends to carry on reading his paper. ‘What’s there to chat about?’ He wants to know.
‘A simple yes or no will suffice,’ muses Jess, absently, gazing at her magazine.
Ray jumps up as Jessie calmly leans forward. She points to a picture in her magazine, which happens to be a furniture catalogue. It’s a photo of a sofa. ‘I like that one,’ she says, blandly.
Ray’s not interested anymore, he says, relieved, but waving his arms about. Jess can do what she likes, he says, with finality.
Jessie sits back and smiles at the ease of her conquest. ‘You said it,’ she says, with satisfaction.
Over at Sitcom House, Marty is kneeling by a shovel in the back garden. Dire stands staring at him from the conservatory. Finally, she goes outside and stands beside him, asking him if he’s OK?
Marty, gazing at nothing in the distance, wonders aloud if he did the right thing by telling the police about the Cloughs.
Well, if he hadn’t, sighs Dire, Steve* would only be around there, sorting things out. Marty didn’t want that, did he?
(*Based on the fact that he’s the most improved actor in the show, I’ve henceforth decided to dispense with the name of Plank in relation to Steve Muddie. He’s earned my respect - a hard thing to do.)
Is Steve still inside? Marty asks.
He’s on the phone, replies Dire, rolling her eyes, trying to see if Georgina’s all right.
Marty picks up the shovel, but Dire takes it from his hand. He’s not in any fit shape for gardening, she reminds him. She puts the shovel down, turns and walks back to the house.
‘He’s comin’ round later,’ Marty remarks, as she walks away.
Dire turns around curiously at that remark, wordlessly wondering who the anticipated guest might be. Marty answers her.
‘Detective Casey,’
‘YER HAVEN’T DOON ANYTHINK, HAVEYER?’ Dire bellows, frantic with wuddy.
Marty gives her a mild look of weak indignation. ‘No,’ he says, definitely.
Dire then shoots him a faint, false smile. ‘Then yer haven’t got noothink ter wuddy about,’ she assesses.
Now Rabbity Ruth, who was in such a hurry before, has found time to have breakfast. She and lazy Dan the Man sit stuffing their massive gobs at the Gordon breakfast table, whilst being waited on hand and foot by the frazzled and fuckwitted Ma.
Ruth studies the correspondence from Sean’s solicitors. It’s a petition for divorce. Sean’s divorcing her. He’s citing adultery, with Dan as co-respondent. The letter deals with all this and also Sean’s demands for joint custody of Luke.
He wants Luke at weekends, Ruth reports, talking through the gobs of food in her massive mouth. Three weeks each summer and holidays, along with consultation and approval on his son’s education.
Dan hoots derisively. What does the hapless Sean know about education?
Ma creeps up behind the couple, rubbing her hands ingratiatingly like Uriah Heep and sneaking a look at the letter.
Oooh, she wants to know, what are Sean’s grounds for divorrrrrrrce?
Rabbity Ruth places the letter on the table as though it were a piece of poo, giving her mother a shameful look. ‘Adultery,’ she mutters. It looks AWFUL in black and white, she moans.
Well, it’s better than wife-beating, Ma utters, witlessly. (Say what?) She picks up the letter and looks for herself, then makes a classic no-brainer Ma remark: ‘Oh, why dooesn’t it say AFFAAAAAAAAAAIR?!’
Well, sneers Dan the Man, if the hapless Sean’s listed him as co-respondent, he’d best make sure they’ve spelled his name correctly.
Try not to wuddy about it, Ma soothes Ruth.
Dan rudely snatches the paper from Ma’s hands. Actually, he says, condescendingly, the hapless Sean’s done them a favour there.
Pa gets up off his fat arse from the chair and asks to see the letter. Dan, nonchalantly, hands the letter over his shoulder to Pa.
‘All it means, Alan.’ He explains, as though Pa doesn’t have a brain between his ears, ‘is that we go through a little bit of aggro in court, and then we’re rid of him. It’s gorra be worth it, with Ruth taking the stand and facing him.’
The smugly ignorant couple exchange a hug, as Ma and Pa study the document intensely.
Across the way at Hotel Corkhill, a full moon is rising in the front garden, as Jimmy bends his enormous arse skywards (almost as enormous as his phallic Hapsburg chin), tending the garden. Happy Smiling Fatarse Fartarse Helen bounces up the street, bobbing her head and smiling. She approaches Jimmy from behind (the way he likes it best) and slaps him resoundingly on his broad-beamed arse. Oh, and the garden’s a lovely sight too, she adds, jokingly.
Ah, well, Jimmy mugs, standing up and making a great show of wiping his dirtless hands, it keeps him out of trouble. As if suddenly remembering, he asks Helen how Stephanie is?
No surprise here, Happy Smiling Fatarse Fartarse Helen’s left Stephanie at her mate’s. (Stephanie must have mates with VERY understanding mothers). Happy Smiling Fatarse Fartarse Helen isn’t much company for Stephanie at the moment (or at any other time, I fear).
Well, coos Jimmy, sympathetically, Helen’s had a lot on at the moment. (Helen’s PUT a lot on at the moment, from the looks of this shot. She’s got a midriff bulging over the top of her jeans, an enormous arse and a gut Jocky Wilson would die for. No wonder she’ll leave Brookside. She’s patently too fat and ugly for Mr Redmond’s liking).
Jimmy thoughtfully asks if Helen’s OK, which makes Helen bob her head and go all teary. She’s a bit wobbly at the moment, Helen says. (Or should that be ‘bobbly’?) Anyway, she continues, hankering for sympathy in the form of a shag, she got what she wanted, didn’t she? She went looking for her birth mother and she found her. Suddenly, she stops and faces Jimmy.
Why did Sylvia Morgan have to do that? She asks, bitterly. Turn up and get Helen’s hopes up and then just disappear?
Well, the Sage philosophises, one good thing came out of the experience, sort of a consolation prize. Helen got Jimmy. He’s not going anywhere, he assures her. They exchange a kiss, as Ma Gordon approaches from Bicker-Bicker House.
Ignoring the couple’s snog, Ma rubs her Uriah Heep hands together, fawningly. Any chance of Jimmy doing a bit of gardening for the Gordons’? She asks, ingratiatingly. Of course, Ma adds, she’ll pay him. She’d do it herself, she blags, but she just hasn’t got the time, what with all that television to watch. Besides, she’s too ignorant to discern a rose from a weed. Anyway, she whines, poor Pa’s just up the WALL with werrrrrrk. Why, if Pa had his way, he’d pave the whole thing over! (And install a rusty old car on cinderblocks, just to make them feel at home!)
Well, Jimmy muses, scratching his head, he IS doing a bit of work at the moment for Ray and Jessie -
Oh, only when Jimmy finishes for them! Ma hastily adds.
Actually, Jimmy preens, Ray’s garden is more of a work in progress. Why, he didn’t even give the Hiltons a completion date - he didn’t even give them a price, come to think of it! Anyway, he promises Ma that he’ll sort their garden right away. Should he speak to Pa in the meantime?
‘I do the hirin’ and firin’ round here!’ Declares Ma, swelling her pigeon chest forward. And she strides away proudly, one step closer to attaining her goal of being quality folk instead of poor white trash.
Jimmy turns to Helen and exclaims, ‘Result!’ Hey, he thinks aloud, Helen could help him if she wants.
Be Charlie Dimmock to his Alan Titchmarsh? Jokes Helen. She doesn’t think so, and the two exchange a yucky, smucky kiss again.
Steve’s on his mobile, as Dire enters the sitcom lounge to clean. Steve explains that he’s trying to phone Georgina, to see if she’s OK.
Dire admits that she’s surprised that Steve’s still in one piece after fooling around with a married woman.
Steve looks ashamed and shrugs his shoulders. It was only a bit of a laugh, he mutters. (WHAT? DOES THIS SHOW AND ITS PRODUCERS HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO MORALS WHATSOEVER?)
Dire stands, arms akimbo, and glares fiercely at her stepson. ‘MESSING WITH A MADDIED WOMAN IS A BIT MORE THAN A LAUGH!’ She bellows. Remember all that trouble with Katrina’s dad and all that - er, other trouble with Marty all those years back, she reminds him.
It must be in his blood, Steve mumbles, morosely. He must take after his real mum.
That’s not true! Dire protests, vehemently. Then she stops. Everything’s changed so much lately, she explains.
Dire’s not wuddied about Jan, then? Steve wants to know.
No, Dire sighs. She just can’t get her head around Jan. Why did Marty put up with her for so damned long? She wonders. Why, it must have been AWFUL for poor Steve.
Again, Steve shrugs. He just remembers them fighting all the time, he admits.
Still, Dire muses, there must have been something there for Marty to stay with her.
Marty believed two parents were better than one for kids, Steve explains. Even if one of the two didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.
Still, Dire continues in an absolutely pointless and ignorant conversation, Marty must have loved her.
No, asserts Steve.
‘Then give me one good reason why he stayed with her,’ Dire demands.
‘I’ll give yer three,’ says Steve. ‘Me, Adele’n Antony.’ Marty put up with Jan for their sake, and if there were any love between his parents, it had well died by the time Jan left. She killed it, he adds, for emphasis. He rises suddenly from his chair and storms off, unwilling to talk further. Dire stands, duster in hand, and gazes sadly after him.
Ma enters the garage and spies Adele’s fat arse crouched behind one of the display shelves. Ma calls out to her in surprise, and Adele pops up, bursting out all over her jumper, begging punters to ‘Stop for a Drink and a Snack’. She was just giving the shelves a wipe, Adele explains. They’re filthy.
Well, Ma grumbles, she’d have thought Leanne would do that.
As if, snorts Adele.
Anyway, Ma continues, did Leanne do the float?
Adele nods. There’s change in the till, she says.
Ma screws her scrawny face up into a moue of concern and watches Adele fussing about for a moment. Has Adele thought anymore about school? She asks.
‘What’s there to think about?’ Sneers Liverlips of Liverpool.
‘The rest of yer life,’ whines Ma, philosophically. ‘A bit of extra money might seem OK, but it won’t get yer anywhere on the wages I pay yer.’
Adele moves away from Ma, signalling with her body language, an end to the conversation. Oh well, she says, nonchalantly, as long as it’s enough to get her out on a weekend, she’s not bothered.
That’s about all it WILL do, continues Ma, pursuing Adele around the shop. If she wants to get a car or a place of her own, it won’t happen with the money Ma pays her.
Ma hasn’t changed her mind about Adele’s extra hours? The girl asks anxiously.
The hours are there if Adele wants them, Ma explains. She just doesn’t want Adele to ditch school on the promise of a bit of extra money. It won’t go far.
She’s already decided, preens Adele. She’s packing school in.
‘For what?’ Ma exclaims, spreading her skinny arms wide. ‘For this?’
Adele shrugs, displaying her innate lack of common sense. (Remember Adele wants to study lay. On the premise of another Liverpool lass who did the same, it’s safe to assume that ALL female solicitors originally from Liverpool have a singular lack of common sense). ‘This’ hasn’t done Ma any harm, Adele sillily points out.
One difference, explains Ma. Ma owns the place. She just wants Adele to take her time in this, and not make any mistakes, she says. Lecture over, she concludes. Now where should Ma start?
Across the street, Rabbity Ruth hops into Bar Brookie, snorking back snot, chomping her enormous choppers and gazing astoundingly about the virtually empty place. Bev, who seems to be the only other person employed in the bar, stands disconsolately behind the counter.
How about that, eh? Remarks Ruth, wiping a trail of green bogies from her upper lip, Bev offers her the chance of a bit of overtime, and Rabbity Ruth’s late.
We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ll, whines Bev, there isn’t that much to do, really, but she could do with the company. She asks Ruth to put the lagers in the fridge, asking her if she fancies a cuppa. Bev does. She’s spitting feathers. As Bev turns with the teapot in hand, Ruth notices the bruise high on Bev’s cheek. She asks what happened.
‘You shorra seen the other fella,’ Bev jokes.She then explains that she was mucking about with Josh and fell, hitting her cheek on the table. Kids, eh? She remarks. They don’t know their own strength.
Something to do with hormones, reckons Ruth.
Oh, no, says Bev, hastily. They were only playing and got carried away. Josh, after all, is only a kid.
Hmph! Snorts Ruth, sending a spew of snot over the bar. That’s not what happened to her.
Bev is shocked. Dan used to knock Ruth about? She enquires. (Well,not yet, Bev. But give him time.)
Not Dan, Ruth says, almost proudly, and then begins the diss in earnest. Sean. Only once, mind. But once is enough. Yer let them get away with it and they think they can do it again. Sean, that is, she amends. Not Josh. She muses about the way men confront problems, thinking that they can punch their way out of a situation, when they’d be better off standing back and taking a breather. Bev listens intently to Ruth’s soliloquy.
Any lunatic can lose his temper, rationalises Ruth. It takes a person with real mettle to hold it all in (and get the resulting ulcer). Men are like kids, aren’t they? She asks. They just need to know what will happen if they step out of line.
Josh knows that, all right, mutters Bev, grimly. (In other words, nothing - because Josh rules the roost.
(This was a totally pointless scene).
Back on the Close, Ali puts a stereo speaker in his bedroom window, facing outwards onto the Close. Across the Close, Jimmy works in the front garden of Hotel Corkhill. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen bobs into view at the door to tell Jimmy she’s fixed him something to eat. He can’t work the land on an empty stomach, she remarks, even if he does have a heavy metal soundtrack.
The camera shoots to Ali and the Brookside Bike, attempting to play basketball, a game about which, it’s obvious that they know jack shit on a stick. The music is deafening.
It could be werrrrrse, Jimmy remarks, wiping his surprisingly clean hands as he walks to the front door of his house. Ron Dikko could have his George Formby on. Happy Smiling Fatarsed Fartarsed Helen bobs her head and says that the garden looks great. Jimmy replies that he was thinking about what to do with the rear garden, maybe plant some organic vegetables - and here we have a ranting public service announcement about colour enhancers, vegetables being showered with chemicals ... Yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda ... Typical Brookside shit.
Helen puts a stop to this by telling Jimmy he has a bacon buttie waiting. Jim replies that he’ll just get the watering done and come in. He and Helen share a slurpy, gross snog on the doorstep. The Brookside Bike notices, as he’s intended to, and shouts that there ought to be a law against such displays of emotion. (For once, I’m inclined to agree).
‘Watch it, you two!’ Jimmy threatens mockingly.
Ali says something unintelligible, which isn’t surprising, since Ali speaks continuously as though he has a mouthful of shit. Can’t Brookside use some of its £16 million plus budget to furnish its ‘actors’ with diction lessons? His remark features the words ‘mentalist’ and ‘tonsillectomy’, and he hits the Brookside Bike on the back with a basketball which rebounds. They then attempt to TRY to shoot baskets, and don’t even know how to hold the ball on a shot attempt. Why DO British boys try to look street cred while playing basketball? It looks ridiculous.
Suddenly, alarmed by the noise, Ray barges out of the bungalow, charging toward the two lads.
‘Just what are you two playing at?’ He demands.
‘It’s called basketball,’ sneers, Ali, cheekily.
‘Have you no consideration for your neighbours?’ Ray continues.
‘We were going to call round and see if yer were oop fer a game,’ says the Brookside Bike, cockily. (Someone give this appalling, little Neanderthal a good slapping!)
‘Don’t you be givin’ me any o’yer cheek and lip, either,’ cautions Ray. ‘I was talkin’ about the noise! You two have been noothink but trouble since yer moved in here!’
Ali mutters that he doesn’t particularly like living around there anyway. It’s like living in a cemetary.
If it were up to them, chimes the Brookside Bike, they;d move out like a shot. (Please ... Soon).
‘Don’t be answering back!’ Snaps Ray.
‘Look, mate,’ sneers the ignorant Ali, rudely, ‘if yer gorra problem, see me dad.’
‘Who are you callin’ mate!’ Exclaims Ray, indignantly. ‘Get yer dad out her now!’ But the rude, little toerags deliberately ignore him and turn away.
‘I said GET YER DAD OUT HERE NOW!’ Ray shouts.
The Brookside Bike turns arrogantly to face the old man. ‘Don’t have a thrombo, granddad,’ he warns, cockily.
Hearing the remark, Ray instantly becomes my hero. He reaches out and swiftly clouts the little arsehole about the head.
‘Doncher be toochin’im!’ Shouts Ali, whilst Ray counters that perhaps Ali would like some of that as well. He could certainly do with it.
Ali retorts that he’s not afraid of Ray, and pushes the pensioner to the ground, just as Pa Gordon pokes his lazy head out of the kitchen window. He rushes his massive tub of lard body from the house to help Ray up from the ground. Ray shakes the younger man away. He doesn’t need his help! He says, indignantly.
Pa immediately shouts for the two yobs to go into the house.
But Pa didn’t see what Ray did, Ali protests.
‘GET INSIDE!’ Bellows Pa.
Ray walks away, nursing his hurt pride, whilst Pa looks anxiously about the Close.
Meanwhile, in Sitcom House, Dire and Steve are sharing a cup of tea. Steve is reminiscing about going to a mate’s house when he was small for a birthday party. He and his mate were playing football in the garden, when Steve went into the kitchen for a drink of water. He saw his mate’s parents having a laugh and he then remembered that nothing like that ever went on in the Muddie household. The couple noticed Steve just staring at them. He just got his drink and went out, he says.
Dire reaches out and takes his hand, comfortingly.
Steve realises, he says, that Marty might seem unusual. He used to wonder why he never hit Jan.
It wasn’t his style, reckons Dire.
Steve used to wish it was. Terrible, isn’t it? He asks. (Well, yes, it is, wishing for a man to hit a woman. Says it all about the dangerous ground Brookside’s treading). He remembers sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to them arguing, silently begging them to stop. (Oh, the writer’s seen that commercial too!)
Dire wonders aloud how Steve ever got through it.
Marty got them through it, he says. He just would say that he and Jan were messing about, that he’d annoyed her.
Marty said Steve wouldn’t remember much, Dire observes. That he was too young.
Marty filled in the blanks, Steve says. Maybe it made him feel better. But he admits that once Jan left the house, he missed her, not the fighting, but his mother. He hated her for going.
Dire looks stricken and betrayed. From outside in the garden, Marty calls for Steve to come help him, and Steve rises to go. He asks Dire not to tell Marty any of this and turns to go into the garden, but there’s a knock on the door. Dire looks out the window and sees Detective Casey standind on the doorstep.
It’s the police again, remarks Steve.
Ali and the Brookside Bike sit sullenly on the mingey sofa, whilst Pa paces before them like a bear with a sore head, ranting.
‘HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU BEFORE THAT YOU DON’T HIT OLD PEOPLE!’ He rants. (Oh, so this isn’t the first time, eh?) ‘IN FACT, DO NOT HIT ANYONE!!!’ (Hey, Al, this ain’t London. This is Liverpool, mate. Civilisation hasn’t reached here yet.) What were they thinking about, he wants to know, behaving like a couple of thugs!
Pa didn’t see what Ray did, maintains Ali.
‘I’m not concerned with what Ray did,’ Pa says. ‘It’s about what YOU did.’ How many times must he tell them, any trouble and they come to him. He’ll deal with it.
Ali stands up sullenly to leave, but Pa’ s in his face. ‘Did I tell you you could go?’ He hisses. Ali sits down again.
It’s not Ali’s fault, whines the Brookside Bike.
‘Don’t defend him!’ Shouts Pa.
Pa’s not concerned about them, Ali mutters. He’s more concerned with that coffin-dodger.
Ali was defending him, the Brookside Bike says. Ray hit him.
Now it’s Pa’s turn to be shocked. Why did Ray hit the Brookside Bike? He asks.
The Brookside Bike shrugs, lying. He doesn’t know. He just hit him for no reason.
Pa looks sceptical. Not being a Scouser, he’s not as silly and gullible as Ma.
Ray just hit him, agrees Ali.
‘So Ray just came out of his house and hit you,’ Pa reasons, dubiously. Then he pushes his face into the ugly face of the Brookside Bike. ‘What did you do?’ He hisses.
The Brookside Bike mutters under his breath that he told Ray not to have a thrombo.
‘Yer said, "Don’t have a thrombo, GRANDDAD",’ corrects Ali. ‘It was boss.’
‘Right,’ snaps Pa. ‘You’ll get round that bungalow and apologise ... RIGHT NOW!’
Dan the Man, leaving a trail of slime, appears at that moment, wanting to know what’s going on.
‘What’s it ter you!’ Sneers Ali. And he turns to Pa. RAY should apologise to them, he moans.
That option’s not open for discussion, says Pa, as Dan leaves the room.
Ray should apologise, whines the Brookside Bike, who stops short of whining ‘It’s not fair!’
‘Get to your room!’ Orders Pa. ‘NOW!’
In the foreground of the next scene, Ray stands, gingerly dabbing antiseptic on his injured elbow, whilst Jess stands in the background, glaring unsympathetically at her husband.
‘It’s YOU who should be apologising to THEM!’ She rails, accusingly. ‘THEY’RE joost a coupla kids, who don’t know any better!’ (I beg to differ. They’re not Harry and Emma Farnham, who could be tactlessly cruel and not realise their intentions. These lads are 14 and 16 years old respectively. If they don’t know proper social behaviour by now, they never will. From whom did they learn that it was ar fait to taunt and terrorise pensioners and to refer to an elderly acquaintance as ‘mate’? From their ignorant, misguided, poor white trash parents. Let’s understand that!)
‘And where was their dad?’ Demands Ray, whirling about to face Jess. His dad would never have let him get away with behaviour like that.
Jess rolls her eyes heavenward. ‘If this is your "it wouldn’t happen in my day" speech, save it,’ she says, wearily. ‘I’ve heard it all before.’
Well, things wouldn’t have happened like that, protests Ray, vehemently.
No, replies Jess, her voice heavily laden with sarcasm, Ray was too busy helping little, old ladies across the street - him and all his Teddy-boy mates. That’s not what SHE remembers about the good, old days. She crosses the sparsely-furnished room and grabs the telephone, making a call to the furniture distributors. As she waits to be connected, she half-turns her head towards Ray over her shoulder.
‘You’ve been busting for an argument ever since Madam Sylvia left,’ she states.
‘Rubbish!’ Exclaims Ray.
Jess disagrees. Ray’s done nothing since Sylvia’s departure, except walk around like a bear with a sore head. SHE wouldn’t rise to his bait, so he had to go pick a quarrel with two children.
Ray is noticeably miffed. ‘Well, I would have expected better from you, Jess,’ he sniffs.
Isn’t that funny? Jessie reflects. She would have expected better of Ray. She finishes the call, replacing the receiver. ‘But there again,’ she purrs, ‘you’ve never been very good with children ... Probably because you’ve never had to raise any.’ (And Emily is such a wonderful example.)
Jess walks out of the room, leaving Ray with a puzzled expression on his face.
Across the Close, Marty and Dire stand with Detective Casey in the back garden. Marty tells the policeman that he called the police after being beaten up by the Cloughs.
Detective Casey smiles his tight, little, constipative smile - as though he’s trying to pass an irritatingly small turd stuck in his rectum. He’s not here for that, he assures Marty. He has to check up on a few things before he can arrest Paul Olivier and Ratface Clough.
Dire’s understandably amazed. Do the police think Marty beat himself up? She wonders, rhetorically.
Detective Casey is less than understanding. He wants a few more facts before he goes accusing people, he says primly.
Marty is incredulous at this appallingly po-faced remark (obviously, Detective
Casey is based on the character of the media studies graduate, who attempts
to monitor the Official Forum).
‘Yer weren’t so particular when yer picked me oop,’ he remarks, caustically. ‘How coom I’m the one with the hidin, and I’m still under the spotlight?’
With the skill of a New Labour politician, Detective Casey deflects the question. Could they do this inside? He asks, politely.
‘Why?’ Sneers Marty. ‘Afraid the neighbours might hear? I’m not.’ And then, he strides purposefully to the fence dividing his property from Hotel Corkhill and shouts: ‘I DID NOT KILL IMELDA CLOUGH!’
He turns back to face Casey. ‘And the more time YOU waste coomin’ round here,’ he says, ‘the more chance it’ll give whoever did it ter do it again.’
Detective Casey passes another turd into his underpants and rearranges his tight-arsed, little smile. Why did Marty wait so long before reporting his assault to the police?
‘Because I had this sneakin’ soospicion that yer wouldn’t do anythink,’ replies Marty, sarcastically. ‘Don’t ask me why!’
‘Most people-’ begins the policeman.
‘I’M NOT "MOST PEOPLE"!’ Cries Marty. ‘I WAS TAKEN TO A LOCK-UP ... BEATEN, KICKED, THREATENED ... I WAS ASKED IF I KILLED IMELDA CLOUGH AND WHERE HER BODY WAS! I TOLD THEM I DIDN’T KNOW, AND I WAS BEATEN UP AGAIN! AND LEFT FER DEAD! THERE’S A RECORD OF ME INJURIES AT ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY! WHY DONCHER CHECK THE CLOUGH’S VAN? ANY BLOOD FOUND THERE IS MINE! NOW, I’M ABOUT TER CLEAR OOP THE MESS YOU LOT LEFT BEHIND WHEN YER WERE HERE THE LAST TIME ... IF YER DON’T MIND!’
His dignity intact, Marty stalks away, leaving Detective Casey looking guilty.
Back at Bicker-Bicker House, Ali and the Brookside Bike sneak surreptitiously downstairs, as loud music throbs from one of the upstairs rooms. Ali pronounces that the coast is clear. The two thugs run to the fridge and Ali hands the Brookside Bike a beer - so Ma and Pa promote underage drinking, as both boys are 14 and 16. That figures. The Brookside Bike protests that they can’t take the beer, being grounded already.
Easy, assesses Ali. They’ll blame Dan.
‘Blame Dan for what?’ Comes Pa’s bellowing East London voice, as he looms around the corner.
Ali starts to stutter that he thought Pa was out.
Pa examines the horde of food held in the boys’ hands. Ali doing the cooking tonight then? He asks. Ali protests that he’s hungry. Pa tells them to put the food back in the fridge.
But Pa can’t keep them upstairs forever, whines the Brookside Bike.
‘Can’t I?’ Sneers Pa, who secretly hates his Scouser sons.
Ali reminds Pa that the lad has to play football the next day. Pa says he isn’t. But he suggests that they cut a deal. He’ll agree to let them out when they go next door and apologise to Mr Hilton.
The thugs refuse. In fact, Ali maintains that it’s Ray’s fault.
‘Fine,’ nods Pa. ‘Back upstairs, then.’
The two yobs trudge upstairs, but already Ali’s thinking. If they go, he mutters to the Brookside Bike, the Bike’s got to do all the talking. The Brookside Bike protests that it was Ali who pushed Ray over.
Because he’d attacked the Bike, Ali reminds him.
Pa overhears the discussion, wondering aloud if the two could ever do anything without arguing.
Dan the Man sits smugly at the bar counter, apparently the only customer, whilst Rabbity Ruth spews snot and pretends to work behind the bar. Ruth’s having a rant about the audacity of the hapless Sean citing her for adultery in their divorce. (I say, good for Sean!)
Dan humours her. Sean wants to humiliate her in court, he says. What about Sean’s drinking and the fact that he hit Ruth? Dan asks, indignantly, whilst Bev earwigs in the background. Ruth should use those things against him in court, Dan advises. (Oh, and Dan, who can’t even speak proper English, is such a legal eagle.) Let Sean’s brief do his work and then hit him with that piece of information. Dan tells Ruth to use the argument that she was forced into someone else’s arms because of her husband’s violence. (Oh, so we’re into perjury now! Adultery and perjury - anything to promote self-gratification! And this is a show watched by children. Discuss, please!)
Ruth looks uneasy. She doesn’t want all that aired in public, she admits. There’s plenty she could say about Sean, she says, but she just doesn’t want to do it in public (because of what he could level against her?)
But this is just what Sean wants, Dan persists. Why, he knew the minute Ruth saw that letter, she’d let it worry her, and look at her now! She’s shaking. Why, the hapless Sean would be made up if he could see her now.
Bev approaches as Ruth directs Dan’s attentions to Sean’s demands.
Sorry to break up the lovebirds, Bev begins, as Dan realises he’s made his girlfriend appear to be the skiver she is. He’s just going, he says hurriedly. Ruth tells him to return later and they’ll have lunch. As an afterthought, she asks Bev if that would be OK.
Yes, sighs Bev, as long as Lady Jacqui Dixon-Farnham doesn’t see her fraternising with the clientele. Then, Bev notices Ruth’s face, which bears an eternally smug smile. But something’s different. Bad news? Bev noses.
Luke’s dad wants her in court, Ruth mutters, so he can tell the world what a bad wife she was.
‘Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh,’ drawls Bev, ‘yer the bad wife and me the bad moother. Like a coopla bookends, we are.’
Marty and Dire are in the sitcom lounge, with Steve sat on the sitcom sofa. A key turns in the front door and Liverlips enters.
‘Don’t say a thing to her about the police,’ Dire hisses to Steve.
Adele is grinning broadly. What’s she so happy about? Dire grumbles.
Does the family want the good news or the good news? Preens Adele.
What’s the good news? Sighs Dire, half-heartedly.
Ma Gordon’s only offered her more hours at the garage, Adele brags. Dire and Marty exchange mutual looks of concern.
‘So?’ Sneers Steve.
‘Shut it, bum fluff,’ says Adele, referring to Steve’s attempt to grow a Beckham beard. ‘It could terrn inter a fool-time job.’ (You said it, babycakes, I didn’t).
‘No,’ states Dire, categorically.
Well, shrugs Liverlips, who knows? If Leanne should leave ...
Again, Dire is emphatic. Adele is NOT working at the garage full-time. End of story.
But Ma Gordon says Adele should discuss this with her parents first, parrots Adele.
‘And that’s it "discussed", is it?’ Comments Marty, gently sarcastic. ‘You coom home and TELL us that yer werrkin’ more hours?’
Adele jumps up from the chair in which she’s sitting, jiggling her new implants beneath her jumper. ‘Why does EVERYTHING have to turn into an argument!’ She exclaims, petulantly. Ma Gordon simply offered her more hours to work - more days, weekends, a couple of nights, perhaps.
‘ON YER OWN AT NIGHT IN A PETROL GARAGE!’ Tirades Dire, this time speaking sense. ‘I DON’T THINK SO.’
All it’ll take is one smackhead after the till, observes Marty.
Adele stubbornly asserts that she’ll be all right. Anyway, her earning more money means she won’t have to beg money off them. But HER parents diss the idea straight away. Honestly, she sighs, she doesn’t know why she bothers. And she does her party piece of flouncing out of the room, whilst Steve tries vainly to conceal a smirk.
‘That GORDON woman again!’ Cries Dire. ‘Hasn’t she gorranoof ter do, dealin’ with her own family, without interferin’ in mine!’
Steve raises his eyebrows, baiting his stepmother. ‘I’d have a werrd,’ he jokes.
‘I daren’t,’ shudders Dire. ‘Everytime I go NEAR that one, I terrn inter a screamin’ banshee!’
Just leave it, Marty says, softly and patiently. It’ll all blow over.
Dire gives him a sneering look. ‘Oh, aye?’ She says. ‘And where have I heard that before?’
And SHE flounces out of the room. Marty, now standing in the doorway of the kitchen, gives Steve an exasperated look and beats his head gently against the door frame.
Pa enters the garage to find Ma behind the counter. Ma wonders aloud if Pa’s left the house to have a crafty fag. Pa rolls up his shirt sleeve to show her that he’s got his nicotine patch on. Smoking is bad for you, he recites, dutifully.
It’s always been bad for you, parrots Ma, looking off camera for Uncle Phil’s approval.
Pa tells Ma that he only came in for some teabags. He looks around. Is Ma on her own?
Ma points out the teabags and explains that she sent Adele home for an early lunch. The girl had only been in since 8:30 that morning, says Ma in wonder.
So Adele’s back, remarks Pa.
And after extra hours and all, says Ma. In the end, she says, she gave into the girl’s request, but she regretted doing it, the moment she said it. Ma tells Pa, worriedly, that Adele is only talking about leaving school.
‘Oh, great!’ Exclaims Pa. ‘Gordons versus Muddies, seconds out, round two!’
‘I offered her extra hours, NOT a perrrr-manent position,’ whines Ma, defensively. ‘I thought I was doin’ the kid a favour. It’ll joost give that Dire Muddie another chance ter have a go at me.’
That’s kids for you, remarks Pa ... Speaking of which ...
What happened? Asks Ma, cognizant of the fact that something’s transpired, by Pa’s demeanor.
Ali and the Brookside Bike had a run-in with Ray, Pa says, shame-faced.
Bungalow Ray? Asks Ma in disbelief.
Apparently, Pa relates, Ray gave the Brookside Bike a clout.
Ma’s shocked. Who started it? She wants to know.
Pa shrugs. Maybe Ray, but he’s not sure. Anyway, Ali jumped in and he soon had Ray on the floor.
Fighting? Echoes Ma, in disbelief. Ray’s 70, if he’s a day!
‘I told them they don’t go fighting,’ declares Pa, ‘above all, not with the local pensioner!’
‘And our next-door neighbour,’ wails Ma.
‘I told them to apologise,’ mutters Pa, disconsolately. ‘But the damage is done.’
Dan and Rabbity Ruth sit at a booth in the bar, eating rabbit food. Dan advises Ruth that the best way of dealing with the hapless Sean is to give him what he wants, and that’s access to Luke. If she tries to deny access, he explains, that’s the first thing the court will jump on. If she rubs the hapless Sean the wrong way, he continues, then this thing could take months.
Ruth grimaces. Even if it means weekends and three weeks every summer? She asks, distastefully.
Ruth has to be seen to give Sean what he wants, Dan explains, with patient expertise, belying his real reason.
Including consultation on education? Queries Ruth.
Dan shrugs. Sean’s acting within his rights, he says. And Ruth has to play the game. That’s what the law is all about, the know-it-all says smugly. (Doesn’t he sound a lot like that prick, Theodore, from the Official Forum? Cue the Stevie Wonder song, ‘He’s Mr Know It All’ or Sophie Ellis Baxter ‘Thinks He’s Mr Know It All’. They could save the time and just say ‘Theodore!’)
If Ruth lets Sean have Luke weekends, Dan continues, Sean will soon get fed up, especially when he sees he’s not winding Ruth up. Pretty soon that’ll wear thin with Sean, Dan says. Then he’ll only see Luke every two weeks or so, then tail off and not at all.
‘Believe me,’ asserts the shitfaced snob, ‘as soon as Sean realises he has to look after Luke during pub hours, he’ll back off like a shot.’
All Ruth has to do is keep Sean sweet, get a good solicitor and then nail Sean to the wall.
Ali and The Brookside Bike stand reluctantly on the doorstep of the bungalow and ring the bell. The door is opened by Ray.
‘What do you boys want?’ He grunts.
Ali tells the older man that his dad sent them around. He wanted them to apologise for what happened this morning. They were only having a good time, whines Ali, and not harming anyone.
Ray screws his lip into a critical, little moue. ‘Not good enough!’ He snaps, shortly. ‘Yer call that an apology?’
What does Ray want them to do? Sneers the Brookside Bike. ‘Gerron our knees’n kiss yer feet?’
‘Apology!’ Spits Ray, contemptuously. ‘Yer don’t know the meaning of the werrrd.’
The boys turn sullenly to leave.
‘And tell yer dad I’ll be wantin’ a werrrd!’ Shouts Ray, after them.
‘We’ve said we’re soddy,’ retorts Ali, ignorantly misunderstanding the concept totally (I blame the mother). ‘What more d’yer want?’
Ray glares after their departing arses.
Steve’s trying, yet again, to reach Georgina, but he can only leave a voice mail. He leaves a message, just calling to see if she were OK. He promises he’ll leave his mobile on in case she wants to leave a message. In the background, we hear a knock on the front door of Sitcom House.
Dire stomps through the lounge to answer it, enquiring of Steve if he happens to be deaf. She opens the door and we see a long-faced man, with deepset eyes standing on the doorstep. It’s the man who played the cheeky juror at Little Mo Morgan’s trial on Eastenders earlier this year. Then, he had a broad London accent. Now he sounds purely Lancastrian. Guess he gets around the country.
Dire asks him politely whom he wants to see.
The man asks, equally politely, if Steve is at home.
Dire then asks the man’s identity.
‘Never mind,’ quips the man. ‘Just get Steve Muddie out here.’
Steve appears in the foyer, hearing his name and asking who wants him.
‘Your girlfriend’s husband,’ says the man. Then he looks at Dire. ‘So you condone him playing away with older women?’
Dire offers to get Marty, but Steve implores her not to do that. Heeding Steve’s words, Dire warns the man that she’ll brook no trouble or she’ll call the police. The man raises his hands in mock submission.
As soon as Dire retreats into the house, Steve begins to shit himself, proverbially, talking rapidly and swearing on a stack of Bibles that he didn’t know Georgina was maddied. In fact, he continues, it wasn’t really an affair. It was more of a one-off.
The man reaches up and pulls Steve onto the Close, putting his hand around the lad’s shoulders, confidentially. Steve was THAT CLOSE, the man says, putting his thumb and index finger closely together, to getting the hiding of his life. But after he cooled down, the man considered that the best way was to hit Steve where it hurt the most. He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Steve a card. It’s for ‘Steve’s Home Servicing’ and it quotes a dot.com website address.
Steve is puzzled, shaking his head. But ... He begins, he’s not on the Net.
‘You are now,’ says the man. Oh, and he doesn’t reckon Steve will get too many invitations into homes when his potential clientele see him in his full technicolour glory. He turns and walks back to his car, pausing to turn around briefly.
‘And don’t let your mother see the website,’ he warns, lightly.
Tom Higgins wrote this.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002