Many a pundit says Brookside is in its death throes. Many a pundit gives his reasons why. Jaci Stephen lists three fatal nails in the Brookside coffin:- too much repetitive dialogue, too much whingeing, and too many unlikeable characters. Jim Shelley, another wise soul, puts the blame square on Claire Sweeney’s fat arse.
Me, I blame Michael Hutchence. He had Brookside sussed. He knew the likes of Jacqui, Nikki and Emily all too well - as well as the future wave of like-minded, similar-shaped hussies in the forms of Rabbity Ruth and the ubiquitously boring Lizzie. Not to mention Dire Muddie.
Brookside has a death wish. Why else would it employ so many ... SUICIDE BLONDES?
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Show opens with Steve sat in the sitcom kitchen at the sitcom table, mulling over his business card: Steve’s Home Servicing - complete with dot.com address. Unable to fathom the significance, he heaves a sigh of wuddy.
Jimmy’s out trimming the garden of Hotel Corkhill. Standing up to survey his handiwork, he heaves a huge sigh, overflowing with satisfaction - a fat, phallic chin, fat flowers in the garden and a fat woman in his bed. What more could a fella want?
Ray sits at his glass-topped table, the daily paper spread in front of him, paying meticulous attention to the clipping of coupons. Jess sits at her own Ikea table in the background, noisily sipping a cup of tea. She, too, heaves a sigh and shakes her head - it’s a sigh of immense frustration.
Nobody’s sighing at Bicker-Bicker House. Ali’s reading the sports pages, whilst lying - where else? - on the mingey, dingey sofa.
Pa lumbers in, looking for all the world like an albino incredible hulk. He scowls at his disappointing older son - disappointing because he’s 100% thick and lazy Scouser, and NUFFINK of crafty Eastender.
‘You and Steward apologise yet?’ He grunts.
No, Ali replies, not even looking at the man who’s loins engendered him. Anyway, the whole thing was Ray’s fault. It was he, who kicked off.
With one deft movement, Pa swipes the entire paper from Ali’s hands. ‘I know vat,’ he says, reverting to Cockney type, ‘and in time, Ah’ll sor’it ough. Until ven, you’n Stewart will go to Ray, smile sweetly, apologise and give’im a wide berf.’
That’s not fair, whines Kevin-er, Ali, petulantly.
Pa stalks about the lounge, waving his arms aloft maniacally. ‘’Ow old are you, eh?’ He demands of Ali.’Ah fought Ah’d see some improvement by now, but the only fing Ah can see is vat you sleep frough the night.’ (Ah, Pa, that’s down to your dippy wife. Tell me, has she weaned them yet?)
Pa continues to rant. There he is, the only worker amongst a bevy of lazy, lay-about Scousers, working a six-day week, all for the holiday of a lifetime-
Only for Pa and Ma, pouts Ali.
‘Hit’s called an anniversary!’ Pa shouts in his Scouser son’s face. Some holiday this will turn out to be, he mutters.
Ali protests that he’s done noothink, and he snatches the paper back from Pa’s grasp.
Pa grabs it back again, grabbing Ali by the shirtneck with his other ham-fist. ‘You and Tweedledum ge’over and apologise to Ray, or Ah’ll knock you into next week! Capisce?’ (The last being a baaaaad imitation of James Gandolfini).
Steve still sits, pensively staring at his dot.com business card. Dire waltzes into the kitchen and glances at her stepson, over her shoulder. Has he got to the bottom of what that card means? She asks.
Steve shakes his head. It’s a wind-up, he admits.
Dire shrugs. Looked real enough to her, she remarks. Georgina, those three kids, the trail of desperation that he, Steve, had left behind.
How’s Marty? Steve asks.
Dire says he’s just dropped off. ‘And YOURS will drop off if yer doan steer clear of maddied women,’ she adds.
It was only a bit of foon, Steve reasons. (Hang on a minute ... This is ADULTERY, you know, the SCARLET LETTER ... Have these people no morals?)
Dire’s eyebrows shoot skyward. ‘Is THAT what it is?’ She sniffs. Well, Steve’s been nothing but a ray of sunshine for the past few days, and Georgina’s husband’s only been round doing a tapdance. And not to mention those poor kids ...
OK, Steve rebuts. Georgina knew the score when she got involved with him.
The conversation is interrupted by Brigid barging in, initiating a rant about Ron’s behaviour. She apologises for descending on Dire this way, but she just had to get away from Ron for a moment. Triple by-pass! Why, Brigid could give Dire a list as long as her arm about what had passed Ron by - charm, charisma, humour. AND he seems to have lost the ability to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. He’s always finding fault ...
In the empty confines of Bar Brookie, Bev is trying to chivvy Josh up for the day. She’s taking the boy to the dentist and wants to know if he’s cleaned his teeth beforehand. Josh, however, is more intent on pursuing a fly with a rolled-up paper. He’s paying Bev no mind at all.
Again, Bev asks if Josh has cleaned his teeth.
Josh swipes wildly at the air with the paper, missing the fly and announcing that he wants to squeeze the fly’s guts out.
Bev asks again. Did Josh clean his teeth after having his orange juice? Josh ignores her.
‘Well, why dontcher get yer bag and see if yer can stay filling-free this time?’ Bev suggests, relenting.
Josh continues pursuing the elusive fly.
If he gets no fillings, Josh asks absently, will Bev buy him something?
Bev scowls. ‘Hey, I’m norra bottomless pit, yer know!’
Josh then asks if he can pull a sickie from school.
Only if the dentist pulls all his teeth out, Bev answers.
Josh continues swatting the air and chasing the fly, saying that the creature is doing his head in. (Well, Josh is doing OUR heads in).
Bev is losing her patience with the kid. What did she just ask him to do? She says, in exasperation.
‘I hate flies,’ Josh answers. ‘They land on poo and rub it in yer food.’
Like any mother of a child who’s become used to having his own way, Bev sighs and gives in. OK, she says, wearily, if Josh will just get his school bag, she’ll buy him some stickers.
Josh, having accomplished what he intended, dashes off.
Ray and Jess stand in the front garden of the bungalow, meeting a delivery van with some flat-packed furniture. Ray grumbles under his breath that it doesn’t look very flat to him, as Jimmy passes by, pushing a wheelbarrow. He stops and offers to help Jess carry the articles inside the bungalow. Jess signs for the delivery and thanks Jimmy.
Ray moves up behind Jimmy and remarks over Jim’s shoulder about Jimmy fraternising with the enemy. Jimmy gives Ray a puzzled look, as Ray nods his head in the direction of Number 5. Those Gordon lads, he clarifies. They insulted him just the other day.
Jimmy replies that he’s just tilling the soil for the family.
Well, what about the Hiltons’ garden? Asks Ray, indignantly. Seems like Jimmy’s left them high and dry.
Ah, but Ray’s garden is more of a works in progress, says Jimmy, smoothly. The Gordons’ is an in and out job.
Hmph! Grunts Ray. Were he Jimmy, he’d be a bit more particular about where he earned his crust.
It’s more of a crumb, actually, admits Jimmy. He has no option. After all, Jim’s not exactly head-hunting material, is he - unless, that is, they cut his head open and studied the mind of a manic depressive.
Pay no attention to Ray, Jessie calls, breezily. Jim’s work involves fresh air, and it’s local. (Isn’t everything in Brookside?)
Jimmy and Ray pick up the flat packed furniture, as Jimmy remarks on how heavy the stuff is.
Oh, it shouldn’t be heavy at all, purrs Jess, sarcastically. After all, it’s just a bunch of flimsy tat bought by a silly, old woman, who wouldn’t know a thing about furniture if it hit her hip against its carefully rounded edges.
Steve’s outside working on a client’s car, when the post arrives. He takes the stuff from the postman and glances through it. He happens upon an odd-looking letter, addressed to Marty, as Emily bounces into view. He quickly hides the letter.
Dire inside with her feet up, is she? Asks Emily, cheekily.
No, Steve replies absently, she’s looking after - and then he corrects himself. She’s chokka, he replies.
Emily glances past Steve’s shoulder toward Sitcom House. She thought the bizzies had gone, she remarks.
They have, Steve replies. Why?
Emily says that she wants more overtime.
Steve asks if Jimmy’s on the Internet, and Em confirms that he is. In fact, she says, Jimmy’s never off the thing. And then he throws a fit when the phone bill arrives.
Does she think Jim will let him have a go? Steve asks.
Emily’s eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘Yer derrr-ty ticker,’ she says.
It’s about car stuff, Steve insists.
Whatever, Emily shrugs, just ask Jim. It’s his private matter.
When she leaves, Steve glances about and then opens the odd letter.
It consists of letters cut from a magazine and pasted on paper: KIDDIE FIDDLER.
Inside the bungalow, Jessie takes out the instructions for assembling the furniture and studies them. That looks like fun, Ray jibes.
Ray’s sitting in his geriatric chair, watching Jess. It’s better than sitting around in a chair with a clip-on tray and waiting for the grim reaper. Actually, Jess jibes back, she thought that assembling furniture and de-bubbling Ray’s jumpers just might help keep the Alzheimer’s at bay.
Bev enters The Shelf to find Lance behind the bar. She orders a bottle of the finest shampoo, as a weird joke.
Is Bev’s visit for business or pleasure? Asks Lance.
Business, quips Bev. It’s about tableclothes, as in ... Where are they?
Lance looks uneasy. He thinks maybe Mike Dixon’s running a little behind with the laundry, he explains. He didn’t think Bev would be around this time of day, he remarks.
She should be at the dentist, Bev says. Fillings for Josh and valium for her. Just then, Lance is summoned by a pompous-looking diner.
Uh-oh, mutters Lance. He’s being summoned by Lord Kick-off. Lance darts off and Max appears, greeting Bev. How’s life at the bar? He asks, sociably.
About to hit an all-time low, Bev moans. With no tableclothes, she’ll have to put bog rolls on the tables.
‘Ah!’ Max exclaims. ‘It seems my brother-in-law’s hit another blinder.’
Well, sighs Bev, she’ll leave that for Jacqui to sort out.
Max asks Bev if she’s got time for a brew.
‘Ayyyyyy,’ chides Bev. ‘Wifey doesn’t pay me ter jangle.’
Ruth can surely hold the fort for half an hour, says Max, laying a comforting hand on Bev’s shoulder. Besides, Bev looks as though she could use one.
Sit back and enjoy the next scene. Nothing of note happens, but it’s one of the best scenes in recent Brookside history, certainly one of the funniest. It highlights not only Carmel Morgan’s great ability to write witty comedy, but also it emphasises the fact that Jennifer Ellison is a great comic actress, with a superb sense of timing and delivery. She has a great future treading the boards if she can be convinced that the road into the pop music industry isn’t paved with gold.
Steve enters Hotel Corkhill in search of Jimmy, only to find Emily, dressed in her abbreviated salon pinny, in the kitchen, making what appears to be a crisp buttie - not that Jennifer Ellison would even dream of eating such rubbish in real life - the camera adds a stone to your natural figure.
Where’s Jimmy? Asks Steve.
Emily plonks the plate containing her buttie down on the table and pulls up a chair. He says he’s taking a quick wash, she tells Steve; but knowing Jim, that could mean an hour, a month or a year.
Steve shoots a dubious glance in the direction of Emily’s crisp buttie, which she’s in the process of raising to her lips. He can see why Emily wants to come home for lunch, he remarks, stifling a grin.
Emily pauses, a gobful of buttie in her mouth and attempts a comic moue, rolling her eyes heavenward. ‘Well,’ she muses, ‘I gorra choice. Do I stay at home ane lerrrrn ter make the perr-fect souffle, or go out and errrrrn a wage?’
‘What?’ Scoffs Steve. ‘At the Salon?’
‘As if I’m goin’ter stay there!’ Pouts Emily, disdainfully, as Jimmy enters the room, fresh from the bath.
Steve asks the Sage politely how his gardening is going.
‘Getting there, getting there!’ Booms Jimmy. ‘Still, I’m not ready ter THROW IN THE TROWEL YET!’ And he laughs uproariously at his own joke, as Steve points hesitantly in the direction of the extension. Suddenly remembering the purpose of Steve’s visit, Jimmy volunteers to boot the computer. Steve turns to follow him into the room, but he’s delayed when Emily calls raucously to him, her mouth full of crisps.
‘Yer see,’ she explains, wolfing down another over-sized bite, ‘I got plans, me.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ deadpans Steve. ‘Ter masticate yer crisps by Christmas.’
Emily, swallows hard and starts enumerating her day on her elaborately manicured fingers. ‘Me mawwwwnins are taken oop wi’lil’old ladies gerrin poodle perrrrms, and me affies wi’clones who all want a Dido cut -’
Is Emily doing cutting now? Asks Steve, incredulously.
‘Eeeem, no,’ amends Emily, with false modesty, ‘boot I gorra superviiiiise the gerrrrls, give clients the patter and make sure they’ve all booked their appointments.’
Again, Steve turns to enter the room, but Emily stops him, once more, pausing only to gulp another bite of buttie.
‘Yer see,’ she continues, ‘Joanne is grreat. Oh, I loov the bones o’yer Diane, boot ... (lowering her voice to a whisper for emphasis) ... Where’s the vision?’
‘YER GORRA HAVE VISION!’ Shouts Jimmy, seated in front of the computer.
Emily continues, laying aside her half-gnawed buttie for a moment. ‘I mean, there’s toners lyin’ there empty an’ me wi’all me trrainin’-’
‘In what?’ Interrupts Steve.
‘EVERYTHINK!’ Gasps Emily. ‘I,’ she brags, emphasising the word, ‘am a magician. I could take the most hangdown-lookin’ gerrrl and terrrn’er inter soomthink ten times better.’
Jimmy and Steve exchange sceptical looks, as Emily takes a huge mouthful of buttie and lobs it into her cheek to continue extolling her professional virtues. ‘I,’ and again, she emphasises the word, ‘am a nailtician ... A qualified beauty prractitioner. I have drrive, talent and ambition-’
‘Yer have crisps down yer froont,’ remarks Steve, pointing to Emily’s pinny, sprinkled with half-eaten crisps.
Emily pauses to swallow her gobful of buttie and to pick the remaining crisps off the front of her pinny.
BRAVO, Jennifer Ellison and BRAVO, Stephen Fletcher for being a wonderful straight man!
It’s lunchtime at the bungalow, with Jess perched on the floor studying parts of the flat-packed furniture. Ray enters the living room area and plonks a sarnie on a plate on the glass-topped table for Jessie.
Careful, Jessie warns him in mock seriousness, that must weigh a good six ounces. Ray takes his own sarnie and sits in his geriatric chair, placing his sarnie on the clip-on plastic tray.
He just meant for Jessie not to perch herself on the glass-topped table, he explains, patiently. Oh, and by the way, he adds, he’s put low-cholesterol spread on Jessie’s buttie.
Jessie twists to face Ray from her position on the floor, and smiles falsely. She hates to disappoint Ray, she purrs, sarcastically, but she actually thinks she’s winning this assembly battle.
Ray laughs, taking a bite of his sarnie. He doesn’t know if Jess has lost a screw or got a screw loose, with that self-assembly thing.
Again, Jess smiles falsely. Ray’s probably right, she humours him nastily. Then she pauses and contemplates the old man sat in his geriatric chair. ‘You know what would really keep the draft off your neck while you’re sat in that chair?’ She says, pensively. ‘One of those all-in-one body slippers. You know, it’s like a body stocking, but with all those swirling patterns.’
Ray takes her suggestion seriously. He considers this. ‘That’s good,’ he says at last. ‘Particularly now that the nights are drawing in.’
Jessie returns to her assembly. She’s not quite sure, however, that those body-slipper people have cracked their sales pitch, she remarks.
What does she mean? Ray asks, curiously.
‘Well, the word,’ Jess muses. ‘"Body slipper".’
‘How about "snuggler"?’ Ray suggests.
No, Jess shakes her head. It needs something with more punch - like: "Beginning of the end" or "grounds for divorce".’
Back at The Shelf, Max and Bev sit in a booth overlooking the pool below. As the scene opens, there’s a gratuitous shot of a bikini-clad girl (what else?), emerging from the pool. Max is giving Bev advice on child-rearing.
When it comes to the carrot or the stick, he’s saying, as he pours a cup of tea, he takes the carrot approach to bribe the kids.
Bev moans that she hasn’t got a carrot.
Oh, it doesn’t cost that much, Max scoffs. How about a swim in the pool for Josh?
Bev declines. Membership might be free for Max, she remarks.
A kick-around In the park? Max suggests.
Two left feet, moans Bev. No, bribery and corruption for her can’t cost more than 50p and comes with lots of E-numbers.
Max asks Bev bluntly if she’s worried that she’s spoiling Josh. (Well, thank God, someone had the guts to mention this, the root of Josh’s problem).
Bev’s in despair. Half the time she’s worried that she spoils the child and the other half, she worries that she’s giving him a rum deal.
Well, it is a balancing act, Max sighs, especially for a single mother.
‘Yes,’ agrees Bev, pointedly, ‘boot Josh’s dad is still around, and his granddad ... And his Auntie Rachel and his Auntie Jacqui and his Uncle Max.’
Max avoids Bev’s eyes.
Face it, Bev continues, does Max honestly think of Josh as his nephew, because she knows damned well Jacqui doesn’t put him on a level pegging with Beth. (Nor does Mike for that matter).
Does Bev feel on her own? Max asks, sympathetically.
She and Josh ARE on their own, she says.
‘All of us are on our own,’ Max stutters.
‘We came in as dust and as dust we leave,’ echoes Bev. We’re all on our own, she says, and that’s all the more reason to have company in between the beginning and the end. A body has 60-odd years of life. Well, Bev’s clocked up half of that and cocked that up as well.
Max is shocked to hear this.
The tea and sympathy is all very well, she tells Max, succinctly, but it’s for Jacqui, isn’t it?
Max says he thinks Bev’s doing a brilliant job with Josh.
And that sentiment is sure to take her through to the next crisis, Bev quips. She’s not having a pop, she assures him, but if SHE’S wobbly at work, it rubs off on Jacqui.
Max confesses that he’s genuinely concerned for Jacqui’s welfare.
Max is cherishing his wife, as he promised, says Bev. Lucky Jacqui.
Well, Max says, Jacqui’s up against it at the moment with Ron’s illness.
(A rare continuity mistake is about to occur). ‘I thought Brigid MURRAY was helping out,’ Bev wonders.
(CORRECTION: BRIGID’S SURNAME IS MCKENNA, NOT MURRAY. SHE IS DIRE’S MOTHER AND MARTY’S MOTHER-IN-LAW!)
Brigid does a bit, Max admits.
‘Soddy,’ Bev makes a face, ‘I know Brigid has sad lodgings at the moment, but dealing with Ron’s bits!’
Suddenly, Max laughs.
‘I’d need a suite at the Ritz ter coom eye-ter-eye with little Ron,’ Bev grimaces. ‘He’s not gettin any younger, yer know!’
Jacqui rates Brigid very highly, Max states, and so does he.
‘Don’t wuddy,’ Bev assures Max. ‘I’m norrabout ter keel over. I can’t afford ter.’
Jessie is still trying to assemble what looks like a flimsy set of shelves. She eyes the contraption with a baffled look. She turns to glance at Ray, who’s reading the paper in his geriatric chair and opens her mouth, as if to say something, but thinks better of it, and stops herself. She gazes, instead, at the shelf contraption.
Funny, she muses. She’s certain one part is supposed to go in another place. ‘I’m no Einstein,’ she remarks, ‘and me Swahili’s not up to scratch ... But I’d swear there are more holes than screws.’
From his chair, Ray chuckles. If Jessie wouldn’t think it patronising, he says, he’d offer to put the shelves up for her.
Jess glares at him, coldly. Ray laughs in reply, as the shelves collapse onto the floor. Jessie screams in frustration.
Lance stands at the bar counter in The Shelf, dealing with a cancellation on the telephone. He informs Max, as Max approaches.
Not the table of eight! Max exclaims, in horror.
‘They want ter tart oop their excuses a bit,’ Lance sneers. ‘The berrrth-day gerrl’s got the flu.’
Max, however, has a new assignment for Lance. He tells Lance that he wants him to give lots of TLC to Bev at the moment. For the same pay, he suggests, he’ll second Lance to Bar Brookie for a couple of shifts per week - just to lighten Bev’s load.
No probs, says Lance, and then he looks a bit hesitant. There’s just one fly in the ointment.
‘Jacqui?’ Max asks.
‘No disrespect,’ Lance insists.
‘Jacqui will be fine,’ Max assures him.
‘Yes?’ Queries Lance, disbelievingly. ‘Me chokka in the bar, you chokka in the restaurant, Jacqui at home with screamin’ kids, and Bev with her feet oop on a pouffe and eatin’ choccies? I think not.’
‘I can sell ice cream to Eskimos,’ brags Max. He turns to leave and suddenly turns back to face Lance. ‘Bev feels she has to spend more time with J- with OUR nephew,’ he corrects. If they don’t address that, they’ll lose Bev; and Jacqui would like that even less, which is why Max wants Lance to go to the bar ... Now.
Steve Muddie sits in front of Jimmy’s computer with the Liverpool web page on the screen. He hears Emily leave noisily.
‘One down,’ he whispers to himself, impatiently.
Jimmy pops his head around the door. He tells Steve to give him a shout when he’s finished and Jimmy will boot down. He warns Steve not to do anything dodgy. Remember, he warns, Big Brother is watching all of us.
Steve stares at Jimmy until Jimmy realises he should be off. Once he’s gone, Steve types in the steveshomeservicing.com web address and waits for the site to load. He’s met with the image of Georgina taking off her top and climbing atop Steve in her marital bed.
He’s horrified.
After a bit, he hears Emily return, shouting that she’s forgotten something. In a blind panic, Steve unplugs the computer. Emily pokes her head around the door into the extension to ask if Steve plans on seeing Tim later. Then she notices Steve’s flustered face and asks what happened.
He doesn’t know, lies Steve.
Emily notices the plug held in his hand.
It just conked out, Steve says, lamely.
‘Do oos a favour and tell Jimmy,’ says Emily. ‘I don’t wanna lecture froom him.’
Steve dashes out.
Bev is scraping gum from the bottom of a table in the bar, when Lance enters. He watches her for a moment, before remarking that some things never change.
‘We-e-e-e-ll, yer get punters like pigs wherever yer go,’ philosophises Bev, grimly.
Lance glances about the bar. This place has gone right down the pan, he muses. Still, he has some good news for Bev. He bows from the waist. ‘Lance Timothy Powell,’ he introduces himself. ‘At your service.’
Bev is genuinely puzzled.
Lance explains that Max is loaning him out to Bev for a few hours a week.
Bev is amazed. She honestly thought Max Farnham was flannelling her. But then she’s excited at the thought of Lance working with her again. It’ll be just like the old times! She enthuses.
What does she want him to do? Lance asks.
Well, Bev begins, eagerly, Lance can start by picking ‘His Lordship’ up from school. He finishes at 3:30.’
Josh? Lance queries, hesitantly.
‘No,’ quips Bev. ‘Prince William.’
What about the bar? Lance wants to know.
Oh, don’t bring him back to the bar, Bev says. He’ll only kick off. Lance should just play with him at the flat or footie in the park or soomthink. Anythink. Just tire him out so he’ll sleep for a week. And she’ll have some time to catch up on some paperwork, she continues. She’s always having to slope off picking up the laddo or scraping him off the streets.
Bev is literally jumping up and down with glee. She’s going to phone up Max Farnham and tell him that for once he’s come up trumps. Oh, and Lance is a STAR!
As she scurries off, Lance looks extremely fed up.
Jess is still seated on the floor struggling with a flat pack, whilst Brigid sits in one of the geriatric chairs, nattering with her and Ray. That Ron might have his Jacqui jumping through hoops, she’s saying, but not Brigid. Noticing Jessie’s dilemma, Brigid pauses.
Is Jess winning down there? She asks out of concern. Jessie is struggling with a screwdriver.
Oh, Jess always wins, comments Ray, acidly.
Jessie ignores his comment, instead asking Brigid how Brigid likes her ‘clip-on tray’?
Brigid turns her mouth down distastefully, struggling to find a tactful word. It’s very, er, functional, she says at last, a silent ‘but’ lingering in the air, which Jessie senses.
But?
Brigid sighs and gives Ray a sidelong glance of contempt. ‘It reminds me of the future,’ she says, sadly.
‘It has an easy-wipe surface,’ parrots Jess, brightly, ‘and nice, rounded edges. In fact, it has no edge to anything!’ And with that, she smashes her finger and yelps. ‘It’s like life without a zing,’ she finishes.
Brigid rises abruptly from her chair. Time to give Ron Dikko his daily constitutional, she excuses herself.
Ray laughs at Jess’s discomfort. ‘There’s a nice bit of zing for you, Jess,’ he chuckles.
Jimmy is standing outside Bicker-Bicker, holding up a wheelbarrow, whilst Pa Gordon carefully lifts a large garden plant and places it in the contraption. He looks at the plant curiously. Is Jimmy certain Ma wants this plant cleared from the back garden? He asks, dubiously.
Jimmy nods gravely, asserting that Ma was all for giving the garden a new look.
Pa shakes his head. ‘Gardeners, eh?’ He laughs, grimly. ‘Oo do we fink we are?’
Well, Jim muses, softly, it keeps him out of the nuthouse.
Just at that moment, Pa clocks Ali returning from school, trudging morosely across the Close, with his school bag hanging open. Pa leaves Jimmy and sprints across the Close to confront his oldest son, just as Ray steps onto the doorstep of the bungalow.
‘Do yer bag up!’ Pa orders.
Ali is genuinely shocked to find his father there, as he’s clearly doing an afternoon bunk. What’s Pa doing home? He wants to know.
Glancing briefly about, Pa becomes aware of Ray, standing in the doorway of the bungalow, arms akimbo and glaring disapprovingly at the Gordon males. Swiftly, Pa grabs Ali by the collar of his shirt and pulls the lad close. Have Ali and the Brookside Bike apologised to Ray yet? He whispers.
‘Oh, yeah, and what should I say?’ Sneers Ali. ‘"Soddy that yer hit me, Mr Hilton?"’
‘No time like the present,’ snaps Pa, who remembers East End decency. ‘Go on.’ And he shoves the reluctant Ali in the direction of the bungalow.
Ray watches as the lad approaches him, head hung low and feet dragging.
‘Been keepin’ a low profile, eh?’ Ray taunts, self-righteously. ‘I’m not surprised.’
Ali sullenly refuses to meet Ray’s gaze. He digs his fists frustratingly deep into his trousers’ pockets. ‘Me dad says ter say "soddy",’ he mumbles, then turns and trudges off.
Ray is insulted and incensed. He follows the lad down the drive, berating him every step of the way. ‘Is that what yer call an apology?’ He asks, in great consternation. ‘Stood there, moomblin’, with yer hands in yer pockets?’
By this time, he’s reached the area where Pa’s standing, witnessing the whole sorry, er sorry, soddy scene. Pa intervenes, trying to defend Ali, and at the same time, to placate Ray.
‘Look,’ he begins, ‘it’s not the best apology in the world, but the point is-’
‘The point is,’ Ray exclaims, jabbing his finger at Pa’s barrel chest,’ that you lot are terrorising me!’
Jess appears in the doorway in the background and calls to Ray to come inside. When he ignores her plea, she crosses the front garden to the pavement and stands by her man.
‘They’re just kids,’ Pa reasons, with a hint of plea in his voice. ‘They stepped out of line, and I’ve had a word.’
‘They’re HOOLIGANS, your lot!’ Declares Ray.
Now, Pa’s insulted at hearing what is clearly a home truth. And what does that make Ray? He chides. A bully-boy!
On the doorstep of Bicker-Bicker, Ali smiles at his father’s retort. Jimmy watches the action unfold.
‘A bully-boy, eh?’ Ray shouts. ‘Well, would you let them talk to YOUR father like that? I deserve some respect!’
‘MY father wouldn’t take a swing at a fourteen year-old!’ Pa retorts. (No, he’d take a strap to him.)
‘Well, if yer’d bothered to BRING’im up properly,’ observes Ray, ‘instead o’draggin’im up,
then maybe I wouldn’t have had ter hit’im.’
Pa’s even more insulted by an even more blatant piece of truth, regarding his parenting skills, and he’s tempted to resort to violence. ‘Why, I’ve ‘alf a mind to punch you, meself!’ He threatens Ray.
At this remark, Jess intervenes, physically planting herself between Pa and Ray.’They provoked him,’ she says, firmly, glaring pointedly up at Pa, then turning and placing an arm on Ray’s forearm. ‘Coom inside, love,’ she says, gently, and she walks Ray to the door, before turning one last time to have the final word with Pa. ‘They goaded him, Mr Gordon,’ she says, definitively.
Shamed to the hilt by the older woman, Pa gathers his fraught dignity and pulls himself up to his full height, whilst sucking in his beer gut. ‘That’s easily remedied,’ he remarks, assuming an air of injured dignity. ‘From now on, we blank each other.’
Jessie turns to guide Ray into the house, as Pa, intent on having the last word and saving face, calls after her: ‘Just remember,’ he warns. ‘No one touches my lads, but me!’
Steve enters the sitcom kitchen to find his stepmother sitting at the sitcom table. Dire, for once, says nothing. Steve is surprised. He thought for certain that there’d be another instalment of the morality lecture.
There shouldn’t need to be, Dire points out. Steve should look at himself. He’s drop-dead gorgeous AND he’s single.
Steve reminds her that he’s twenty-two and still lives at home.
‘You’re a catch,’ insists Dire. ‘And werrth more than a romp in the hay with a housewife.’
It wasn’t meant to be serious, Steve insists. In fact, he confesses, he’s been trying to get in touch with Georgina all day, to get her to get her husband to wipe the website.
Dire reminds Steve that Steve humiliated the man, and now the man had got his own back. It could have been werrrse, she reminds him. The man could have poonched Steve’s teeth out.
Jessie enters the lounge area of the bungalow, with some tea, only to find Ray hard at work on assembling her flat-packed shelves. He’s succeeding.
Did I make a pig’s ear? She asks of her DIY efforts.
‘Ahhh, yer gave it yer best,’ Ray says.
Jess replies humbly that she’ll take that to mean ‘yes’.
‘Ta for before,’ Ray quips.
Why? Jess wants to know. She wasn’t about having that ogre speak to Ray like that. That’s HER job.
The two of them have to play to their strengths, remarks Ray, his voice choking with emotion.
Jess pats him fondly on the shoulder as she walks toward the kitchen. She’ll put the chicken on for dinner, she says.
Steve’s back at Hotel Corkhill, receiving a verbal rollicking from the Sage about pulling the plug on the computer before booting down. Never yank a ploog out o’the socket! Remonstrates Jimmy. This machine needs ter be shut down properly. Steve wouldn’t terrrn a car off in fifth gear, would he?
In the background, Emily glances out the front window and spies a taxi pulling up outside. She emits a shriek, as she runs out the front door.
‘Nikki!’ (Yes, folks, that eminent psychologist, Dr Nikki, has returned from her culturally broadening travels).
Still shrieking, Emily greets Nikki and Jerome as they descend from the taxi. Leading her sister inside, Emily’s motormouth goes into overdrive, telling Nikki of the events that unfolded next door, Marty’s arrest, the demolition of the garden, oh and ... ‘Who’s left holdin’ the hairspray? Mooggins!’
As they enter Hotel Corkhill, Jimmy manages to quiet Emily down, and announces: ‘The wanderers return!’ He asks her what was her favourite city on the tour.
Barcelona, snaps Nikki. Then she changes her mind. No ... Prague ... No ... Barcelona!
Jerome explains that Nikki didn’t like the architecture of Gaudi. (I’m not surprised. Nikki’s such a po-faced, literal philistine). Jerome starts to enthuse about the Catedral de la Sagrada Familia, but Emily rudely interrupts, saying that she’s not interested.
Hey, Jimmy’s seen pictures o’that cathedral. Why, he reckons that Gaudi feller was trippin’ when he did the cathedral.
Wrapped in Jerome’s arms on the sofa, Nikki readily agrees.
Jerome suddenly grabs her and the couple engage in a lengthy snog.
Emily, feeling undereducated, volunteers to leave the room while the rest of the lot count their GCSE’s. As Nikki and Jerome snog again, Emily makes a face full of disgust.
As Bev plods about the half-full bar, Lance staggers in from the park with Josh. Bev asks how Josh behaves, and Lance admits that he never had a moment’s bother with Josh. In fact, the lad was a star and a credit to Bev. Josh runs to his mother and cuddles her around her ample waist.
‘Aye-aye,’ quips Bev. ‘What’s this? Coodles usually don’t start before the 7th or 8th o’December!’
Josh dashes upstairs.
‘Go on,’ Bev urges, after the boy has departed. ‘How was he?’
As good as gold, Lance says.
How many bribes? She insists. How many lollie ices?
Noothink, Lance insists.
Bev is shocked by her son’s good behaviour.
By now Jerome and Nikki have adjourned to the bungalow, along with Emily, Ray and Jessie, where the travelling lovebirds regale Jessie with tales of their trip. Emily doesn’t hide her boredom, which only goes to emphasise her ignorance.
Nikki is going on about a fabulous fish restaurant they found in Barcelona. Imagine, she says, that the Gordons’ house was where the beach was situated, and the postbox was where the Mediterranean was. Jessie is clearly impressed.
Hmph! Grunts Emily. The pathway was the Mediterranean a minute ago.
‘The Mediterranean was joost there and it was loovley!’ Enthuses Nikki.
Except that she didn’t like Gaudi, Jerome teases her.
‘Well, if yer wanted the sea,’ Ray says, ‘yer coulda saved the train fare. We live on an island. The sea’s all around us. We got lakes, fens, mountains - all yer need right here.’
‘Hartleypool, here I come,’ deadpans Jerome.
‘Hey,’ Ray leans toward Jerome from his chair, tapping the lad on the knee. ‘I was made in Britain,’ he reminds him. Then he points to the table he’s made. ‘Same as that table. Now that one over there’ (and he points to Jess’s), ‘that came from all over.’
Nikki playfully picks up some decorative, little wooden balls Jess has bought. She thinks they’re really nice.
‘Tat,’ spits Ray. ‘Tat at ten quid a ball.’
Jessie rolls her eyes at Ray’s remark and then smiles sweetly at Nikki. They’re tactile wood spheres, she explains, patiently. They’re made of mango wood.
Hmph! Snorts Ray. He doesn’t want to live in a show house. He wants to live in a home!
Minimalist is the new black, remarks Emily, knowingly.
‘I’m not allowed ter buy anything!’ Grumbles Ray.
‘Is it any wonder?’ Jess exclaims, pointing out the geriatric chairs.
These chairs ARE off the cake, says Emily, confidentially.
Anyway, Jess continues, she wants Nikki to see the room Jess has set aside for her and Jerome. It’s got a nice neutral colour and a good, hard bed.
Nikki remarks on the fact that she and Jerome didn’t have a single nark whilst they were away. (Which is extremely unusual for a couple, I must say. But then, this is Brookside, and Brookside is pristine.)
That’s freaky! Says Emily.
Jerome isn’t sure he likes narks.
Well, SHE likes narks, announces Emily. They’re part of maddied life. With the best part being the making up.
Well, Jerome sighs, no narks means that he and Nikki are deffo getting maddied.
Jess jumps up with glee, offering to put the kettle on, whilst Jerome demands champagne.
Nikki blissfully hopes that she and Jerome are as happy as Timily.
Jess rushes into the kitchen, wittering about being sure she has some sparkling wine someplace. Emily follows her. Disgusted by Nikki’s overtly affectionate behaviour towards Jerome, she asks Jessie confidentially what Jess thinks of the situation.
At first, Jessie doesn’t hear her younger granddaughter, as she’s fussing over the fact that she’s, as yet, got no nice glasses for the wine. Sometimes, she wails, she doesn’t think they’ll ever replace the things they lost.
Again Emily demands to know what her Nan thinks of all this with Nikki.
‘Now listen, Madam,’ Jess faces Emily. ‘I’m too long in the tooth to dole out advice, and you’re just out o’your milk teeth. All we can do is be happy for them.’
‘Well, one minute they’re breakin’ oop, and one minute, they’re not,’ grumbles Emily, wuddied. ‘Then they’re away fer one moonth, and it all falls inter place.’
‘It happens, you know,’ Jess tells her.
‘Budapest, Prague,’ recites Emily, bitterly. ‘Blah, blah, blah ... THAT’S not the real werrrld!’ And she, Emily, knows EXACTLY what will happen with Nikki - maddage, a flat, a baby ...
‘That’s the route most people take,’ Jess reminds her. ‘Including you.’
But what about Nikki’s degree? Wails Emily.
‘Do you want her to be sterilised?’ Quips Jessie.
‘Don’t take the mick wi’me, Nan,’ says Emily, seriously. ‘I’m not Ray.’ The truth is, Emily’s highly suspicious. Nikki seems too excited, like she’s been on the happy pills.
‘Nikki’s a bride-to-be,’ Jess reasons. ‘She’s just excited, that’s all.’
All that’s just not Nikki, maintains Emily, grimly. All this ‘going to find herself and such’. Nikki knows exactly who she is. (Ever the literate, is R Emily.)
‘Just be happy for her,’ urges Jessie, sighing with impatience.
‘It’s too neat and fairy-tale,’ assesses Emily, grimly.’Nikki and Jerome hate all that stoof. A few stamps on a passport don’t change anythink!’
The great Carmel Morgan wrote this. Apart from one glaring faux pas, it was quite good.
Summary © 2002 Marion Watts
Brookside and all related materials are © Mersey Television 1982-2002