As Emmerdale’s ridiculous rural rabble staged their wacky races and carelessly careered into each other in Yorkshire’s worst-ever comedy car crash they must have assumed that no one would come close in the far-fetched nonsense stakes.

Wrong. While the dreadful drivers of ITV’s village of the damned were wondering if the death toll might have been lower if any of them had applied their brakes, their Coronation Street rivals were delivering hilarious absurdity on a sublime level. So the weird and unwonderful Weatherfield crew win again.

After nautical but not nice prodigal son Peter Barlow returned penniless from glamorous Portsmouth his 104 year-old dad Ken promptly suffered a major stroke. Which should spare long-serving stalwart Bill Roache the boring chore of having to learn his lines for the next few months.

But it wasn’t the battling Barlows who stole the silly show. It was the barking mad Platts who even by their own crazy standards were ploughing through a stupefying storyline that defied belief. Well crafted, cogent, plausible… it was none of these things.

At the centre of this breath-taking gobbledegook was – of course – deranged David Platt, who flits between being a hard-working devoted dad and a psychotic lunatic. Fatherhood took a back seat as he hatched a bizarre plan to turn himself into a human fireball and drive into a prison van.

The idea was that this would incinerate Clayton, the kid who killed Dave’s pole-dancing, drug-taking wife Kylie. But there was no guarantee Clay would even be singed. That’s the trouble with dim Dave, as well as being a disturbing sociopath he’s incredibly thick.

As are his feeble-minded family, who decided that the best way to stop their raging relative’s unfoolproof plot was to lock him in the cellar of his marriage-obsessed brother Nick’s rubbish restaurant. So they glibly commit the very serious crime of false imprisonment and incarcerate him in the cellar. The amount of law-breaking on the Street is cause for grave concern.

Anyway, to prove what really nice people they are, hopeless mother Gail, simpering sister Sarah and occasionally brain-damaged Nick mount a round-the-clock vigil outside the door. They’re so caring.

But when David’s frantic attempts to tunnel through a brick wall fail and he goes all quiet, gormless Gail is hysterical with worry. “Just make a sound and let me know you’re okay,” she sobs. Just open the bloody door you ludicrous woman!

So she does. But naturally it’s another fiendishly clever David trick. In one fell swoop he leaps to his feet and turns the tables on his mum by locking her in. After his perfect escape, he’s free!

Up on the cobblestones our clinically insane Houdini hero grabs the keys for his self-drive car bomb and desperately struggles to get it started.

By now the rest of his cartoon clan are running around in a conga-line like the Keystone Cops. Cue the Benny Hill music. When this barmy bunch of arrant idiots finally catch up with Dave he douses the inside of the vehicle with petrol and roars off at breakneck speed for no apparent reason.

It goes without saying that standing in the middle of the road is David’s daughter Lilly. Reverting to concerned parent mode, he swerves and overturns. Brave Gary Windass tries to get Lilly out of the way, but it’s too late and they’re both trapped underneath the motor. With petrol pouring all over them.

Surveying this unlikely scene of devastation, Sally Webster declares: “Don’t worry, the emergency services will be here soon.” You’ll be lucky. Dial 999 in Soapland and help will rush to the scene an average of two hours later.

True to form, the emergency services arrive when the emergency is over. Almost as slow as the notoriously tardy Emmerdale fire engines that tear down those country lanes at a maximum speed of 3mph.

But back to the bollocks. Unbelievably (literally), David climbs out without a scratch. Then the disaster fatigued residents (they suffer one at least twice a month) join forces to lift the upside-down vehicle and Lilly and Gary are pulled free miraculously unhurt. Phew. But wait… the worst is yet to come.

As they all run for cover the car explodes. Luckily, no one is injured. But then it explodes again. A can of flaming petrol erupts all over Anna and she catches fire. TV’s most combustible café worker. Bit of a shame. Now she’s too burned to move in with love-struck mechanic Kevin. Don’t you hate it when that happens?

Meanwhile, pregnant Michelle is knocked to ground and showered with glass as the blast rips through the Rovers. Gee, I wonder if she’ll lose the baby.

So that about covers the gentle kitchen sink drama for another uneventful week. All very eye-catching… but none of it passed the would-it-ever-happen test. You’d see more gritty realism on the Teletubbies.

The other thing that worries me about Corrie these days is the dizzying number of bed-hopping maniacs who, having run out of new people to sleep with, are busy recycling their rancid romances.

Born again bickerers Steve McDonald and Michelle are on their second trip around the block. And much travelled former prostitute Leanne is enduring round two with Nick, who weds first and asks questions later.

And into this marital mess steps five times married mariner Peter Barlow, who used to be married to not only Leanne but also Carla, who used to be married to Nick, who’s back with Leanne.

Meanwhile, Peter’s sinister sibling Tracy used to be married to Steve but recently reunited with Robert, who – you’ll never guess – she used to be married to. Sadly, they split up. Constantly. Current status… apart.

Add to that, Gail and Eileen’s hobby of swapping men on a 24/7 basis and there you have it. A shabby shed-load of life-sapping love stories that spin round and round in the same tired old circles but never end. Make them stop.