Soaps? Never watch ’em, but …

It must be, ooh, fifty years since I saw any soaps.

But on Friday, channel-hopping before the showdown between Chinese, My Kun Chi Plei and North Korean, So Dark Dung in the Leeds International Piano Competition, I happened across Hollyoaks on Channel 4/7+1 OD.

I stuck with it to see what I’d been missing. Over the next half hour a gay trio, Brendan, Eoghan and Ste, exchanged longing looks and bitchy threats, and cafe owner Tony was extremely nice to customers as fiancée Cindy, to whom he’d been married before, was having it away in the cafe toilet with Rhys, whose girlfriend Jacqui McQueen was upstairs having her sixth baby in two years alongside sister Theresa having her fifth.

When that was all over, the entire cast attended the funeral of Lynsey (who’d been murdered earlier), except for Mercedes, who was in care and watched the hearse go by from an upstairs window in the psychiatric unit, cackling as she saw the funeral cortege blocked in the narrow street by a broken down car being beaten over the bonnet by its driver with a dead branch.

The whole episode was overlaid by a James Blunt loop, though I’m not sure if this was to match the mood or because the programme had been reinvented as Hollyoaks – the Musical since I was away.

Toying with the remote again, I found an episode of Emmerdale just starting on ITV2+1+8=11Plus. For a rural community there was a disappointing absence of livestock, but I decided to see it through. In the ten minutes before the ads Cain Dingle put a crowbar to every glass in the Woolpack, Georgia demonstrated why it’s never a good idea having mother to stay, and Debbie Dingle squared up to four other women saying,

‘You think I’m upset? You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

In the second half things warmed up. Flat-nosed Jimmy King rushed into the glassless Woolpack to say three bodies had been found in the landfill, followed by a stranger in a beanie hat claiming he’d struck gold in the sheepless hills at the edge of the village. Half the customers dashed off to the landfill, and the rest to the gold mine where they found a makeshift notice from David Cameron saying it had already been sequestered for the Big Society, but that they were welcome to look around. While they were up there, Sainsbury’s built a new superstore where the shop had been, Lisa Dingle browsed through the Bible to choose a name for her fifteenth child, due at 7.22, while Zak, who was standing at the window nonchalantly reading a letter saying the Dingles had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, screamed helplessly as a school bus tore past, clearly out of control, and embedded itself in the entrance to the gold mine, exploding on impact and trapping the would-be prospectors inside – a bold move by the producers since the episode was going out live to mark the programme’s hundred and twenty fifth year.

This was thirsty work. But making a cuppa before the Piano Competition was a mistake, if only because I didn’t switch to BBC4+SkyPlus+3 (where x=y) before I left the room. Instead, I found ITV2+1+8=11Plus had already tripped into Coronation Street, or Corrie as everyone now calls it, and I was teased into following for the next twenty five minutes.

In that time, Norris, dressed as a waitress, served Greek food at a theme night in Roy’s Rolls Cafe, and in the Rovers Return Tracy Barlow told seven different men that she was pregnant by them, whereupon they all gladly proposed only to have their worlds fall apart when she told them she was joking, while Ken and Deirdre sat looking old, and Lewis (typecast Nigel Havers) chatted up three Mancunian bar assistants with the telling line, ‘Does every woman in Manchester have an orange face?’ before going back to Audrey’s and taking her on the kitchen table.

The hiatus after the ads – when a group of old ladies with mauve hair and pacamacs on a Granada Studios Tour failed to hear the guide’s instruction to pretend they were extras, and not point umbrellas or make faces at the camera – was soon overcome by a camp guy in the factory ‘oohing and aahing’ like Kenny Everett, and Steve and Michelle dumping each other twice, leading to Steve taking out Sophie Webster for an evening that was going swimmingly until the infatuated girl stepped in front of a passing car, unaware that her garage-owning dad Kevin was at that very moment sat in a customer’s 4×4 ending it all and had only been saved when a Boeing 737 mistook the railway track for Manchester Airport runway and demolished the viaduct, the resonance from which dislodged the hose leading to his exhaust.

A nice extra touch to celebrate ninety nine years of the programme was having the cast and mauve-haired ladies seen at all times enjoying a Mr Whippy 99; no surprise that Cadbury’s were sponsoring the episode, which was being streamed live.

At last I was ready to relax with whatever was left of some quality piano playing. But just as I was switching over to BBC4+Skyplus+3 (where x=y) my front door flew open and Phil Mitchell barged in with a production team and six cast from East Enders.

‘Sorted,’ he said, blatantly dropping his ‘t’. ‘Nah shut it – right!’

‘Right,’ I whispered, closing the door as asked.

It seemed that to celebrate two hundred years of the programme, all week they’d been transmitting the East Enders Roadshow live on RedButtonDave+2, and my house had been randomly selected to host Friday’s episode. Once they’d covered my Ikea furnishings with grey tarpaulin, Phil threw Sharon across a small formica-top table in the centre of the living room with such force that, through a handily placed mike, you could hear the air rushing out of her like a collapsing balloon.

‘Is this what yer want, is it? Is this what yer want?’ he yelled.

‘No, Phil, no,’ she squealed.

‘Yer dad’d turn in his grave, yer slut,’ he said, polishing the table with her tangled, yellow hair.

I wasn’t sure exactly what she’d done, but it must have been bad to get such harsh treatment.

The staircase was a good vantage point for all three sets. In my kitchen, which had been darkened to camouflage the orange Le Creuset Ovenware, I could see Max Branning counting money at a second formica table.

‘Look, son,’ he said to protégé, Joey. ‘A monkey. Lemon squeezy. That’s how yer do it. Keep yer eyes open, son. Take yer chances.’

I couldn’t see a monkey, but there was a lot of money. A few days later I discovered that as soon as he arrived, Max had sold a motor with a bad oil leak and no MOT to the elderly lady at number 5.

Meanwhile, in the small, spotlit gravel garden at the back, they’d thrown green netting over my choice pots, and forced the six Polish neighbours to hang around as unpaid extras.

‘You sure you got the right immigration papers, son?’ the producer had said when a skinny Pole objected. ‘It’d only take one phone call, yer know.’

As the cameras rolled, Ian Beale emerged from the shadows and head-butted Alfie Moon who was having a quiet fag.

‘Think it’s funny, do yer? Think it’s funny?’ he said, landing a blinding blow at the top of Alfie’s nose, with the Poles muttering away in the background.

‘Nah, but this is,’ said Alfie, pulling an eight inch blade from his back pocket and taking Ian out with two swift thrusts. ‘You ’ad it coming to yer,’ he said, as the camera zoomed in on him hiding the crimson-stained knife in my pink hollyhocks.

I was frightened by the chasm between their unsmiling world and my happy one. Only five minutes in, and my home was a battlefield. Powerless to respond to victims or perpetrators, and sensing the enormity of the social issues facing Walford, I felt myself being dragged lower and lower …

*

I was kept under observation in Hereford Hospital, but tests showed I’d not ingested enough paracetamol and dihydrocodeine to cause lasting damage. I thought it a bit harsh that they discharged me on the condition I never tried watching East Enders again. I mean, I hadn’t invited them in, and it was Max Branning who’d kindly called the ambulance when he spotted me swigging from the pill bottle. And after all, I had landed myself a cameo role in a live broadcast.

A few days later I watched So Dark Dung steal the show with a moody rendition of Tchaikovsy’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in a repeat showing of the Competition on Dave Really+1+7HD I Player Ja Vu. All the while my finger was twitching over the ITV1+5 button to check how many passers-by Cain Dingle had given a good seeing-to since my last visit. I resisted. But I can always go back in fifty years to catch up.

Paul Costello © October 2012

Web:        www.paulcostello.me

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Bang to Rights


Bang to Rights

 

Egypt is setting down clear markers in its drive to democracy. According to Arab media, the newly elected parliament is proposing a law giving men the legal right to have sex with their wives up to six hours after they have died.

Now call me old-fashioned – but I’d always been led to believe sex was something to be enjoyed between two consenting people. Where is the consent in this? Even if the wife signed up to it beforehand, like in a pre-nuptial, there’d be no opportunity to change her mind. And unless it’s physically or spiritually possible for a dead person to be stimulated in the same way as a live one, I can’t see where her enjoyment would come from.

Admittedly there’ve been times when I’ve thought that the woman in my bed has not displayed much enthusiasm, and no doubt some have felt the same of me. But to know this in advance would seem about as exciting a prospect as getting Isla the Inflatable out of the bottom drawer. 

It also raises a number of technical questions. Would the dead woman still be the man’s wife? And why six hours? Is that the amount of time it would be pleasurable before say the body starts to emit gases or stiffen up. Perhaps it’s the longest a man’s interest is likely to last? With five point four minutes the average before a man reaches orgasm, rising by a power of three for the next two climaxes, add in progressively longer recovery periods and six hours should do nicely before calling it a day.

And when does the six hours start? Maybe the man could delay calling the doctor to squeeze out more time. Or what if the six hours is up and he hasn’t quite finished? Does the long arm of the law step in?

‘Right sir, that’ it. Time’s up. It’s not our fault you started with less than five point four minutes to go.’

What’s more worrying is that Egypt is not that far away – about the same flight time as say Tenerife or Cyprus. Imagine at 10.34 p.m. (apparently the average most popular time for intercourse) listening to your neighbours through the thin, papyrus walls of a Sharm El Sheikh hotel. As the man races to his finale, with the woman’s enjoyment conspicuous by her silence, wouldn’t it be tempting to think:

‘I wonder if she’s … ? Ah well it shouldn’t last more than another five hours or so.’

The Thomas Cook terms and conditions would have to state:

Balcony and sea view £2, Air conditioning £3, Aud-erism £5. Married couples please note that if wives die during the holiday, local laws apply.

I accept that every culture has its own ideas and values. There must be hundreds of rituals across the world, many involving a lack of female rights, that would make the six-hour rule look saintly. And at least this way the woman de facto suffers in silence. But assuming most women don’t die suddenly, wouldn’t it be a darn sight more enjoyable to go for so-called ‘farewell intercourse’ while she’s on her death bed but technically still alive. At least she might be able to help with proceedings; and she’d have the chance to say no if she didn’t want it, and to enjoy it if she did – a proper, shared goodbye.