Well...I dooon't really Knoooow...

Who would ever have thought that two blokes would turn up claiming to be Les Dennis' son? I know his Mavis Riley impression was good... So good, in fact, it secured him a role in the programme it was inspired by and has been the lynchpin of his acting style. And his breaking into Gail's house - then wooing her with a telly was a classy move...but, whodathunk it?

But this is exactly what has been going on in Corrie. To be fair, it all started with a heart scare, the need for £200, several mahooooosive lies and a lot of knowing looks and stares...

Our Les, it turned out, has Le Dicky Ticker... So after not seeing his son for 27 years, he thought this might be a good ice-breaker. However, Les, after dithering in true Mavis fashion - typically bottled it, and popped a note through his son - Gavin's door.

Only...(wait for it...) Gavin wasn't in! But his skint flatmate was! So he did what anyone would do. He assumed Gavin's identity (and National Insurance Number), borrowed money, got on with Les, got a job (in Les's fiancee's son's gourmet burger/pulled pork/cocktail and general twathead shack), a girlfriend - and his feet right under the table. Nice move Gavin/Andy..? Oh...you know who I mean...

Fabulously, though - the real Gavin turned up! I was very pleased for two reasons. Firstly, I wondered what he might look like. Secondly, it was great to see someone in this storyline do a bit of 'proper' acting - other than blinking, sighing and guiltridden gazes.

He wanted nowt to do with his comfy-jumpered Dad. In fact he positively resented him and cared not a jot for his dicky ticker... All he wanted (like most people in our Con/Dem nation), was £5000 to piss off back to Thailand. Fair enough...

So, fake Gavin robbed the takings of the Bistro and Gail stumped up the rest on her abortive wedding day, all in the hope real Gavin would be out of their hair forever.

Well...he is now. Sadly, Gavin was killed in a car crash later that day... Nooo! So the secret is safe and so is Les's ticker...for now.

'ave a proper Merry Christmas!

I just wanted to wish all those who have taken the time to read, comment on, critique and offer feedback, proof-read (not to the extent you'd notice, I know!) my wee Corrie blog over the past few months. I just really hope that it's been as much fun and enjoyable for you as it has been me! 


I shall be watching the upcoming episodes avidly (with my Kevin Turvey-style jotter and bookies pen) ready to post in the next few days. And it looks like it going to be bad hair days all round at the Platts - what with Les Dennis's fake son and a likely *white* Christmas for Kylie - what with Ol' Sith eyes Callum at the ready with the white and powdery...


Anyway, I didn't want to go on to much as we have hour long Corrie on Christmas Day and another on Boxing Day to devour and reflect on, in the true spirit of the season. Also, to bring in the New Year in a classy fashion we have a programme dedicated to Dame Barbara of Salford herself, and her alter ego Rita! 

(if you're a fan of this image visit: http://pop-goes-the-easel.tripod.com/id2.html - amazing stuff!)


So, I am wishing anyone who reads this a massive Happy Christmas and a fantabulousa New Year! 

But try not to over-indulge, eh?! 

(And, yes - that was just an excuse for a picture of Peter..!)

A trifle late...

I have not blogged of late. For anyone who endures/enjoys reading I hope you will appreciate my apologies.


Yes, the trial of Peter Barlow took it's toll on us all. I was a wreck, so it's no wonder the pressure led poor Deirdre to Jackson Pollock a trifle all over the walls... Not least because Young Kenneth became (astonishingly)  even more sanctimonious than usual.  Michelle rolled her eyes a bit more, Carla took to the Merlot like Craig eats chips, and Steve began a descent into a nervous breakdown....


But in the end, like a really good episode of Quincy - the real wrong 'un was found out. Perma-shifty Rob was shopped by his own sister, Carla and his one-time bride-to-be Tracy led the police straight to him. The two murderers are no more.


Finally, Peter was a free man - especially as he no longer shares a bucket with dickhead cellmate (played by the fabulously monikered Fine Time Fontayne). That was until he arrived back on the cobbles. Where once again, he was a guilty man. Although he might not have killed Tina - to alround he had a crucial role in her demise and was quickly reminded by all and sundry...that girl who works in the Bistro, Rita and bloody Michelle.



So, Peter left for Portsmouth - smoothing things out with his son ( a wee Bruno from Fame) with a bag of chips. I for one shall miss him, his lovely pea-coats, brooding eyes and the best smoking on telly ever. Bon Voyage, mon amour...

                                           

                                           

Sorry - I digress! The main story for me right now is poor old Steve McDonald. It seems the years of being the 'fun' bloke in the pub, the talkative taxi driver, good son and father have got to him. 

In short, it seems that he can't please himself anymore, let alone anyone else...and has sunk into something of a depression.







Whilst I wouldn't normally do a 'serious' post on my blog - I think that Steve's portrayal is all to real (in my limited experience/opinion!). Perhaps especially in terms of men - trying to front things out, and not lose face - but a fair few women too. The silent denial to yourself that you cannot 'do' anymore...






The entrapment he feels: the uselessness, lethargy... doing daft things to try and feel better, but then immediately regretting them. All on a small scale - so they just seem thoughtless, selfish or stupid are all too real and recognisable. 

I don't want this to turn into some sort of 'self-help' piece, but I think this story line and portrayal is being handled really well. Especially in showing that the frustration he feels with himself is constantly misconstrued or misunderstood and - in turn - infuriating everyone around him.








Now, I know I said I didn't want this to be a self-help piece - but, if you're feeling a bit crappy, or think someone you know is, there are places that can help:


Mind - http://www.mind.org.uk/

NHS 111 - http://www.nhs.uk/NHSEngland/AboutNHSservices/Emergencyandurgentcareservices/Pages/NHS-111.aspx

Mental Health Foundation - http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/

Samaritans - http://www.samaritans.org/



Your GP's surgery can also sometimes be a really good place to start. But just confiding and admitting that you are struggling, to anyone you feel comfortable with, whether they're a stranger or best mate/family member can really help. Likewise, if you are worried about someone and their behaviour - ask them if they are alright. It might be nothing, but on the other hand, it could mean the world to them.

Just don't let it fester...

Unsung heroes: Neil...

Never has one man's face told such a story...

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Coronation Street has never shyed away from it's more eccentric, sightly crackers or downright deranged characters (Tony Gordon, that Irish nurse who stalked Martin Platt, Don Brennan..) - but the newest one is rapidly becoming my favourite...

Yes, I am talking about the cuckolded Neil. The poor man. After working away in various danger zones to make sure his family had a nice semi-detached and garden, matching settees and cushions (the sort of house where you know they have a proper dinner service and cutlery...) he returned home to find his wife Andrea shacked up with him from Red Dwarf, and no idea she appeared on Dancing on Ice...

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After having her head turned by a history course, a few nights out in the Rovers and a heart attack from space-invader turned cabbie, Lloyd - she decided this was the life she'd been craving. Yes, really... No amount of Michelle's eye-rolling, sarkiness from an increasingly bitter Eileen, nor Steve's gurning could stop these star-crossed lovers.

So, Neil was binned off. And, doesn't seem to be taking the news all that well. He's promised to give up fishing, sacked off his job (this time in the Philippines with a car!) and is becoming a fantastically unnerving, but really polite stalker. Happily asking, 'Ooh, what film are you watching?' - when asked to not stand outside his estranged wife's new home all night. Randomly interrupting her dates with tales of her pregnancy cravings, and leaving all his luggage at the airport when he legged if off a flight to 'win' her back... Or just grind her down (no jokes at the back, please).

My personal favourite has to be his bonding with a children's clown sent round as a wind-up by Steve and Lloyd in response to 'pizzagate'. In an ironic twist, the clown's wife had just left him too...

The clown and Neil penciled in a second date and will be, 'meeting for a pint soon'.

​

Good on you Neil - and may your campaign of (quite literally) killing them with kindness continue! 

Size isn't everything...except when it's chipboard.

When gormless couple Tyrone and Fiz decided on a loft conversion, they knew they could rely on on the honest, yet painfully dim Jason to go a good job - mates rates too. Get in!

Behind the scenes,  the strings on Jason's business were being pulled by the nefarious forces of Tony and Todd. Especially Todd, who this time around is less the rosy-cheeked, sexually-confused Ken Barlow in the making and more Hitler-haired Iago...

In order to keep costs low, drum up business and make plenty cash - Tony gave Todd the job in admin/PR or something? Anyway it's involved Todd  trying to con Norris into getting a new roof, cold calling old ladies and offering to send round 'his best man for the job', oh - and picking on Gary a bit...the last bit seems seems a fair perk of the job to me though. 

But, tricky Todd has come unstuck with his over-cocky sneering and gift of the gab... When the workshy gobshite was sent by two experienced builders to buy the materials for the loft conversion (no, I have no idea why either...), he made a bit of an 'executive decision'. Rather than buying the right thickness of chipboard (I cannot remember the exact dimensions - neither could Todd), he bought a smaller size and pocketed the change. Now, I don't blame him for doing it (hopefully he put the money towards moving out of his mother's already overcrowded house) - but you'd have thought Todd would know that sometimes - size is everything?

Even Tony, who we know is a bad 'un because he's flogged hooky hairdryers to the two murderers warned Todd that that the chipboard would be unsafe, (especially in a house whose inhabitants seem to exist on pie, chips, bacon butties and lashings of ale). And even Gary (onetime soldier, who emotes by crying outside the shed at his Mum's or hitting people with a plank of two-by-four) voiced his concerns...only to be threatened with the sack by naughty Todd. 

So the floor was laid and thus the scene was set - for tragedy. Or rather, daft bloody Tyrone went up to a unfinished loft conversion after being explicitly told not to for safety reasons. Father Dougal and the big red button all over again...

So Tyrone has a bust hand, but no indication of any sense being knocked into him. Fiz is being her usual sympathetic self; moaning about her lot, picking at Tyrone and drinking pints while he's on the Orange Juice... All this whilst Tony's chucking money at them, so they don't claim on their invalidated insurance. 

One half of that dreary couple sure ain't as thick as they look... 

Nuts in August...

When Deirdre decided a holiday was long overdue, our tanned leather heroine dreamed of the Maldives/Majorca/St. Tropez.  North Wales - in a freakin' caravan - was not on the radar. Unless you're Ken Barlow... Ken's vegetarianism seemingly means he wants to hang out in places without roads or proper shops, and spend time with people who breed and kill animals for money. Interesting choice Ken...

All our Deirdre wanted was a pool, a bit of sun and a good Jackie Collins...but Ken obviously sneered at such wanton philistinism. Insisting on outside toilets, long walks and picnics. Good for the constitution, no doubt... Despite Deirdre having already clocked somewhere for a good pub lunch (read as: liquid) - Ken's roasted pepper hummus butties, bottle of Montepulciano and assorted dips won out - Well, the wine did. Following in the great Barlow tradition, Deirdre drank the bottle and who could blame her? I would have drunk petrol...

After subjecting his wife to a night in a caravan even people-traffickers rejected, and National Service style toilet/shower block - Ken though she'd really love a long walk....wearing the farmer wife's shoes. Who said Ken doesn't know what women want? The ol' smoothie...

To be fair to Ken, Deirdre did get some dinner - mainly wine and Silk Cut, but it was something. I'm sure she was wishing for a couple of pork pies and those smoky bacon crisps she likes from the Rovers' though...

The outing took a terrifying turn though, when they then met 'Derek' the bull who had an instant attraction to Deirdre. Regular viewers will be aware, she's always had been a sort of nectar for small businessmen (Mike Baldwin, Dev...), but she can now add to this livestock too. 

Although, Derek turned out to be a lady bovine... 

The start of a new story-line for Deirdre? Well, stranger things have happened...

After such a delightful walk and feeling thoroughly reconnected with the great outdoors - Ken and Deirdre went back to the Bloc, and played cards. Whereupon, Ken suddenly realised they could escape and returned to Weatherfield to ruin Tracy and Rob's fun...

Every cloud, eh?!

Sweet tooth...

We pick up from the revelation that 'Jim' is the landlord and likes to brew a bit of grog. Just 'to make life in here a bit more bearable', for his fellow Her Majesty's Pleasure-seekers. He also likes posh biscuits. Chocolate ones. I wouldn't let that sweet tooth fool you though, so I wouldn't...

Whilst Ken and his hair are frantically trying to build a case for the defence, and Deirdre is 'worn-out' - (Not. Saying. A. Word.) - our Anti-hero Peter, is faced with the same old choice yet again. Between good and evil. Light or dark. Fight or be fought. Or in this case, Jim's booze to Ken's unquenchable desire for justice...

That said, Jim has displayed his more positive qualities. As well as Warlord and Landlord, he can certainly add Lifecoach to his CV. He could seriously rival The Speakmans (although I'm not sure who would be the most scary to be locked in a cell with)... 'Jim' succeeded where Weatherfield's own Atticus Finch (yes, Ken) failed - persuading our thirsty desperado to plead 'Not Guilty'. Although, it could have had something to do with Peter being half-pissed, and DC doing the Countdown theme in his ear before the hearing... 

He also drove Peter to steal DC's wine-gums. An act that in my opinion, was thoroughly deserved.

But, he didn't want the sweets because they stick in his fillings - so they do (I will stop this...). And like an infant Ian Paisley, he demanded biscuits... 

A microcosm of the 'Troubles' playing out before our eyes.

Only joking Peter! 


Cheeky 'Jim' had the booze all the long... 'Chateau de Bighouse' warming nicely in his front pocket. So, Peter did the sensible thing and got thoroughly mortal; tried not to slur his words, and laughed in DC's face when confronted over the confectionery theft. 

Oh, Peter...