Drop the mic. Not all episodes of Corrie are created equal. There were six shows this week, but Monday's pair (written by Damon Alexis-Rochefort) were on a different level to Wednesday and Friday. The North West Regional Stylists Awards were a smorgasbord of bitchery, campery, and just plain old hilarity, with our Audrey confirming her status as the Street's greatest lush by getting hammered and chucking a bouquet at Rula Lenska. She was wild and uncaring and glorious; that lifetime achievement trophy was well deserved. It was notable that next morning Rita and Maria were complaining of hangovers while Audrey floated around untroubled; that's the advantage of being a professional alcoholic. Her viral video hit (over a 1000 likes, despite David filming it in portrait) meant that the Hairdresser Wars finally came to an end, though hopefully Claudia will continue with her plans for a salon on Victoria Street so the rivalry can continue. If this doesn't end with Sue Nicholls and the north west's answer to Barbara Stanwyck falling into a fountain and tearing at one another's soggy bouffants I will be very disappointed.
Even the queen needs ladies-in-waiting. Speaking of our Reet, can someone give her a hand in the Kabin? Since Norris went off on his visit to Emily's she's been all on her own in the newsagent without any assistance (yes, I know Jude worked there for a while, but I can't imagine he was any use whatsoever). The woman is in her eighties yet she's apparently manning the shop from six till six single handed. Maybe Maria can work off her debt in there; the salon certainly seems to be functioning well enough on Audrey, David and the wonderful Emma (who we learned this week is named after Baby Spice, a revelation that had me aging a thousand years in a single second and crumbling into a pile of dust). I worry that the fragrant Mrs Fairclough (yes, Fairclough, you heard) will be hurried off her mortal coil unless someone steps up to assist with the unpacking of the Chit Chats.
You can't diet the cancer away. A lot of things make me angry on Corrie: the ludicrous tram stop (which this week acquired a kiosk in addition to its two ticket windows), the always bizarre finances at Underworld, Michelle Connor in general. But few things have induced such white hot fury in me as Steff and her homeopathic cure for Sinead's cancer. She simpered away about "alkaline diets" and the "evils of sugar" and I found myself struck with temporary blindness due to my brain overloading with rage. I can't decide who's worse - her for coming out with this nonsense, or Sinead for believing it. I hope Steff falls under a bus and Sinead goes back to taking proper medicine-based care of herself and her child instead of doing the health equivalent of hoping the fairies magic it away. Also, that's not how you spell Steph.
Teenage rebellion takes many forms. The problem with kids on a soap opera is they're kind of dull. They eat their tea, they do their homework, they look worried when their parents argue - until they can get jobs and boyfriends they're hard to write storylines for. That's why so many of them turn out to be absolute devil children when they hit thirteen - Tracy and David going completely off the rails was far more interesting than Rosie and Sophie working their way through all the Bird's Eye frozen food they could get their hands on. Simon is the latest little angel to fall to earth, with his latest wheeze after a couple of years of being an absolute nightmare being joining the Navy. Personally, if I was offered the chance to offload the obnoxious brat, I'd march him down the recruiting office myself, but this is why I'm not a parent. Far more fun was Amy, very much the Saffy to Tracy's Edina, telling her mum that wine wasn't one of her five-a-day and formulating a binding contract to ensure her parents treated her right. She's an absolute delight and infinitely better to watch than Simon's dull-faced hooliganism. As Steve said the other week, she'll grow up to be a lawyer or a politician or a supervillain, and I for one welcome our new overlord.
Everything is for sale. A few years ago, little chocolate people appeared before and after the show, and we accepted it, just as we accepted their replacements, the weird sub-dom furniture throuple and the CGI meerkats. Then we got told that product placement was allowed, and a cash machine appeared in Dev's, followed by some contactless card machines and a well-known flower delivery company. And we accepted that. Then an extension to the set opened, which featured two well known High Street names front and centre, and we accepted that too. This week, though, the sad, plaintive brass notes of Eric Spear's theme tune were replaced by the tinkle of a piano, and we realised how far it had gone. The theme tune - the gateway to the show, the welcome mat, virtually unchanged for nearly sixty years - can now be auctioned off if a well-known department store wants to plug its wares. It's clear that nothing on the show is sacred. ITV will sell any bit of it to anyone with a few bob. Every single car in the show will be a Toyota. The Rovers will become a Weatherspoons. Helen Worth will be replaced as Gail by Ronald McDonald. No part of the show is untouchable now, and all you need if you want to change the nation's favourite soap opera is a fat chequebook.
This week, Carla called Mr Tilsley "Nicky", which the author hopes is the start of everyone going back to the name he had for the first few years of his life. Next stop: calling Sarah "Sarah-Louise" again. Join my campaign on Twitter @merseytart.
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