Wednesday 1 April

Dear Update Readers,

Mothers - don't you just love 'em? Mine has phoned me three times today, each call more surreal than the one before. The first came at seven-thirty this morning. "It's me," she said. "I'm just phoning to tell you that I love you very much, and that I think I've finally come to terms with you, er, lifestyle." I rub the sleep from my eyes and pinch myself to see whether I'm still dreaming. I am gobsmacked, naturally, and quite touched, and I am about to tell her so when she suddenly screeches "April Fool!" down the line and then hangs up. Later, she phones me at work to say she's sorry and that it was just a joke. Then she asks whether Jan and I are still going down to her place for Easter. I tell her for the umpteenth time that Jan and I are no longer an item, and that come Easter, he'll be in Houston with his new boyfriend. "You're better off single," she says. "Besides, I've never trusted the Norwegians; look at Quisling!" It's pointless trying to remind her that Jan was - still is - a Swede, not a Norwegian, and even if I wanted to remind her, the lump in my throat wouldn't let me. I hang up, put on "I Will Survive" at full blast, and get down to some work. My mother's third call comes later on this evening, just as CS is about to start. "It's the new priest, Father O'Sullivan," she moans. "I think he's one of your lot." "Do you mean he's an academic?" I venture, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "No, you eejit," she says. "You know exactly what I mean." Well of course I do. My mother adheres to the principle of 'guilty until proven innocent', and assumes all men are 'on the other bus' unless extremely convincing evidence to the contrary is forthcoming. "What makes you think Father O'Sullivan is gay?" I ask her. "Well, he's forty-six," she says, "and he's still single." I remind her that this is by no means an unusual scenario for a Catholic priest, but she dismisses it out of hand. "What I mean," she continues, "is that our old priest, Father Donnelly, was bedding every woman in the parish and had at least two illegitimate children to my knowledge. But Father O'Sullivan? Well there's not even a whisper of skirt anywhere. Besides, he home-bakes his Eucharist wafers with a touch of saffron and just a hint of oregano. Isn't that proof enough?" At times, arguing with my mother is totally pointless and so I say nothing. But her little diatribe reminds me of what I've been missing since I left the Catholic church: the intrigue, the political in-fighting, the scandal and the sleaze. I'm sure that's all my mother goes to church for.

Having said that, although I'm a lapsed Catholic, I do still attend Mass now and again. I go to the 11.30 a.m. service at our local church and, without a hint of exaggeration, it's the most fun you can have without stripping off! They bring in the choir boys and the whole church is filled with music and candles, bells and smells - and enough flowers to put Kew Gardens to shame. Everyone gets dolled up to the nines and the priest gets to wear a big hat and a lovely frock. And what's more, it's totally free! This never ceases to amaze me because if they held it at 11.30 at night and got a proper drinks license, they could easily charge 5 quid at the door and make an absolute bomb!

While we're on the subject of organised religion, why in heaven's name do we have to wait two hours for our beloved CS, as we did tonight, while twenty-two grown men kick a ball around? I'm tired of these schedulers who think that international football should take precedence over a national institution like the Street. Football is fine in its place - but its place is not Wednesday evening at 7.30. Besides, when you've seen one match, you've seen them all. It's time they thought about changing the rules and beefing it up a little. For a start, they could play the actual game in the dressing-room and then come out and have their shower on the pitch. Alternatively, any player who fouls another could be made to strip off completely and play the rest of the game as nature intended. The viewing figures, amongst other thing, would shoot up immediately, and I for one wouldn't miss a single match. But I guess I'll always be a rugby man at heart - once a rugger bugger, always a rugger bugger - and to me, football will always remain a mystery. Along with all-in wrestling, another sport I've never quite understood. I mean, if it's 'all-in', why wrestle? I certainly don't. And nor does my friend Ruth - I know that for a fact because I've seen the photographs.

But enough of this digression. Here is the update:

The episode opens in the Big House, where a bemused Jackie Dobbs is watching the Weatherfield One as the latter pads aimlessly around the cell. The Drear wants to do something - anything - to pass the time, and in the absence of root vegetables her choice is somewhat limited. Jackie advises her not to rush, to take her time with everything. In prison, she says, time is all you've got, and the secret is to measure it carefully and do everything s - l - o - w - l - y. While the Drear is up and dressed within seconds, Jackie deliberately takes ten minutes just to put her top on, and the rest of the hour dreaming about who will take it off again. The Drear shows little interest, reiterating once more that she is innocent and shouldn't be here. Jackie says that Deirdre will feel much better once she has has been for a swim in the pool, taken a dip in the jacuzzi, and experienced a body massage from the soft and capable hands of Mr Watson, the prison masseur. On hearing these words, Drear's face very nearly lights up; suddenly, prison doesn't seem such a bad thing after all. She wonders aloud why no-one at reception told her about swimming pools and massages. Jackie puts it down to lack of communication. "They don't tell you anything," she says. "I bet they didn't even tell you the date. So, Deirdre, what date is it?" The truth slowly dawns on the carrotless diva that it is indeed April 1st and that she has been well and truly 'had'. Cue a fearsome glower of anger and disappointment on the Drear's face, while Jackie Dobbs rolls around in paroxysms of laughter.

Back in the Street, Curly is asking Angie why she is going to work so early. Angie's worried look speaks volumes: Underworld has been doing so well, she says, but now Mike Baldwin claims that profits are in fact down. Indeed, minutes later she discovers why: a cursory glance at the company cheque book reveals that 10,000 smackeroonies have disappeared from the Underworld account, only to reappear shortly in the coffers of the law firm which handled Deirdre's court case. Angie, who seems to be the only person in the Street - male or female - who can stand up to Baldwin, is understandably aggrieved and demands to know what he is playing at. "It's business," says Baldwin. "Yes," sneers Angie, "funny business." Mike tries to reassure her that it is not a fiddle and that he is simply running the cheque through the business account for 'tax purposes'. Furthermore, he hadn't told Angie because he didn't think she'd mind. (Didn't care, more like. I mean, this is the man who was ready to smuggle the Drear out of the country on his wife's passport because he assumed Alma "wouldn't mind". Furthermore, he was totally oblivious to the fact that his support for Deirdre was clearly hurting Alma, who, if not outrightly jealous, did at least have cause for a certain amount of doubt and suspicion, especially given Mike's track record. Why on earth does the wondrous Alma stay with this smarmy, insensitive, snotty-nosed, self-seeking jumped-up little East End barrow boy? It makes you wonder whether he was circumcised at birth, because if he was, then they definitely threw away the wrong bit.)

Back at the Big House, Jackie Dobbs is berating the Drear for not eating breakfast for the third morning in a row. (Not that Jackie minds that much, of course, especially since it goes down her gullet instead). Deirdre says that she has no appetite, and that unless carrots are involved, she doesn't want to know. Jackie suggests to Deirdre that she take some classes and learn a new skill. Deirdre says that she has no interest in classes, and unless carrots are involved, she doesn't want to know. Surprised to learn that Deirdre was once the manager of a travel agency, Jackie says that however elevated her social and professional status, there are always new skills that a woman like the Drear may like to learn. Tailoring, for example. Deirdre doesn't agree, adding that in any case she simply wouldn't fit in. This elicits a contemptuous sneer from Jackie Dobbs. "Are you saying we're not good enough for you?" she asks, menacingly. "Because it's exactly that kind of snotty-nosed, stuck-up attitude that will get you into trouble." The Drear finally loses her cool and screams that she "couldn't give a toss" - unless, presumably, there were a carrot involved - and besides, "why should I want to learn a new skill at my time of life?" The vehemence of Drear's little outburst quite impresses her thick-skinned cell-mate. "That's better," says Jackie. "With that kind of attitude, you might just get through all this. So tailoring it is, then?" Exasperated, the Drear has no option but to acquiesce. Even without the carrots.

In a very different kind of prison cell, Kevin Webster, Rursie and Surfie are having breakfast. Rursie, who is to acting what Stevie Wonder is to bird-watching, is telling her father that there is monster behind him. Kevin wonders for a split-second whether Natalie might have slipped in behind him while he wasn't looking, but it all turns out to be little Rursie's idea of an April Fool's jape. And how they all laugh! At this point, Sally - slowly backsliding into the role of the 'little woman', more fool her - emerges from the kitchen and the touching family tableau is complete: another point-four of a sprog, and it would be nuclear perfection. Anyway, at this point, Surfie winks lovingly at her father, thus reducing him to jelly and almost bringing him to tears. Sally then does what she always does when the girls have been on screen more than the statutory ten seconds: she sends them off to wash their hands/get ready for bed/play with their dolls. When they have gone, Kevin turns to Sally and says mournfully: "I don't deserve you, the girls, all this." He then admits that now Chris has gone, he feels as though a great weight has been taken off his shoulders. ( I can't think what he could possibly mean by this, but I sure can guess).

At the Kabin, Leanne is having to do a paper-round, and she is making a right pig's breakfast of sorting out the periodicals, although of course she tries not to show this to Big Red Spice. Big Red is not quite so green as she is cabbage-looking, however, and tells Leanne that she is well aware of how behind she is. Leanne has clearly been having too many late nights, burning the candle at both ends and no doubt getting on Nick's wick in the process. That she is all fingers and thumbs this morning is borne out by her haphazard delivery of aforementioned periodicals to the residents of the Street, for she manages to mix them all up and post them through the wrong doors. Consequently, Emily receieves Jack Duckworth's "Muscle" by mistake, while Jim "So It Is" McDonald is landed with "True Romance" rather than his usual "Exchange and Mart". (And we *all* know what kind of things are advertised in that tawdry little rag, don't we?). When Emily pops into the Kabin a little later, she lets the cat out of the bag and lands Leanne right in it, albeit quite innocently. Emily thinks it's actually rather a jolly little jape, and tells Rita that it's nice to start off the day on a humorous note. Rita, however, is not amused and issues a stern verbal warning to Leanne. "Shape up," she says ominously, "or ship out!"

Later, at the cafe, Leanne bends Tilly's ear and tells him that the reason she is disoriented in the mornings is lack of sleep; lack of sleep which comes not from clubbing or painting the town red, but from being kept awake by Shannon/Babeh Kateh's endless crying. Leanne blames Zoe, who appears to have neither the interest nor the ability to look after her baby properly. And who should be sitting on the other side of the cafe, listening to all this? Yes, you guessed, it's our old friend, Judy "Slot Machine" Mallett. As Leanne's anti-Zoe invective grows ever more strident, Judy's discomfort increases accordingly. Naturally, she endeavours not to tell Gareh, but gives in at least ten seconds after she sees him. "I didn't want to say anything," she moans, stifling back a tear, "but it looks as though Zoe is having trouble with Babeh Kateh." Gareh, wolfing down his lunch as though his life depends on it, suddenly feels each mouthful turn to stone as his once happy-go-lucky Judeh threatens once more to transmogrify into a raving banshee. (Why don't they just adopt a kid, or am I being too callous? How can she claim to really care for a baby if she able to put a price on its head? And indeed, is she concerned about Babeh Kateh or is her wallowing purely out of self-interest; and, indeed, are the two mutually exclusive? And are the scriptwriters not confusing us with viewers who give a toss?)

From the ridiculous - Judy Mallett - to the sublime: Roy and Hayley. Hayley pops into the cafe to tell Roy that she has an appointment to see her solicitor with regard to her father's will. She stands to come into rather a lot of money, and should thus be in a position to make a very important decision. (I think we all know what the decision is; I for one had to cross my legs at this point). Anyway, it is a decision that she wants to discuss with Roy, and so she asks him whether they could meet at the cafe after work. Roy agrees, but not before adding that he had realised all along that Hayley would soon have to reach an important decision. After all, he says, "I am a man of the world." (Yes, Roy, but not this world, surely. Please, not this world. You're far too nice for that).

But who is this tall dark(ish) stranger knocking at the Les Battersby's door? Why, it is a replacement hunk, come to take over from Chris Collins. Toyah opens the door, the stranger says "You don't know me but...", and Toyah closes the door again. Clever girl - obviously trained to sniff out possible DSS snoopers, social workers and Jehovah's Witnesses at twenty paces. The stranger knocks again, and this time manages to tell Toyah that his name is Greg Kelly and that he is looking for a man called Les Battersby. Toyah looks him up and down, then up and down again, offers a curt "Never heard of him", and slams the door.

At the Rover's, Les is trying to cadge a drink first off Kevin, then off Des, but to no avail; nor will Vera allow him to have a pint "on the slate". Spurned by all around him, Les embarks on a loud and vituperative denunciation of "Northern hospitality", which he says is a complete myth. At this point, Greg Kelly enters the pub, sees the ginger cretin ranting and raving, and watches him with mystified delight. When Les has departed, Greg asks Betty who he was. "Aw, you don't want to know people like that," she says. Vera agrees: "That sort is nothing but trouble." (This is, I think, what they call the 'sledgehammer approach' to dramatic foreshadowing). Anyway, the handsome stranger, whose eloquent tone has endeared him to Vera immediately, tells them that he is looking for one Les Battersby. In unison, Vera and Betty cry: "Oh God, what has he done now?"

Out in the Street, Toyah warns Les that someone is looking for him. "Where was he from?" asks Les, "DSS or CID?" Toyah has no idea. "What do they teach you at that school?" he says, trying to unload obviously dodgy stuff from the boot of his car in double-quick time. "What use is the national curriculum if you can't spot someone from the Social?" Toyah says that it's none of her business, and that Les can now ask the guy himself because, as they speak, Greg is walking along the pavement towards them. There then ensues a pretty sub-standard farce as Les pretends to the stranger that he is, in fact, *Des* Battersby, Les's "sober, honest and industrious" twin. Greg is obviously not taken in by this, but leaves a message with "Des" all the same: Les is to contact him either by fax or email at his hotel.

At the cafe, Hayley has come to tell Roy all about her visit to the solicitor. It transpires that she has indeed come into quite a bit of money, which means that she can now do what she has always wanted to do and transform herself, via a discreet operation abroad. She thanks Roy for everything he has done for her, and most especially for making her feel like a real woman. Roy asks her whether she will be coming back; Hayley says she is not sure, but that if she does, it will be as the "real Hayley Patterson". In one of the most touching scenes in recent months, Roy then presents her with a gift: a huge, coffee-table tone on "Automotive Engines". But inside there lies hidden a beautiful gold pendant. Hayley is overwhelmed and Roy too is close to tears. As she is about to leave, Roy asks her poignantly whether Hayley had found him attractive. She nods. And interesting? She nods again. Then, too choked to speak, they give each other the thumbs up, and Hayley is gone.

It's all a bit anti-climactic after this, I'm afraid, and I'm ashamed to say that I had to leave the room and have a cigarette. But according to Mark, and Mike P's VU page, the final scenes were of (a) Baldwin, unable to make his sums add up and drowning his sorrows with Scotch; and (b) of the Drear and Jackie Dobbs, with the Drear repeating her implicit "I shouldn't be here because I'm considerably better than YOW" mantra, and Jackie Dobbs pushing the Drear against a wall and telling her to "Shape up or EAT FISH!"

That's all folks, because as of forty minutes ago, I am officially on holiday and, like some old Victorian library book, I am Morocco-bound!

See you all on the 20th, and for my next update on the 22nd, when I shall make up for this week's lack of gossip by giving you all an extra big "As I See It".

The updates for next week and the week after will come courtesy of "Annie". Don't worry, you'll love her: we all do!

Ciao for now, CP

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Friday 3 April

Well, I'm amazed to be back and to find the house still standing - it's our 21st Wedding Anniversary today and my wife and I have just come back from a long weekend in the Yorkshire Dales - the weather wasn't that brilliant but who cares when you've good food and good beer in your tummy... oh and er, good company! The thing is, though, we'd left our 17-year old son at home for a marathon record breaking "slobathon". No doubt the dishwater was on this morning doing a whole weekend's worth of dishes and the local traders were busy rebuilding and redecorating the house, getting rid of carpet stains and repairing the microwave after all the hammer it received over the weekend - you'd never recognise him as the lad who excelled in Home Economics at school and showed real creative ability in the kitchen (I'm serious, you know. Now his cuisine can be best described as "Ding Cuisine" - "Ding" as in Microwave "Ding" - if he's gotta cook it and it ain't in a frozen packet, then it don't exist. Anyway, it beats me how he managed to afford to pay all the tradesmen to repair the house after his weekend's excesses, especially on his pocket money and the money he gets from his part-time Saturday evening job as Love God (sorry, waiter!) in a local Italian restaurant, but there you are!

We left a list of things to while we were away - you know, the important things in life, like, put the waste bin out before noon on Monday for the weekly waste collection - that got done - and record Sunday's Corrie - well, it got done, but the tape is at a mates, so presumably we'll see this after Monday's episode unless the silly buggers have recorded over the tape - ah well, sigh... Concentration span of a gnat and that's on a good day for both!

We've long since given up taking him on holidays - the last time was about 3 or 4 years ago, when we went caravanning with our tourer to a site near Cardigan Bay in Wales. Whenever we did things which took his wishes/interests/desires into account that was fine, but whenever it became our turn, then you'd see him a good thirty paces behind walking at the speed of a slug and a face so long that his jaw dragged along the pavement. After a visit to Aberystwyth, the nearest town, we asked how he was enjoying his holiday, to which the reply came back "the site's great - Wales is crap!". I think I now understand why the Welsh Tourist Board turned down his job application! Anyway, after that fiasco we now go on our own and that way everybody's happy!

As I said though, the weather wasn't that good, but then again, the UK is not noted for its climate - a week ago, things were warm and I was beginning to visualise a spin-off from all this global warming stuff everyone is spouting on about. I could see the vine-groves extending down the hills of Glossop and a new industry developing - alas, Chateau Lafitte a la Glossop may stay a pipedream, as we were only a gnat's whisker away from snow at times over the weekend!

Another bit of local news is that said "son" has just passed the written part of his driving test and the driving school instructor is recommending that we book him in for the practical test for about 4 weeks time. The omens say that is likely to coincide with our family becoming a single car family again, after Trude and I have enjoyed twin car ownership all these years - for those of you who say that I have no faith in my son, all I would say is that I have as much faith in him now as when I was his age - in 3 years I wrote off three cars!

The females amongst the audience may be interested to learn that, after the storming success of The Full Monty (my mother-in-law still things this is the full life story of Fieldmarshall Montgomery - as she is getting increasingly frail, I don't think I'll disabuse her of that notion), according to the Guardian newspaper (copyright acknowledged), ASDA (a UK supermarket)'is considering providing "well-oiled hunks" to entice women shoppers into its stores during the World Cup. An ASDA source described this as a "cross between personal shopping and the Chippendales. Women will get a nice hunk to take them around the aisles while their 19-stone husbands are slouched in front of the telly with a can of lager." A whizz of a scheme, but will it be open only to women?' asks the Guardian. When 'er downstairs was asked what she made of it all, her comment was "not interested unless they look like Les Ferdinand" - for those of you not in the know, Les is very successful black footballer who plays for Tottenham and according to my wife "has the best bum in British sport". I presume she is not interested in Linford Christie's lunchbox, so I am happy to let her indulge herself with her fantasies and she reciprocates when I drool over the best grannie in the business - I refer to Tina Turner "the soul burner!" This tolerance has enable our marriage to stay on the straight and narrow all these years - that and my inate fear of my wife wielding a Chinese Chopper (meat cleaver to you!) should I ever get beyond the "thinking about it" stage.

This last week has been a week gripped by a number of inter-related complaints. Anv acute attack of anoraksia nervosa (to which I am particularly prone) has been the cause of me keeping a close eye on developments in the Deirdre story - this has gripped the nation and must rank alongside the "Who Shot JR?" status of Dallas in the early 1980s, as a major media event and an incredible blurring of fact and fiction in people's lives. Even politicians were joining in on the act and this despite the fact that we are some 3 to 4 years away from the next General Election.

The other linked problem has been a nationwide shortage of carrots as the nation is united in its shock regarding the jury's verdict and goes rooting for Dierdre.

Just spare a moment and ponder on this thought - Anne Kirkbride has been in two major storylines in her professional career which have resulted in massive viewing figures and in which press and media comment which has been at fever pitch. The first was when she had an affair with Mike Baldwin and decided to stay in her marriage to Ken - that night, viewing figures went through the roof and even at Manchester United who were playing football at Old Trafford that night, the scoreboard displayed the outcome of D's affair "Deirdre stays with Ken" accompanied by the cheers of probably 50,000 or so spectators in the crowd, voicing their approval. And here we are, years down the line and another storyline with massive viewing. Apparently, electricity consumption was up some 50% during the advertising break as the nation steadied itself and put their kettles on following the verdict. Awesome stuff indeed. Anne is not a particularly remarkable actress - I don't think anyone would seriously put her alongside the Judy Denches of this world - but the programme is successful and has the ability to command vast audiences and hence generate phenomenal advertising revenue. The middle break must carry rate tariffs significantly greater than for for other times of the day and like it or not, the ITV network survives only when it gets "bums on seats". Although there are many in this newsgroup who would argue otherwise, in my view it is gripping drama.

It was the week's events which were the backdrop to the start of Friday's episode brought to you by Cadbury's Wispa Mint.

Part 1 commences with Curly and Angie leaving the house - they are discussing the £10,000 which Mike Baldwin has paid from Underworld's account to cover D's legal costs. Angie is telling Curly that Mike had told her he would be paying the money back - Curly applauds Mike's actions in supporting D, but Angie says that is fine as long as it does not put the Company at risk. Curly is still taking Mike's side - surely this is is only until Mike's money is freed up, but Angie ruefully comments that Mike is "a regular superhero with somebody else's money". Curly is taking Angie to the rrailway station - when asked Angie says she is going shopping to which observant Curly replies, "Shopping? With your portfolio?" and you get the feeling that very soon, Angie and Mike are going to be no more as a partnership, but maybe this is just me leaping ahead.

Emily and Ken are discussing D and reading a letter from her. According to E, Deirdre is "down" and to Ken she is "despreate" Ken tells how he has been awake all night wondering what he could do. Emily clearly thinks that D's morale might be improved when she hears about the campaign being mounted on her behalf and the fact that this is mentioned in the local paper. Ken looks for the article on the front page but is upset to find that it is on page 9 underneath the paragraph about "a mountain bike being stolen from a back yard in Inkerman Street". You'd have thought local papers would be keener to get hold of local issues and give them their due publicity - it reminds me of the apochryphal tale of a local paper during the week of the start of World War 2 - its sole mention of the hostilities was reserved for a caption tucked away in a small article at the bottom of page 5 stating "Local man hurt in world conflict"! There is more to add to Ken's (and Deirdre's woes) as D has also received her official notice of dismissal from Sunliners - what do they expect, it's not good for trade unless you specialise in "away breaks" for the likes of Ronnie Biggs, the Krays twins and the like!

Gail bumps into Roy - they are both on their way to work at T'Caff. He's been for a walk, Gail asks after his welfare. R "Well, half of me says 'never better', the other half ... do you know bacon sales are right dow! Do you think we should change supplier?" G "Roy! Please!" R "Hayley's gone!" and with that, he walks on, with Gail pausing to take it all in.

Nick is coming out of Ashley's - quick hello to Mum. Judy is outside and when she espies him, she crosses the road to have a word. She overheard Nick and 'arr Leanne talking in the Rovers the other night about Katie/Shannon keeping them awake. She tries to get into conversation on the pretext of taking it being hard to do homework with a young baby around the house - we know she's just after an angle to get some leverage from the situation. Nick's not having any of this and clearly doesn't want to get involved in Judy's fishing expedition.

Emily and Ken are joined by Mike - Ken is bringing in some tea on a tray and offers him a drink (presumably hoping that strychnine is untraceable).Mike, as ever, is scoring points - he has a factory of women who'll do that for him. Emily shows Mike the letter they've received from D and mentions that Sunliners have sacked D - Mike gets in another dig about Ken's visit "didn't do much to help her, did it"? He goes on to blame Ken's testimony as being crucail in D being sent down. They start to get into fisticuffs but Emily breaks up this facile display of male testosterone. Ken is conerned at the tone of D's letter, worried that she might do something to hurt herself and suggests it should be shown to "the Governor, the Prison Visitor". Baldwin recognises the need to do something practical, Ken says he's going to write to her about the fund raising but Mike tells them not to bother as he'll tell her when he sees her next week - you get the feeling that this is the first Emily and Ken know about Mike's visit and the phrase "hijacking events" springs to mind.

Gail and Roy are at T'Caff - he's chopping onions, tears tsreaming down his cheeks. Gail is looking on, concerned. You get the feeling that here's a good situation for soem jxtaposed dialogue and you are not wrong. Gail asks if Roy wants to tell her what has happened. R "Well, there's nothing much to tell - she's gone - I'm still here!" G "It seems such a shame - you were so well suited, everybody said so. We've seen a side of you we're never seen before. I mean, from what Alma says, you've made a new woman of Hayley"! (the nation gulps at another faux pas from Gail!) It's bound to hurt when two people break up!" R "So I take it, you agree with the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson? 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." G "Well, yes, I suppose I do. I mean, there's another thing. Before Hayley, you wouldn't have been quoting love poems, would you?" R "Ah yes, but naswer me this, gail. I mean, what is love? I mean, I've looked into every tome, every anthology, there are thousands, millions of words written by poets - love lost, love gained, old love, new love - but none of them seem to be able to say what it is!" G "What's love but a second hand emotion..." R (thinking) "John Donne!" G "Tina Turner! And now we've sorted that out, no more tears, eh?" R "No, no. I promise , especially now I've finished chopping these onions." G smiles, not really knowing what to say.

Lama the misprint comes into the Rovers - Curly wants to reward her and her kind hubby with adrink "thank you on behalf of us all!". Lama is perplexed as to what Curly is on about - he mistakes it for false modesty and tells her that he heard it all from Angie, that he doesn't want it to unnoticed and proceeds to spill the beans to a disbelieving Lama, accompanied by Vera and Samanfa. "Ten grand, it's a lot of dosh, even for you two. It'll cost more than that, though, by the time the appeal's heard... but, cheers!" Lama asks for an explanation - she is told how the legal account was paid through the Company books, but that would sorted from their personal funds, once available. Vera offers Lama a drink to celebrate, but Lama has heard enough from this crowd - she leaves the pub rather swiftly, with Curly upset he's let the cat out of the bag and hoping this won't get Angie into trouble but "It's not every day you can raise a glass to something that Mike Baldwin does, now is it, 'eh"? How true!

Greg - and I quote here lest you misunderstand me "Coronation Street's new hunk" - is outside the Battersby residence. He recognises 'arr Toyota, but she's got him down as a perv. As she won't talk in the street, he recommends the car. T "Why don't you just offer me a bag of sweets?" G "What do you think I am?" T "I know what you are" - she sees Les crossing the street, "Hey Dad, this perv's trying to get me into his car!" Les gets hold of Greg and slams him against his rather nice BMW (Greg's not Les', silly!) - Greg tries to tell him the line "me son, you daddah" much to Les' disbelief.
End of part 1

The episode was an interesting one for me. We can see Mike's business relationship with Angie about to falter at the same time as his marriage to Alma - I'm not quite sure how realistic is the situation in which Mike has put himself, as regards Deirdre. For me there is a credibility problem of someone being so blind as to the consequences of his actions, especially someone as streewise as Mike. Having said that, modesty is a quality not exactly in abundance as far as he is concerned - that liberally sprinkled with his chauvinsim is maybe, just a case of, "I know there's nothing in it - why should you be bothered". What will be interesting is how this affects him as an individual.

We are also starting to see the inklings of a storyline for Zoe - she has never been exactly good at handling criticism and this cannot come more personal than her ability to look after Shannon. She wants the baby, but is probably not really coping too well. She is streetwise enough to be opportunistic - I suppose you have to be to survive - and we have seen this in the way she has manipulated men, especially someone weak, caring and vulnerable such as Ashley.

Greg's arrival on the street is opening up a storyline for him - as far as I'm concerned the jury's out. I'm not over impressed at this stage, but time will tell.

Dialogue was pretty strong at times here with classic stuff from Roy, as ever. Brilliant timing and delivery make his appearances a joy to behold and we hope it won't be long before Hayley returns - those characters have such great potential. The other magic moments come from Toyah - I have to say that, when she first appeared I really could not see any endearing qualities, but over the last few weeks, we have seen some wonderful dialogue showing us a young actress with great potential - the portrayal of ignorance, innocence and passion, in her own way have been little gems. I look forward to her appearances because of the promise they show and, usually, there's something there to reward it!

Well here we are - Monday night, I've seen tonight's episode but not yet Sunday's (!). The last week or so on the newsgroup has been notable for a Spooky person not making too many posts - hopefully having Pooked off somewhere else. Long may it stay that way!

On a closing note, just to go back to Friday night - in the old days on BBC Radio, Friday Night was Music Night - now its a great telly night with Corrie at 7:30, the Bill at 8:30, Classic Corrie at 9:00 and father Ted at 9:30.

For those who haven't watched the latter programme, this is on in the UK on Channel 4 - we are now in the third and last series of one of the most hilarious and innovative comedy programmes for many years, I would hazard, maybe of the decade. "Father Ted" is set on Craggy Island, off Ireland and is the story of three wayward priests who have been given a posting to the island out of harm's way. Father Ted's previous crime was the embezzlement of church funds, which he was unable to explain away satisfactorily - his excuse being that they were merely "resting in his account". Father Dougal is a simpleton - the village idiot who is a walking disaster zone. Father Jack is a lecherous sex-crazed, insane alcoholic. Their housekeeper, Mrs Doyle is dedicated to serve and look after them - her dedication to providing endless cups of tea is only matched by her desire to fill them with mountains of sandwiches. The programme is unlike any other for its surreal humour - probably a visual equivalent of the Goon shows of the 50s. It is so difficult to pick specific moments from the programme, but, just by way of example, one clip shows Father Jack having an eye test - the optician is amazed that Father Jack can read the whole eye test card right down to the bottom line - until we see that each line in this Irish card has the same word on it, "Drink" - this being Jack's mantra. To give an indication of the power of this programme, Richard Wilson had a guest appearance in Friday's show as the Victor Meldrew character from "One Foot in the Grave". Tragically, Dermot Morgan, who played Father Ted, died from a heart attack a couple of days after the shotting of this series had been completed. Don't miss it - it's a real gem and please forgive my indulgence for this plug.

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Sunday 5 April

Week 31 of the Laird Towers Kitchen Renovation Project, and the project manager is still locked in dispute with the contractors over deadline slippages. In return, the contractors are suing for failure to settle stage payments. Don't expect to see this one reaching the High Courts though !! (I am the contractor...)

Weekends chez nous are filled up these days with what seems an endless round of cleaning. We lost our daily (once-a-weekly would be more accurate, mind you) a few weeks ago when she had to quit as she was in protective custody and moving from safe house to safe house on a regular basis. This arose from a dispute between her and her sister, plus associated boyfriends, resulting in a fight outside a pub, a fair number of kicks and punches and a relatively harmless stabbing incident. Following this, her house was gutted when "someone" put a petrol bomb through the letterbox. Hence the police involvement. To cap it all, the supposed perpetrator arrived on our doorstep offering to take over the cleaning duties ! When you've had a sheltered upbringing like me, these goings-on are somewhat of an eye-opener.

On a brighter note, I see this week's episode is sponsored by Cadbury's Creme Eggs. YUMMMM !!! I once ate three straight off for lunch, in the days when I thought the basic food groups were beer, chocolate, burgers, chips and spag bol. Men of the world will recognise this as a symptom of student behaviour - thankfully I am now almost fully cured and can occasionally be let out in public.

That's about all for the preamble this week, I simply can't keep up with the insane output of Alan Me-left-cheek (Joey: I loved that film !). Without further ado, moving smartly on, taking no prisoners, let's ROCK:

All rather middling this week. I'm tiring rapidly of Deirdre's swings from self-defeating depression to pointless optimism, she's just fallen apart so rapidly in prison with not much in the way of plot or character development. Plus, of course, we are without the excellent Roy and Hayley double-handers. [And I missed Hayley's departure last Wednesday, boo hoo, bloody football, grr.] Still, on the bright side, the Muppets weren't anywhere to be seen. Time for Fred to return, I say, time for Fred to return.

Overall rating (out of 5 stars): **1/2

Best line: Homo Battersbus and his "missing link" query.

Best scene: Not awarded.

Worst news: It looks like Angie is leaving again. What is her fan club going to do about this ? (*)

TTFN

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Monday 6 April

I was going to write a long resume of my life this week, but it's been so boring, even my birthday on Sunday. Twenty One again. Ah well, on with the update.

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Wednesday 8 April

I must be mad. A Corrie ignoramus like myself doing an update for all you devoted fans! I'll try not to let you down, despite sitting here coughing like mad, and glad that my PC doesn't have voice recognition, because I'm croaking like a frog. Lovely weather here in Scotland, by the way (!).

So who the heck am I? ? I'm on the biog. section of the #coro_street homepage believe it or not, and people seem to know me, and where I come from. I guess I've always watched the show on and off, but rarely long enough to know the storylines and follow them?..

I started to watch very seriously around the end of January and got pulled into it I guess.

Despite my favourite character's departure from the show last week, I would appear to still be watching. Marketing works, punters??

So to work??? (I'll try to get the nicknames right...)

K: There's no such thing as a free period
T: Teachers always say that, unless they've got one themselves, and then they just sit in the staff room drinking coffee and having SEX!
K: <speechless>

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Friday 10 April

When I was a teenager in the 60s, a feature of Sundays was listening to Alistair Cooke's "Letter from America" in which the distinguished journalist and writer would talk about matters both everyday and of political importance - a sort of life overview. On this Sunday morning, I cannot help but reflect on an off-topic item which has dominated our headlines over the last week - and been the subject of a couple of posts from our colleagues in North America - I refer, of course, to the Peace Agreement in Ireland.

Most of us go through our lives, untouched directly, by events such as those which have dominated in Ireland for some time. My earliest real memories of "The Troubles" go back to student days in the late 60s, when the issue sprang to the fore in a way which had not been seen for a number of generations. Apart from seeing the regular news footage, I cannot pretend that I have been personally affected in any great way since - for me, until the bombing of Manchester City Centre a few years ago, it was something which happened elsewhere and affected other people. I had been in the centre a few days earlier on a training course and it was mind-numbing going back after the bomb to see the devastation caused to the buildings. Of course, what could not be seen, but could be imagined very vividly was the impact the bomb had on people's lives - although no-one died, people were affected, in some cases permanently, due to psychological damage, businesses bankrupted, etc. It brought to real-life, the horror which people face in Northern Ireland on a daily basis - the same horror my parents must have faced, having to leave their place of birth as a result of World War 2 and having their lives permanently and irreparably scarred. So, on this Easter Sunday, I think of the people of Ireland and hope that peace will win the battle over the men and women of war. I think also of others elsewhere, whose lives are blighted by conflict.

Nowadays, Britain is a multicultural and multiracial society and this week has marked the Islamic festival of Eid - my wife teaches in two schools in Hyde, near Manchester and provides language support to Bangladeshi children in those schools. Although the school term ended just over a week ago, last week, she visited a number of families over Eid and was welcomed very warmly into their homes. I joined her yesterday morning when she visited the family of a girl whom she taught 6 years ago. This girl, who is now aged 16, was delighted to hear that Trudy was back teaching in Hyde after 5 years in another area - she was overjoyed to see Trudy after all this time and to swap notes on what both had done since. I was very conscious of the fact that, although Eid is a major Islamic festival, I do not recall any mention of it by the media this week, a week when the press are still providing mass coverage of the Deirdre and Jon saga! I am also mindful that, despite the significant presence of ethnic minorities in the country, my favourite programme, Coronation Street, currently only has one black actress on its payroll. I know it's only a soap, but in my mind, credibility means reflecting the events of the world out there, so that we can relate to it. We have some way to go yet!

So, Sunday morning again and here I am ready to type up last Friday's episode - a cold weekend which has brought snow and widespread flooding back to the country. Brrr! On the topic of cold weather, I remember a story told by my wife of a young Bangladeshi boy, with limited English, coming in from outdoors and saying to her "Oooh, it's f*cking cold outside, Miss"! Not really believing that she'd heard him correctly, she asked him to repeat what he'd just said. Innocently, he says "It's f*cking cold outside, Miss!" to which my wife had great difficulty stopping her laughter replied "Yes, I suppose it is"! What else can you say? There ain't nothing like the innocent humour of youngsters!

I have had cause to be thankful to fellow Update writers this week, as I found that last Sunday's episode which I entrusted to my son to record while we were away, did not get recorded, much to my annoyance, due to a cock-up on his part. Thanks to Mike P for the Visual updates pages and Jon for the Sunday Update, continuity was maintained at the Mee-Leff-Chick family!

Thanks also, to the people who have sent me appreciative e-mails commenting on my updates - when I joined the team, I was told that these were one of the enjoyable by-products of doing the job and, having had first hand experience, I am able to concur. I am developing some really nice friendships with the folk out there in CS land - once again, many thanks.

As a matter of interest, the pattern of Update activity at this end is that I record the show on Friday night, spend a couple of hours going through the video tape on Saturday morning, making notes and transcripts of the scenes, where appropriate, and duly type up the update on Sunday, probably another 3 or 4 hours or so. To simplify the Saturday part of the job, when I get some spare cash together I would like to get some voice recognition software - the plan would be to play the show back through the sound equipment and get the scripts transcribed automatically and then edit/amend around them - with a bit of luck, this would probably save 2 or 3 hours work. Does anyone out there have experience of this sort of application and can anyone verify its effectiveness in this sort of situation?

Well, as I see it, not an awful lot of action this week, but some classic dialogue from Les "New Age Man" Battersby. He is very definitely taking over in the mould of Jack Duckworth and Stan Ogden - skiving, lazy, bone-idle, good for nothing, but with funnier lines! The ironic indignation at his wife not being there to cook his dinner was one of the funniest scenes I have seen for a long time, with some absolutely priceless chauvinist dialogue. He and Toyota have both had some lovely lines to work with in recent weeks and both show great potential for the future - they might be the neighbours from hell, but you can't help laughing (as long as you don't have to live next to them).

On a closing note, this coming Saturday (18th April), BBC2 TV celebrate the 80th Birthday of my favourite loony, Spike Milligan - his surreal humour has been a major influence on comedy over the last 40 years - do watch it and also look out for Father Ted on Channel 4 on Fridays at 21:00.

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Sunday 12 April

Happy Easter everyone. This update is a tad late because I don't have net access at home (tight-wad) and (ab)use the facilities at work instead. Easter Monday was, as usual, a public holiday and typically, some pesky work got in the way yesterday. So here we are, Wednesday, and just about recovered from the weekend.

Here in Good Old Blighty, we are gripped as ever by the weather. Spring burst out of the starting blocks ages before the starter's gun this year, and has faltered at an early hurdle, allowing Winter to nose ahead once more. (Summer is still in the changing rooms wondering whether the yellow shorts or the blue ones make her bum look big.) As a result, some parts of the country had an entire season's worth of rain in one night, while snow has been falling, gently and not so gently, over much of the rest of us, when the sun hasn't been valiantly struggling against the distinctly chilly air temperatures. On Monday, I was finally browbeaten into cutting the lawn, and just as I locked the shed door after a sweaty hour or so pushing a recalcitrant mower through the knee-high grass in my shirt sleeves, it started to sleet. Weird.

I expect those readers who live in the middle of large continental land masses may well be bored stiff with the British obsession with the weather. The problem is, we get so much of the stuff. We don't tune into the 24-hr weather channel to find out whether the next 3 weeks are going to vary more than 2% from the seasonal norm, instead we get about 2 forecasts a day from the Met Office which still persists in the belief that a reliable forecast is a military secret (they used to operate under the umbrella of the Ministry of Defence), and only needs to really concentrate on the lower right-hand corner of the country where the people that matter live. "Over the rest of the country, it'll be a miserable grey day with above-average rainfall and don't forget your gloves and scarf when you go out." Guessing the temperature to within two layers of clothing can make you rich here !!

Normally, I won't be budged from the comfort of my own humble abode over Easter, as it is traditionally open season on the highways. (If we had the right to keep and bear arms, the population of the UK would be very small by now.) This year, with two family birthdays arriving at the same time, more or less, as the holiday weekend, we headed south to spend the break with the rest of my family, long since left Scotland for the sunnier climes of the south coast of England. (What, why not the in-laws ? Are you mad...) Newly retired and liberated from the shackles of 9-5 slavery, my folks are now positively brimming with energy and philanthropy - Pater took me shopping on Saturday and insisted on buying me a new set of golf clubs to replace the ones I bought with my paper round money back in 1974, spending more in the process than he has ever splashed out on any birthday or Xmas pressy in my entire life. Humbled, I was. Tune in next April and see me at Augusta with Tiger Woods and the rest. Maybe...

Just to round off, today *is* my Dad's birthday, and also my daughter's. Happy Birthday, folks, although I know you won't be listening in (bit like all the loons on telly with the "Hello Mum" banners at sports grounds, yeah like Mum really enjoys a good game of rugby !). My sympathy goes out to other parents out there with daughters of 7, going on 17, who rule the house, pout, shout, can't leave the house without make-up, wouldn't be seen dead in the company of older brother, but whose favourite birthday present is a La-la doll ! Boys are much simpler - they just grow up into, well, big boys. Isn't that just easier all round ? As long as they promise not to start a war with that nasty foreign boy with the odd hair.

A bit up and down this week. Obviously good news for Deirdre, and I am warming to Les, although occasionally he's a little over the top. We're going around in circles with the Young Ones and the Babeh, although I sense a plot shift coming up. But please please *please* let's have no more of Fiona and Steve and Superperm. Where *is* Fred ??

Overall rating (out of 5 stars): ***

Best line: None. Soundtrack award instead to Messrs Paice, Lord, Gillan, Blackmore and Glover. Daa daa daaa, daa daa da-daaah, daa daa daaa, dan- dan... [Must dig out their fabulous live album sometime, 4 sides, only 7 tracks, leave you to do the maths there.]

Best scene: Go on then, Les giving it major headbanging !

Worst scene: Joint award this week to the Greg/Maxine are-you-gagging-for-it-too exchanges, and the Steve/Fiona making-everyone-else-gag witterings.

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Monday 13 April

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Wednesday 15 April

Time wears on.. and we're only a month or so away from the London Ping! Not sure what to expect there. Haven't led the most exciting life, despite what you may have been told! (Or maybe you have been!) Sitting with a bunch of near-strangers (well, face-to-face anyway) in an unknown pub in the middle of London seems a trifle bold for me. But nothing ventured, nothing gained !

Hope you all had a good Easter weekend and ate as much yummy Cadbury's chocolate as me! (Must be all the subliminal advertising! Never seemed to want the stuff till January!). The winter woke up, realised it had slept in, and fell on us over the weekend. Snow, hail, rain, wind. Yuk! So time to cuddle up in bed with the telly, the obligatory hot drinks (Ribena. Lem-Sip when extra-fragile.) At least it got rid of the cold! Come Tuesday, I was bright and bubbling as per usual! Good God, the sun even shone today! All's right with the world. For now.

Apart from the cold, though, things just seem to be going great in my little world. Social life improving, job opportunities on the horizon, financial stability seems to be established, and some interesting consultancy work to keep me occupied in my spare time. Now ten years ago.. no.. no. you REALLY don't want to hear about that!! Maybe at the Ping. Buy me a drink. :))

My views:

I missed Prisoner Cell Block H, but this is almost as good. Jackie's attack was perfect! Brilliant!

Les seems to go through periods of comic relief, only to come out on the other side with this rather scary nasty side. If I'd been spoken to like that, I'd be off double quick... Maxine is made of stronger stuff! (Mind you so is most of the human race!)

STILL no sign of Roy! Not in next weeks episodes either, by the look of the cast lists.<sigh> What's a girl to do? I still think he's making more rockets up in his garret room. But enough speculation, we need the truth... Roy C. Phone Home

The Cell Block H stuff is great, and Veitch a splendid pantomime villain! I miss the black leather gloves though.

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Friday 17 April

I suppose the mind's ability to separate reality from fantasy is one of those wonderful things that the medical profession and philosophers have discussed for some time. That debate has certainly exercised the minds of those astonished at the Deirdre saga and its ability to hijack media attention over the last few weeks. It's not often, after all, that events in a fictional TV programme make the news, both nationally and internationally - as I've said before, this one must rank alongside Dallas' "Who shot JR" in terms of the media hype and publicity.

On more mundane levels, I suppose the fact/fantasy problem presents itself for all of us in different ways pretty regularly. Take this week, when we had worse weather conditions than we'd had all winter - having had a taster of spring for a while, it was hard to take winter again and you began to wonder whether it was all some bad dream.

Or take Friday, when the Milewczyk household hit one of those milestones in life - you know the moment is going to come at some stage and when it does, you cannot believe it has occurred. I refer, of course, to the nightmare of any parent of a teenager - when it is time to add your offspring's name to the car insurance! Our son, Simon, is 17 and has been taking driving lessons for a while - now we're getting geared up for the driving test itself (sometime in the next few weeks) and the instructor has said that he would benefit from additional practice! So we've got the red L plates and I've made the fateful call to the Insurance company to extend the cover to include said offspring. My wife is already working out how long it would take her to get to work by bus when the car is being repaired in the body shop! I'm keeping schtum because I wasn't exactly a careful driver when I was young as my son is prone to remind me.

Or how about the problems youngsters have connecting into reality? A few months ago, my wife was teaching a class and asking them if they knew of any members of the Royal Family. Blank looks faced her. "Oh dear", she thinks, "I'm going to have to give them some clues". Well, she managed to elicit the fact that we have a Queen, so she told them that the Queen had three sons and a daughter, helpfully pointing out that the sons were all Princes. Still nothing! A further clue was offered, namely, that one of the Princes had big sticky-out ears - one bright spark suddenly became very animated and offered the name of Prince Naseem Hamed! Now that particular individual may call himself a Prince and he might be a good boxer and a hero to the local Asian community, but a member of the Royal Family? I think not! Mind you, he probably means more to those youngsters than the real Prince!

Or even ICQing with fellow RATUCSers? Hi Jacqueline in Canada! Even though I'm a technological animal, some of the things that are now possible still amaze me. I'd had a technical query to do with my mailreader program, Pegasus and posted the query on the support mail list to which I subscribe - ended up having an ICQ chat with someone in Ohio who came up with some helpful comments. Partway through this, our Jacqueline - who is on long-service missionary duties in the colonies - comes on, asking for authorisation to add her name to my list - this duly granted, I carry on with the Pegasus query. When it ended I thought, let's give her a call and we ended up having an ICQ keyboard chat, thousands of miles away from each other, all for the price of a local phone call. Tremendous stuff!

So with all these great happenings, where is reality, when I hear that someone has sent ITV TV a cheque for £5000 for Deirdre's fighting fund? A strange world indeed!

Well, the end of a dramatic episode as we see the Dreary Carrot reunited with her allotment and set free. Nice moment when she and Jon Lindsay went in opposite directions - her to freedom and him to jail.

The best dialogue - between Jack Duckworth and Alec Gilroy - great lines, wonderful timing, Jack and Alec at their best. Classic Corrie.

Tragedy for Zoe and those surrounded by her as we enter the next major storyline in Corrie.

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Sunday 19 April

Eeek. Tis the curse of "Hello", cruelly transferred to the Internet and blighting my Coronation Street updates. Barely had I had time to take the mickey out of Linda McCartney's mince adverts last week, and the poor woman dies. We also lost Fred Davis, a lovely old guy and a great snooker player and Pol Pot, not one of my personal heroes, it must be said.

Rather closer to home, it no doubt serves me right for casting aspersions on my wife's family, as we were out at a Greek restaurant on Saturday night with a couple of them. Telepathically sensing my cheap jibes, they contrived to fill us both with copious quantities of alcohol, having first somehow disabled my in-built fail-safe booze cutoff. I was still getting headaches on Monday if I got up too quickly. Clearly, I have not evolved to cope with drink - after your early twenties I reckon you become either increasingly tolerant or intolerant of the stuff. I'm in the latter category - which is fine, except when the internal alarm fails to sound when the bloodstream is awash. So if you could all just press those keys quietly ? Thank you. Did you know that 5 million brain cells die as a result of over-indulgence ? Or is it 55... Can never remember.

I think we'll nip on smartly to the real drama this week, as I'm sure you'll be waiting to see what the outcome was of Friday's cliffhanger. I can't stop myself looking at the next week's TV listings which rather gives the game away, but nevertheless, it was an excellent episode.

Phew. Was it only last week when some were bemoaning a couple of dismal episodes, and now we get this emotional roller coaster of a ride ? You would be hard pushed to have made tonight's programme any better, barring perhaps the removal of some of the light-hearted interludes with Jack and Alec. But that wouldn't be in the tradition of the producers.

Almost everyone who put in an appearance at Ashley's house provided an absolutely first-class performance [poor Nick didn't get to say much], with special mentions going to Joanne Froggatt, Steven Arnold, Ian Mercer and John Savident as Zoe, Ashley, Gary, and Fred. Quite where the two younger players, in particular, dug up the raw emotions they displayed, is beyond me. They were simply magnificent. And so was the script. There was nothing cheap or tawdry or headline-grabbing about the show. It was just perfectly executed drama. I really hope there's no-one out there who is upset and angry about this sort of stuff.

And if that wasn't enough, there's more to come on Monday...

[After the show, I gave my daughter a special big hug on the settee (sorry, this might mean little to you single folks out there), and she said "I really love that, Daddy". "What's that, sweetheart ?", I asked, getting a bit choked up again. "That cereal there on the television", she replied. So there you go, back to Earth with a bump and a bowl of Sugar Puffs !]

Overall rating (out of 5 stars): *****

Best line: Probably only for the comic relief from the unfolding tragedy, I'll go for Alec's suggestion about the contents of Jack's skull.

Best scene: The last 10 seconds. Tested my resolve to the limits.

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Monday 20 April

On Monday and Tuesday night I stayed in the Evesham Hotel, Evesham. A rather wonderful place, a bit eccentric. Instead of attaching room keys to a boring bit of bakelite with a number on it, they use teddy bears. Six inch high teddy bears with an embroidered room number on his (or her) tummy. All wearing nice crocheted waistcoats. I had room 19, but to get the key I had to ask for Ted. My colleague had to get Ermintrude to open his room.

The Evesham Hotel is just off Waterside, and escaped all the flooding. Our usual hotel, in Waterside, is expected to be out of action for 6 months, the shops locally are mainly boarded up. The tide mark on the shop windows was at head height. Must have been heartbreaking for all those who lost property in the floods.

Staying in our hotel on the Monday was BBC TV newsreader and reporter Michael Buerk, who was obviously filming for 999 Emergency. This week they featured the flooded caravan site at Abbots Salford (2 miles from my office) where they had to rescue residents by helicopter. The flood of the Century, said the local paper.

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Wednesday 22 April

Well, folks, two days in Amsterdam followed by five days in Morocco would, under normal circumstances, warrant a rather long report right at the beginning, filled to the brim with local colour, interesting cultural insights and oodles of sleaze and debauchery. However, listening to others drone on about their holidays pissed me off no end, and I'm sure you lot are no different, so I'm going to dispense with the local colour and the interesting cultural insights and just tell you about the sleaze and debauchery.

Which means that we can move straight on to the update, because of sleaze and debauchery there was virtually no sign at all! I know that certain parts of Morocco - Tangiers especially - are supposed to be so full of sleaze that they make Sodom and Gomorrah look like Disneyworld, but I can assure you that the town where we stayed (Essouira) was as straight, dry and demure as they come - so much so, in fact, that I felt as out of place as a tart at a temperance meeting. I think the concierge at our hotel summed it up nicely. Impressed by the relatively large amount of reading material that Mark and I had taken with us for our brief sojourn, he said: "Ah, you are men of literature and culture, I see! Most English men who come here are interested in two things only: smoking cheap hashish and having sex with Arab men. But I sense that you are different!" I nodded solemnly, turning up my nose in mock disgust. As we climbed the stairs to our room, Mark said: "What a gem! Little does he realise that if we'd wanted to spend a whole week smoking dope and having sex with Arab men, we'd have gone to Brighton like we usually do!"

So there you have it: for most of the five sun (and wind) filled days, Mark and I did pretty passable impressions of man-hating vestal virgins. That's not to say, of course, that I went around the whole time with "Unavailable" written on my forehead. And why should I? (Although, naturally, my mother's words of warning were forever in my ears. "Whatever you do," she said on the eve of my departure, "do it in Durex. I don't want you coming home riddled with HGV.") But the fact remains that neither dope nor rumpeh-pumpeh provided the rationale behind our decision to holiday in Morocco.

And as Glenda Young and Ruth Carey will gladly attest, I actually prefer a nice cup of tea and a Gipsy Cream to sex. (Sex with them, that is. And they feel the same way, honestly. Don't get me wrong: they're smashing ladies and very gorgeous too, but they both lack that little bit extra that makes all the difference.) As it happens, however, there *was* a brief holiday flingette, and although I can't emulate my old friend Jane Eyre and conclude by saying "And readers, I married him", it did end happily. (As they say when someone leaves CS, 'the door is open for him to return if he wants to.') Ironically, it wasn't a Moroccan; in fact, even though I was spoiled for choice considering the number of local hustlers around, I made sure it wasn't a Moroccan. Well, when you think what happened to Deirdre when *she* went to Morocco, can you blame me? The last thing I want is for some Samir lookalike to turn up at the University, declare his undying love for me, donate a kidney to my sister, then get mugged and left for dead while walking along the banks of the Tyne. I'd only get depressed, don huge specs and outlandish sideburns, start going to singles bars, meet someone in a uniform pretending to be something he's not (possibly, knowing my luck, a traffic warden), then get duped into taking out a mortgage and buying power-showers on a real traffic-warden's Switch card. You know how these things tend to snowball inexorably. Then I'd be done for fraud and end up in the Big House amongst lots of rough men demanding various unspeakable 'favours'. (Suddenly it doesn't seem like such a bad idea...) But seriously, who would campaign on my behalf? Ruth Carey and Glenda Young, standing outside Durham jail with their "Free CP" posters, each bearing a cucumber logo? I think not. Anyway, the romantic interest in Essouira came in the form of Dan, from Peterborough, who was over there for the surfing. But that's as much as I'm telling. Like most holiday romances, it's probably doomed to failure now that we're back in the UK. And anyway, since getting back, I've met someone else anyway. That's life for you: wait weeks for a number 69 and then two turn up at once.

Before I get down to the update, let me say how good it is to be back amongst fellow CS fans. As soon as I got back to the department, I downloaded RATUCS straightaway and tried to catch up with all your news. Then, with no further ado, I checked Mike P's visual updates. They were brilliant, as ever, and more than compensated for all the episodes I missed while I was away. (Why, when I think of Mike Plowman, do images of big wet furry beavers fill my mind? Because he's always as busy as a beaver producing his wondrous updates of course!) I also see that the Australian rugby team has been touring the UK, which means that Ruth Carey has probably had her hands full as well. (Ruth, incidentally, has just introduced me to a new diet. Called, ironically, the 'Nil By Mouth Plan', it is based very loosely on the principles governing oral sex: you can put as much as you want in your mouth as long as you neither chew nor swallow). As for Glenda Young, well, what can I say? According to her department, Glenda has "gone to the Lake District for a week", which to you and me means that she is in detox again. Let's wish her all the best; addiction to Dettol is horrendous at the best of times, but even more so when you're already battling with other problems - in Glenda's case, chronic kleptomania.

And so on we move to the update - but not before I tell you what my 11-year old godson, Nathan, told me when he phoned me to welcome me back. "Apparently," he said, "when George Michael was arrested, he had a nicotine patch on his arse." "Yes," I said, ever the joke-ruiner, "he was trying to give up 'fags'. I heard that one on the return flight." "Okay," said Nathan, "but did you hear that they found a chocolate bar up his arse as well?" "No, " I said, "but go on." "Yes," said Nathan, "it was a 'Careless Wispa'." Really! What *are* they teaching eleven-year olds in school these days?

As I See It

Not much to report this week on the As I See It front, apart from the fact that from the few seconds I saw of Tilly, it's clear that he's more effeminate than ever; so much so, in fact, that he makes Dale Winton look like Rambo. Tilly is now so camp that you feel like pitching tents around him and singing "Kumbaya".

And I know Zoe is distraught, but as my mother says, "It costs nothing to drag a comb through your hair". And if she wears that denim outfit much longer, she'll have to have it surgically removed. Her scene with Judeh and Gareh was genuinely moving, though, and the best she's acted so far.

And that's it. The only other thing I have to report is that Glenda Young has gone one step further in her plan to corrupt me totally by introducing me to IRC. Now before I actually did IRC, I thought it was just for nerds. Now I know it is! (Actually, it's great fun, and I actually got to chat in 'real time' to my update icon, the one and only Mike Plowman. It was like having an audience with the Pope, the only difference being that I didn't get to kiss his ring). Another snippet of gossip is that my mother has joined the Internet age. Actually we've been exchanging emails for almost a month now. Yesterday she mailed me to complain about my messages to her. "They're too small," she said. "What do you mean, too small," I said, "the last one was four pages long." "No, she said, "I mean the print is too small. Can't you type any bigger? I have to squint to read them. You're forgetting I've only got a 14-inch console." I told her that fourteen inches is enough to console anybody, but promised to use a larger font next time. Not only does she send emails, but she also 'strafes the Web'. (If you knew my mother, you'd realise why 'strafing' rather than 'surfing' is the right word.) She prides herself on having been thrown off no fewer than seven newsgroups. (Well, if you mail soc.culture.japan and type the words ENOLA GAY ENOLA GAY ENOLA GAY all down the page, you're asking for trouble, whoever you are. It's her way of growing old disgracefully, but to me it just reeks of incipient dementia.) She's quite big in uk.adverts.personals, although she has trouble with the jargon. "I met what I thought was a lovely man on the Web," she trilled recently. "Lovely, that is, except for his wound." "What wound?" I asked, bracing myself for the worst. "Apparently he's got an 8-inch cut. At least that's what he said. I'm going to write back and tell him that he runs the risk of septicemia if he doesn't get it seen to." I toyed momentarily with the notion of explaining 'cut' and 'uncut', but figured that would be too much for someone like her to swallow. She'll learn, dear readers, she'll learn.

I'd better go now, but before I do, I must tell you that I have received yet another email of complaint from a reader in New Zealand. (Why, oh why, is it always New Zealand? Is this a climate thing? Or is it the methane emissions from all those sheep which turn people's brains to jelly over there?) Anyway, this person has taken umbrage with me over the way I 'flaunt' my sexuality and describe my 'sordid sexual exploits' openly. Well, I never did! I don't remember ever flaunting anything, at least not in polite company. (And the last thing I *did flaunt was appreciated considerably by the one to whom I flaunted it; that's one paper round that *he* won't forget in a hurry!). The NZ plaintiff concludes by saying that I am a 'dangerous' influence. Me? Dangerous? Rubbish! As those who know me will gladly attest, I wouldn't harm a fly. Especially if it were unzipped...

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Friday 24 April

Not a particularly eventful week in the Milewczyk household - the end of the Easter holidays for my wife and son, so they are back at school and sixth form college respectively. No lie-ins for them in the mornings, so both come back home absolutely knackered - the first week back is always the worst. It's also strange having the house to myself again during working hours.

Working from home has its benefits but there are mental adjustments to be made periodically, when the family claim their home back at holiday times and when I claim it back again for the business when it's term time. At least commuting to and from work isn't an issue as I can generally control when I see clients to minimise or even avoid the pain of the rush hour traffic! It isn't for everyone though, as I can be shut off from the rest of the world for longish periods, especially if I'm involved in a lengthy project and it's that contact with people and the outside world that keeps you sane - well, as sane as I'll ever be, anyway!

We live on a popular family estate about a mile from the town centre, just a few minutes away from the Peak National Park and on the edge of open moorland. There's some great scenery around and as were half way up a hill, it's ideally placed to get some exercise in - a good idea if, like me, you're not a sporty type. When Trude and Simon leave home in the morning, I tend to put on the walking boots and the cagoul and go for a quick trog in the hills - around 30 to 40 minutes, if there's time that day. As I have a cholesterol problem, this has a number of benefits for me, from a health, relaxation and an enjoyment viewpoint.

A few months ago, in an effort to get out of the house more and do something different apart from work (which can be all-consuming when you work for yourself), I enrolled at night school to learn German. I have a previous smattering of the language, but never had formal lessons, so I'm really enjoying the experience - to supplement the learning process, when I'm out on my walk, quite often I take my walkman and play a language cassette. I'm not sure what the sheep in the locality make of this mad Polak, muttering German while out for a walk in his hiking gear - "the Happy Wanderer" indeed.

Thanks again, for the appreciative e-mails which continue to arrive, particularly from North America. I've been on the net now for about 4 years and for some years prior to that, on Fidonet. I really enjoy the Internet community, with people sharing experiences and knowledge. It's an opportunity to talk to people with common interests and a very enjoyable one at that. Although I try not to miss an episode of Corrie unless I can really help it, periodically, it does happen and in that situation it is great to be able to bring yourself up to date, whether it is by reading the updates or going to the Visual updates pages. We give and we take - people do it all voluntarily for the sheer love of it and that's nice. It takes me about 5 hours or so each time to knock together an update - no doubt I could do it in less, but it's largely because I enjoy quoting sections of the script rather than just describing the action. When I get a moment, I'm going to look at some voice recognition software, although, from what I've heard, I suspect that the technology is not yet at the right stage. Anyway. it's also great fun to swap banter with the friends we make on the newsgroup. I've not actually met any of you in person, but do intend to make an effort, time permitting, should there be something going on in the Manchester area.

So, how was it for me? Well, some wonderful dialogue and acting in a couple of the storylines, the main one being the Smoker Jack saga, especially between Alec and Jack. Both are fine actors and we have seen some wonderful comedy from them in this storyline. Some touching scenes with Vera, showing she's not all mouth and despite her lively and stormy relationship with Jack, the depth of their feelings comes through and her concern on the risks of heart disease is self evident. As I mentioned earlier, I have a cholesterol problem, so the scenario here very much hits a raw nerve for me.

A mention for Les Battersby - he is one of life's scallywags, reminiscent of Jack Duckworth and Stan Ogden. A rogue and a chancer, but you can't help liking the guy. Wonderful, hopeful chatup scene!

We are continuing to see Zoe's mental state sliding and, for a young actress, she is portraying her precarious state very well. Ashley, again, showing concern and a maturity beyond his years.

Negatives? Tilley appears to specialise in "grimace" visuals whatever and, although, he's a good looking lad (if you like that sort of thing), he doesn't seem to be able to get across the depths of emotions required of the storyline.

But, of course, the drama of the night is Jim and Steve's heavily fuelled resentment towards each other coming to the boil, with tragic consequences.

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Sunday 26 April

Apologies for the late arrival this week. No excuses, just a bit disorganised lately. Busy weekend, partly spent watching No1 son play footie for his Cub team and miss out on victory by a mere 2 minutes - late equaliser from the opponents who went on to stick another 3 in the net during extra time. Suggestions that their number 8 was not far short of shaving daily were probably just sour grapes ! Aren't over-protective parents terrible ? I like to think we're living life with our kids, not through them. Perhaps I'm just old-fashioned. What do you mean, where's my cardie and slippers ?

I'd love to know where the lad gets his sporty genes from. (Perhaps I should look to the milkman...) I had to be dragged onto every sports field kicking and screaming, games teacher after games teacher seemed to think I could be cured by ensuring I was the one at the bottom of every rugby scrum (down, CP, down !). My parents got too fed up with me kicking around the house and frog-marched me to the nearest public golf course that was just opening, paid for half a dozen lessons and an old set of clubs, and that was me for the next 5 years. Never anywhere else. Bet you didn't know humans shouldn't be capable of playing golf well ? Read a scientific study once, they reckoned the allowable errors were too small and the brain-eye- limb reaction time not fast enough, but that says more about scientists than human beans, I reckon. After all, they think bees can't fly. No-one told the bees.

Apparently humans can't live above 8000m either. If you have Web access, I can highly recommend a look at http://www.independent.co.uk, where you'll find a journalist posting a diary every other day or so from an Everest expedition. The stories and the pictures are just excellent - so much better than reading a book written months after the event. It's a rather strange feeling reading something like this knowing there's a very real chance that each diary entry might be the last. Can't wait to see the IMAX Everest film when the cinema in Bradford re-opens.

What else is new ? Oh yes, pass out last week to go see "Jackie Brown". Also highly recommended if you like Tarantino's style. Not highly recommended if you don't like having your knees jammed up against a cup-holder for two and a half hours. Virgin cinemas - hmm, something a little lacking in the quality department, Mr Branson. I'll have to have a word with Mr Plowman and see what he can do. "Oi ! Branson ! NO !!!"

Intermission
Dawn French tells us how they're not Terry's chocolate oranges, they're *hers*. Quite like that one. Chocolate - one of those things that just's perfect as it is. [See the Cadbury's web site for interesting info on one of our national obsessions and a look behind the scenes at how they filmed the short animated chocolate-people scenes that bracket the show. Try not to dribble on the keyboard like me, though.] Then we get some abomination from Hellman's Mayonnaise showing someone eating fish and chips, and dipping the chips into the mayo !! Aarrrggghhh. Nasty foreign habits [shudder]. I first saw this in Holland, yuk. Let's not dwell on what else I first saw in Holland. Hint: also yuk.

Another of those financial services ads rounds off the commercial break, this one sending up Morris dancers. I am minded of a sig quote I saw somewhere amongst the 27000 newsgroups along the lines of "You should try everything once - except incest, and Morris dancing". I ought to attribute this, but I can't remember the poster's name. If you're out there - like it.

A bit dull, all in all. Perhaps we're expecting too much after the high drama of the last few weeks. Perhaps it's too much of the undead as Steve wriggles about trying to avoid any suspicion he might have had anything to do with Jim's accident. What's going on with Des and Natalie ? Does anyone care ?

About the best we can say is that Jack and Vera are back to their top-form sparring. It must be fun writing for these two - they're a classic comedy husband-and-wife in the best tradition of British telly. Shame this is not going to last forever.

Overall rating (out of 5 stars): **1/2

Best line: Jack tells Des "If I showed any interest in Natalie's whereabouts, Vera wouldn't just stop me smoking, but breathing as well."

Best scene: Tempted to say the closing credits. Perhaps Jack and his pipe instead.

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Monday 27 April

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Wednesday 29 April

Talk about 'keeping up with the Joneses'? All it takes is for one person to go on holiday and then everyone else follows suit - and RATUCSers and update readers are no exception.

For no sooner had I returned from a week of water sports in Morocco than half of the people on RATUCS and the update lists decided that they too would take a break from the hurly-burly of life and let down their hair a little. Take Mike Plowman, for instance, who skived off work last week to "take the kids" to Alton Towers. (Alton Towers, dear overseas readers, is a kind of bargain-basement Disneyland where middle-aged men go to recapture their youth by riding the dodgems, eating greasy hamburgers and sticky candyfloss and then throwing up from the top of the helter-skelter). Another RATUCSer about to hit the holiday trail is my mate Terwur, who is off to spend a week in a cottage in Wales. (An unwise move, given what happened to George Michael, but Terwur simply *won't* be told). Yet another contributor to RATUCS, Brian Berkeley, has just returned from Istanbul, while Ruth Carey is shortly off to Phuket for a fortnight. A little further afield, my dear friend Dale - possibly the only sane woman in New Zealand - has just embarked on a world tour, the highlight of which will be her appearance at the London ping. (I met Dale on the #coro_street channel, where she appears under the nom-de-plume of 'Noblesse', or 'Nobs' for short. She's a wonderfully wise and witty woman and I adore her. But as you probably know, I've always had a soft spot for Nobs...

And finally there's Glenda Young. Glenda's story is that she is off on a 'cultural expedition' to the Lake District, where ostensibly she is "painting nature scenes, reading the works of the Lake poets in their original setting, and playing the flute". Can you imagine it? No, I thought not. After all, this is the woman who went on holiday to Venice and sent me a postcard to complain that she was having a horrid time because the streets were always flooded! This is the woman who recently stayed in a posh hotel for the first time in her life and, not knowing what the bidet was for, started throwing coins into it and making wishes. This is the woman who thinks that 'coq au vin' means 'a bit of fun in the back of a lorry'. Glenda Young, cultured? There's more culture in a pot of yoghourt! Yes, folks, Glenda has told everyone that she's off in the Lake District painting, reading and identifying rare wild flowers, when in reality she's holed up in some grotty clinic in Hartlepool, being weaned off Toilet Duck.

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