You know those things that make you feel guilty because you do them too much? Smoking, drinking, eating unhealthy food and all that. Well, here’s what I overdo to my eternal shame… rave reviews of the BBC’s laughably ludicrous soap opera EastEnders.
You know those things that make you feel guilty because you do them too much? Smoking, drinking, eating unhealthy food and all that.
Well, here’s what I overdo to my eternal shame… rave reviews of the BBC’s laughably ludicrous soap opera EastEnders. I’ve tried to give up, but can’t. So sod it, stand by for another one.
Even by Albert Square’s low standards of plausibility, the current stupid state of affairs is way beyond the outer limits. Nothing rings true. And the mind-numbing storylines are about as interesting as an accountants’ convention.
Gormless kids Shak, Bex (Common and Bex?), horrible Louise and their dismally dull school chums are turning the shabby show into a Poundland version of Grange Hill. New-headed Michelle appears to be having an affair with her American great-grandson, some dork called Preston. She used to be his teacher… now she’s giving him squalid lessons in inappropriate love. Uplifting stuff. And oh dear what can the matter be, Dot Branning’s cat got stuck in the lavatory. Wow.
Meanwhile, I’m bored to tears with Jane in her swish new wheelchair, a special Valentine’s gift from her incurably romantic husband Ian Beale. Just get her back on her feet, enough is enough. Jack’s bid to keep drowned cokehead Roxy’s name off her joint headstone with dearly-departed baby snatching murderer Ronnie was just bizarre. And weird liar wife-beater Lee Carter walking out on dim Whitney defied all logic. Which is probably why his irrational father Mick ordered him to do it.
But amid this swirling mass of lunacy, one particularly mad storyline is standing out from the crazy crowd. Step forward the scintillating saga of the Queen Vic’s stupefying theme nights. They keep on coming. And coming. And coming.
In a feeble fortnight of non-stop insanity, the world’s worst pub has treated its long-suffering regulars to Chinese night, Swedish night and French night. Each one proving to be more stunningly successful than the last. Not forgetting anti-Valentine’s night. After fancy dress-obsessed Johnny Carter explained the ridiculous concept of his evening for lonely singletons, easily impressed Mick shook his head in wonder and gasped: “Genius.” Yeah right.
Chinese night involved a bit of soy sauce and a few lanterns dangling over the bar. Swedish night starred a cardboard cut-out of Malmo born soccer hero Zlatan Ibrahimović. French night featured quick-change Johnny in his alleged ooh la la costume that was more Venetian gondolier than Paris. And all of these spectacular non-events offered the relevant foreign food.
Against all expectations Swedish night exceeded the triumph of Chinese night. And after its deliciously exotic menu of cheese, chips and sliced bread hit le spot, surly Shirley sensationally revealed: “French night went down a storm.” As opposed to like a lead balloon.
Now get ready for – drum roll – Polish night! Yay. In preparation for the piss poor party, old Shirl’s busy buying Eastern block-food for East End people. Good news for Conrad the Pole whose shop has suddenly cropped up in the market. Bad news for those who just want to go for drink at the their local.
Almost as far-fetched as Babe’s breakfasts at the boozer for which, in real life, there would be no demand whatsoever. Even if the daft old boiler was offering illegal pints of beer with eggs and bacon. Apart from chronic alcoholics, who wants that? On the off chance you do, get your ale from the supermarket. Then you don’t have to break the law.
Talking of real life, pubs are closing all over the country at an alarming rate of knots. Outmoded 70s-style neighbourhood drinking holes like the Vic are dying a death due to lack of interest. But over at the Beeb’s unlikely Cockney paradise it’s knees-up time round the clock. Twenty four-seven. Cheers!
In the weird world of unacceptably unrealistic EastEnders all they have to do is hang up a few flags, serve the kind of food that in London would be vastly superior at any nearby restaurant… and get Johnny to don another of his dubious outfits. Then simply wait for the money roll in. It’s absurd. Make it stop.