As they stagger around aimlessly testing the boundaries of plausibility, Soapland’s cartoon characters subsist in a far-fetched other-world defined by a dizzying succession of births, deaths and marriages.

Forever dusting down their Sunday best clothes, TV’s top cardboard cut-outs lurch from one rancid ceremony to the next. Their boundless enthusiasm for these events is baffling… because they always go badly wrong. Always.

Ludicrous weddings are beset by the obligatory last minute hitches, crap christenings are usually embroiled in some low rent “femleee” drama and funerals are a dead loss. Interrupted by loudmouths who are barely housetrained, let alone church-trained, sombre services invariably descend into farce.

Which brings us to EastEnders and the latest unruly gathering of the Beeb’s Cockney rabble. After the last-minute swimming-pool hitch at Ronnie Mitchell’s nuptials (the bride and her sister drowned) it was time for massed ranks of Albert Square’s emotionally incontinent morons to pay their last disrespects.

Naturally, they wheeled out Aunt Sal to be theatrically horrible to all and sundry. Uncouthly shouting from the pews, sour Sal told Ronnie and Roxy’s sobbing mother Glenda: “I want to thank you for abandoning them because they had such fabulous lives.”

Deranged Ronnie murdering at least two people and stealing Kat’s baby. High-flying Roxy spooning out curry and flogging cheap tat at the market while sleeping with every bloke in town and taking lots of drugs. Fabulous lives?

But back at the funeral the good news was that Ronnie’s grieving widower attended at all. Sensibly deciding that bereaved kids Amy, Ricky and Matthew should be spared the misery of a congregation of weeping adults, Jack snarled: “I ain’t going eivver!”

Then he changed his mind and announced that not only would he be going… but so would the children. All four of the them must have regretted it when they had to sit through Phil’s godawful poem. “Ronnie’s the snowflake that kisses your nose, Roxy’s the frost that nips your toes.” What? Eat your heart out, Wordsworth.

Inevitably, Jack spoiled the sad occasion by storming off as Roxy’s coffin was lowered into her grave. He blames the coke-addled blonde for the double tragedy. “Get back ‘ere!” yelled Phil, to no avail. Jack was outta there.

Later, after Glenda’s slimy son Danny demanded £20,000 to persuade his mum not to adopt Matthew, Jack beat the hell out of him. Blackmail is wrong. But so is grievous bodily harm. In real life, such a vicious attack would land dangerous Jack with a lengthy prison sentence. Luckily, in Walford’s desolate dystopia crimes of violence are rarely punished.

Meanwhile, weird liar Lee Carter promised his dim wife Whitney: “No more secrets.” An old favourite that means the opposite. Then, predictably, Whit found her hopeless husband’s payslip revealing he was earning less than half what he’d told her. Not surprising considering he hardly ever actually goes to work.

“I’ve been in a bad place,” said Lee. What bad place? That shabby shed at the allotments where he hides when he should be at the office?

In other nonsensical news, crazy Kim announced to Denise: “You’re dead to me.” This was because Denise had exercised her inalienable right as a woman to give up her baby for adoption. In real life, no sentient human being would react like Kim.

And over on Planet Queen Vic, the inappropriately named Babe’s beer-at-breakfast scam is so outlandishly ridiculous it hurts. Quite apart from the absurdity of everyone cramming into a boozer for bacon and eggs, Babe is secretly pouring halves of bitter from the coffee pots. Her grinning customers are thrilled by this. Why? If you’re addicted enough to crave ale in the early morning you don’t need to go to a dodgy pub.

In short, not a single storyline is remotely realistic. Suddenly, Glenda is moving in with her hated son-in-law Jack to help raise the youngsters. Good luck with that. And Louise has joined the growing list of teenage girls tediously obsessing on their adolescent sex lives. A sure sign she’ll soon be pregnant, she insisted: “I intend to stay a virgin for the foreseeable future.” Good luck with that.