The funniest thing about EastEnders’ disastrous “Disaster Week” was the earnest message to long-suffering viewers after that runaway bus ploughed through the market at terrifying speeds of up to three miles an hour.

If we’d been affected by the issues raised in this powerfully poignant episode we could call a special helpline. Brilliant. But what issues?

“Hello, I’ve got a double decker on top of me and I was wondering if caring sharing Aunty Beeb might be able to offer me any advice in terms of what I should do.”

Sadly, as he lay crushed under the 93 to Walford, Martin Fowler was unable to reach his phone. So he languished there wheezing and telling screaming Stacey he loved her until – spurred on by mad Max Branning - the massed ranks of Albert Square’s salt-of-the-earth locals pooled their strength to lift the smouldering vehicle from his chest.

Not long afterwards TV’s top fruit and veg man was wondering around the hospital stuffing his face with a meat pie. Seeing his NHS trolley empty, un-stoic Stacey staged a theatrical fit of hysterics and assumed he was dead. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Martin was as right as rain. Don’t try this at home.

Disaster Week broke Soapland’s golden rule. No one died. Worse still, no one was even badly injured. Whitney came down with a slight case of reduced consciousness… so what’s new? Then she snogged Mick. There may be trouble ahead.

The crash itself was a risible affair. The bus was going so absurdly slowly pedestrians were overtaking it. In real life, such was the lack of velocity, it would have struggled to mount the kerb.

Apparently, the pretend carnage was “insensitive” because it was uncannily similar to the Berlin horror when a terrorist deliberately drove a truck into crowds of Christmas shoppers. Rubbish. It was nothing like it. So let’s just file that under “ridiculous” and move on.

Talking of ridiculous, what was the big deal was about lowering simpering schoolkids from the top deck to the ground not far below? That bozo with the stupid hair Shak was hailed a hero for persuading pointlessly panic-stricken Bex and Louise to alight via the top floor window. Dramatic it wasn’t.

Amid the poorly choreographed chaos there was bad news when, after encouraging signs she’d croaked, Carmel came round. At first, she thought she’d lost her incongruously Muslim sons. Unfortunately, they survived. Ditto poisonous dwarf Donna, who Vincent found in that alley by the Queen Vic.

Full marks to fat businessman of the year Ian Beale for coming up with the novel idea of dialling 999. Naturally, after meaningless character Kathy eventually called the emergency services they took about an hour to arrive. In ludicrously small numbers. A whole two paramedics in a hatchback to the rescue!

Meanwhile, three dim ladies got stuck on the Underground. The one thing this hilarious nonsense didn’t need was comic relief. But there was old Sylvie wetting herself on the tube (ha ha!) as surly Shirley and tedious Tina joined her for a rousing rendition of Run Rabbit Run. Tube users will know that spontaneous singing among cheerfully indominatable passengers is incredibly common on the Central Line. Yeah right.

But would they stop the train before it hit the bridge where the bus was jammed? Yes, no problem. So basically, that was it. Slight accident, not many hurt. Wow.

“It would take more than a stray bus to get rid of us!” boomed Kush, defiantly, as life in the moronic market of lost souls swiftly returned to normal.

After Disaster Week, Boring Week as the Vic hosted its non-event Chinese Night and village idiot Mick predicted that thrilled punters would be ten deep at the bar. As a money spinner, it was almost as pathetic as Babe’s laughable pub breakfasts. The  BBC's public-sector writers don’t understand the commercial world.

In other news… convicted paedophile Jay suggested to convicted killer Ben that they found a place to live. How about prison?

And new-headed Michelle solved all of Phil and Sharon’s marital problems by ordering them a curry and garlic naan takeaway. Then she took an almighty swig from a bottle of vodka and – drum roll – the duv duvs. Another alky in the Mitchell “femleee”. Great. Excuse me while I try to give a damn. And fail.