BlackKat
11-12-2005, 13:27
Saturday December 10, 2005
I need something special for Janine, my little angel," Frank Butcher must have told the lady in Walford's Clinton Cards, eyeing the rows of Forever Friends balloons and Little Books Of Zen. "Ah, perfect!" Frank smiled, spotting the aisle of lickle cute fluffy teddy bears, an ideal gift for his demonic, moon-faced daughter. "Just like my little Janine - soft-hearted, cuddly and adorable."
Poor Frank, back in Walford for the first time in years to find it's still home, but not as he knows it. Barry is dead (Janine killed him). Laura's dead too (Janine's accused of killing her). Den's alive, no, sorry, dead again. Frank's son Ricky is gone (last seen eating earwigs in return for cash over on ITV) and even Frank's beloved car yard is now owned by arch-enemy Phil Mitchell and managed by Patrick Trueman. Yes, Patrick Trueman, who until three weeks ago had no experience of car sales, but is coping calmly and cheerfully, as if it's no big fuss, as opposed to Frank, who spent a decade standing knee-deep in Austin Allegros, screaming his head off, wearing a tartan bobbled golfing cap and a face of purest beetroot. How did Frank make it all look so difficult?
With all this in mind, Frank has chosen to be in denial about his evil daughter Janine. Obviously, we viewers know that Frank's teddy bear will be shaken, decapitated and have its gizzards strewn all over B-wing within 10 minutes of Frank handing it over. After all, this is the woman who laughed as her husband toppled down a mountain. But Frank refuses to see Janine's satanic side, even when Big Pat shouted it 10 times in Frank's ear-hole.
Saying that, Pat shouted a lot of things. She also shouted she didn't have feelings for Frank any more, 10 minutes before flinging off her Marshall Ward's catalogue shift-frock and having passionate sex with him. Yes, Pat swore she'd never get involved with Frank again, but this was soon scuppered when he appeared in the lobby of Walford crown court looking leaner, fitter and hipper in a smart suit, having ditched the sheepskin coat, the Lyle & Scott jumpers and, thank Christ, those dreadful tinted bifocals that, aside from Frank Butcher, were only ever worn by terrifying men lurking around junior schools waiting impatiently for hand-stand season. After some smooth-talking by Frank to Pat, Frank's next line of woo-ment was to whisk her back to his hotel, which appeared to be a Novotel in Canning Town, but in Pat's eyes was evidently the height of luxury. (Corby trouser presses and Bourbon creams have yet to reach Walford.) This will certainly be one in the eye for Peggy Mitchell, who has only just forgiven Pat for stealing Frank when she was married to him.
Over at the Vic, Peggy's troubles don't seem to have decreased now the Mitchells' name is above the door. Within days of moving in, Peggy realised she needed a bar manager. She can't possibly run the Vic herself, what with her being too small to reach the optics and too belligerent to pour an entire round without getting into a scrap. Worse still, if anything in the vaguest bit celebratory happens, Peggy can't help but shout: "Everyone! Dwinks on the '****!" thus squandering the entire day's profits.
The Vic does have one bar-maid, Tracy, who has been there longer than anyone and could run the place with her eyes closed, but unfortunately she uses her shifts to practice strict silent Quaker contemplation. This is a good tactic for avoiding Ian Beale and his super-exciting chats about fishcakes, but not an ideal attribute for a manager.
Peggy's top candidate for looking after the Vic during Christmas 2005 was Alfie Moon. Tried, trusted and so stupid he's probably forgotten Christmas 2004 by now - when the Mitchells bailed out of the Vic suddenly - leaving him and his nan homeless. Alfie could certainly do with a job, it might take his mind off poor Nana and stop him tormenting the dying woman with day-trips and mini-breaks. Nana Moon is scheduled to die at some point, and sooner rather than later if Alfie keeps up their relentless schedule. Oh how Nana must rue the day she told Alfie she had "things to do before she died". She hadn't realised Alfie got that beside-the-toilet novelty book for Christmas some years back and would quickly be dusting it off and planning dozens of adrenaline-filled "experiences". Let's hope Nana shuffles off before Alfie makes her run with bulls in Pamplona or fling herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Over at the Fowler house, Sonia and Martin have bickered for almost seven weeks now over Sonia's friend Naomi, who Martin sees as a threat and Sonia says isn't. And she wasn't, until Sonia got off with her. Sonia is certain she's not a lesbian, but Naomi is confused and in need of advice. And who better to turn to than Pauline Fowler, Sonia's mother-in-law, her of the curdled-milk expression. Pauline's a little happier these days, now she's dating Joe Macer (and probably trying her best to block out the fact that whenever Joe whispers sultry nothings into her ear, it's the same voice that narrated Mr Benn and King Rollo).
Link is here (http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguide/columnists/story/0,,1662534,00.html) if you want to read about the other soaps. :)
I need something special for Janine, my little angel," Frank Butcher must have told the lady in Walford's Clinton Cards, eyeing the rows of Forever Friends balloons and Little Books Of Zen. "Ah, perfect!" Frank smiled, spotting the aisle of lickle cute fluffy teddy bears, an ideal gift for his demonic, moon-faced daughter. "Just like my little Janine - soft-hearted, cuddly and adorable."
Poor Frank, back in Walford for the first time in years to find it's still home, but not as he knows it. Barry is dead (Janine killed him). Laura's dead too (Janine's accused of killing her). Den's alive, no, sorry, dead again. Frank's son Ricky is gone (last seen eating earwigs in return for cash over on ITV) and even Frank's beloved car yard is now owned by arch-enemy Phil Mitchell and managed by Patrick Trueman. Yes, Patrick Trueman, who until three weeks ago had no experience of car sales, but is coping calmly and cheerfully, as if it's no big fuss, as opposed to Frank, who spent a decade standing knee-deep in Austin Allegros, screaming his head off, wearing a tartan bobbled golfing cap and a face of purest beetroot. How did Frank make it all look so difficult?
With all this in mind, Frank has chosen to be in denial about his evil daughter Janine. Obviously, we viewers know that Frank's teddy bear will be shaken, decapitated and have its gizzards strewn all over B-wing within 10 minutes of Frank handing it over. After all, this is the woman who laughed as her husband toppled down a mountain. But Frank refuses to see Janine's satanic side, even when Big Pat shouted it 10 times in Frank's ear-hole.
Saying that, Pat shouted a lot of things. She also shouted she didn't have feelings for Frank any more, 10 minutes before flinging off her Marshall Ward's catalogue shift-frock and having passionate sex with him. Yes, Pat swore she'd never get involved with Frank again, but this was soon scuppered when he appeared in the lobby of Walford crown court looking leaner, fitter and hipper in a smart suit, having ditched the sheepskin coat, the Lyle & Scott jumpers and, thank Christ, those dreadful tinted bifocals that, aside from Frank Butcher, were only ever worn by terrifying men lurking around junior schools waiting impatiently for hand-stand season. After some smooth-talking by Frank to Pat, Frank's next line of woo-ment was to whisk her back to his hotel, which appeared to be a Novotel in Canning Town, but in Pat's eyes was evidently the height of luxury. (Corby trouser presses and Bourbon creams have yet to reach Walford.) This will certainly be one in the eye for Peggy Mitchell, who has only just forgiven Pat for stealing Frank when she was married to him.
Over at the Vic, Peggy's troubles don't seem to have decreased now the Mitchells' name is above the door. Within days of moving in, Peggy realised she needed a bar manager. She can't possibly run the Vic herself, what with her being too small to reach the optics and too belligerent to pour an entire round without getting into a scrap. Worse still, if anything in the vaguest bit celebratory happens, Peggy can't help but shout: "Everyone! Dwinks on the '****!" thus squandering the entire day's profits.
The Vic does have one bar-maid, Tracy, who has been there longer than anyone and could run the place with her eyes closed, but unfortunately she uses her shifts to practice strict silent Quaker contemplation. This is a good tactic for avoiding Ian Beale and his super-exciting chats about fishcakes, but not an ideal attribute for a manager.
Peggy's top candidate for looking after the Vic during Christmas 2005 was Alfie Moon. Tried, trusted and so stupid he's probably forgotten Christmas 2004 by now - when the Mitchells bailed out of the Vic suddenly - leaving him and his nan homeless. Alfie could certainly do with a job, it might take his mind off poor Nana and stop him tormenting the dying woman with day-trips and mini-breaks. Nana Moon is scheduled to die at some point, and sooner rather than later if Alfie keeps up their relentless schedule. Oh how Nana must rue the day she told Alfie she had "things to do before she died". She hadn't realised Alfie got that beside-the-toilet novelty book for Christmas some years back and would quickly be dusting it off and planning dozens of adrenaline-filled "experiences". Let's hope Nana shuffles off before Alfie makes her run with bulls in Pamplona or fling herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Over at the Fowler house, Sonia and Martin have bickered for almost seven weeks now over Sonia's friend Naomi, who Martin sees as a threat and Sonia says isn't. And she wasn't, until Sonia got off with her. Sonia is certain she's not a lesbian, but Naomi is confused and in need of advice. And who better to turn to than Pauline Fowler, Sonia's mother-in-law, her of the curdled-milk expression. Pauline's a little happier these days, now she's dating Joe Macer (and probably trying her best to block out the fact that whenever Joe whispers sultry nothings into her ear, it's the same voice that narrated Mr Benn and King Rollo).
Link is here (http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguide/columnists/story/0,,1662534,00.html) if you want to read about the other soaps. :)