Tales of the TARDIS/Kabin
Unlike the "real" Guestbook, Chronicles threads are shown in chronological order, so you should read from the top down.
Unlike the "real" Guestbook, Chronicles threads are shown in chronological order, so you should read from the top down.
Introduction:
Have you ever wondered how there can be so much space in the Kabin? Or how
No.1 grew large enough, overnight, to accommodate Mike Baldwin's 60th birthday
bash, together with a cast of thousands, and STILL have room for three couples'
ballroom dancing? Perhaps this thread sheds some light on the mystery.....
When discussing Chris Quinten, especially after researching his life for ten years, please be careful to spell his name QUINTEN, the same as his father did. Thank you. Alec's mystery flat: When the set designers of the Tardis retired from Dr Who, they came to Granada specifically for the purpose of designing Coronation Street Interiors that exist in dual time/space continuums. Rita and Alec's mansions represent the epitome of their art.
I happen to know that there are sections of the Kabin we have never been shown - the large area occupied by Rita's Shoe and Bag repair service, for example, the drycleaning plant and her rather abortive attempt at opening a garden centre.
Similarly, we have never been permitted to see the section of her flat which contains the ballroom - but then Coronation Street has never been particularly interested in her background as a queen of competitive rhumba (Wolverhampton and Northern Districts All-Comers Challenge Champion, 1957 and 1961). For some reason Rita uses the splendid trophy as a door stop to her en suite, and we've not been allowed to see it. So far. It's rather like the America's Cup, only more elaborate.
Alec's games room with its splendid Victorian snooker table has also been kept under wraps. He must have been the only man in Weatherfield to have a slatebed as well as a waterbed.
I know these things.
Dale the First October 4
DALE Now you explain it, it all makes perfect sense. Now can you tell us what Sharon will be using the snooker table for?
Nearly four years ago, I explained that I had chosen my e-mail name (ferdie) to commemorate my
cat, Ferdie, who had been diagnosed with cancer and given only a few days to live. He battled on,
surprised us all (and the vet) and managed to hang on until last weekend, when it all became too
much for him. He was a true battler of a cat, always happy and always Top Cat in our household.
His sister (Paradise, like my nickname on #coro) is not showing a due sense of bereavement:
she's luxuriating in the bliss of not being kicked out of her chair, argued with and pushed around.
She never stops purring and has carried sibling lack-of-love to new heights.
Barbara
London, England October 4
As you so rightly surmise, Barbara, Sharon is not a snooker player. Granada have begged me on bended knees not to reveal the purpose for which Sharon will be using the snooker table, as the actors do not yet know the storyline. However, as we're all family here and very good at keeping secrets, I will give you lot a sneak preview.
At first Sharon contemplates going in with Roy Cropper and Fred Elliott in a new venture to introduce the good burghers of Weatherfield to the delights of beef jerky. The possessor of a large flat surface with a strong overhead low light, she lays out the strips of prepared meat on sheets of waxed paper and switches BOTH snooker table lights on to give it that slow, even drying that cures the meat. Fred and Roy intended to open a chain of Jerky Bars across the northwest, to counter the rising threat of Curry in a Hurry parlours which have opened in recent years, treacherously obtaining their meat from non-Elliott sources. Their chain would be called The Perky Jerky and would feature such northern favourites as Murky Jerky (jerky with mushy peas), Worky Jerky (businessman's quick lunch), and the popular poultry line, Turkey Jerky.
Alas, their plans of gourmet heaven collapse in hellish ashes when Natalie's cat, lost and starving these many months, finds its way into the flat via the long-forgotten cat flap. In Sharon's absence, it eats the entire first month's stock of partly cured jerky and burps its last, fat and happy, right in the centre of the snooker table, with a big grin on its face (Smirky Jerky).
Fred and Roy want to start all over, but Sharon is distraught. A cat lover from way back, she cannot bear the thought of the harm she has inflicted on one of God's creatures, and becomes deranged. In a pathetic attempt to erase the memory of the sated fated feline on the green baize, she hangs a card in Rita's window and starts offering a therapeutic Swedish massage service - on the very table that was the cause of her mental distress. Her good intentions are misconstrued, however - that poor woman is doomed to be the eternal victim of bad men - when a passing taxi driver mistakes "therapeutic" for another service altogether and harsh words are exchanged. (It's not his fault, he went to Weatherfield Comprehensive and Ken Barlow taught him to read.) In anguish and despair, Sharon sells him the snooker table for a song and replaces it with a neat stretch of parquet flooring and a decent stereo system
She and Rita are going back into the Rhumba business together, teaching Latin American footwork to the suave sophisticates of Coronation Street. Tyrone's coming on a treat.
So that's what happened to the snooker table. But it doesn't happen for a couple of months yet, so of course they have time to alter the storyline if you indicate you don't like it much.
RIP Ferdie, this was in your honour.
Dale the First October 4
If you have any archived material suitable for inclusion in the Chronicles, please email it to me: digger@corrie.net