Such was my Corrie-fuelled excitement the other night that I almost foamed at the mouth. The cause of this rather disgusting moment was Emily's mere mention of Gamma Garments. Gamma Garments! With those two words, the former Miss Nugent whisked us back to better, simpler times. However, this being Weatherfield 2012, it was tinged with darkness. Oh yes, Mistress Bishop was regailing a captive audience with goings on in November 1963 and specifically, the night President Kennedy was murdered. Suddenly I knew what was coming next. With bated breath, I awaited Emily's revelation that she knew who had pulled the trigger that fateful night. It was of course, Carla Connor . . .
Well, it might as well have been. Old trout pout seems to be both bringer and bearer of most of the world's evils. She's the four horseman of the apocalypse, the Taliban and Rose West rolled into one. Or that's how it seems. Multiple dead husbands, lovers and workers lay at her fashionably turned out feet. Bloodied whisky bottles and slapped children abound. Carla Connor, let evil be thy name.
Of course, she didn't kill Frank. For that would be one heinous crime too many. The woman has suffered enough. If they hollow her out any more, Simon will have somewhere new to store his toys. I don't think Michelle did it either. With an ego the size of hers, she wouldn't have been able to keep her trap shut for long. No, Michelle would have turned the murder into a mini-musical, starring herself of course and by now would have been tap-dancing across the cobbles, top hat and cane in hand, bellowing out "It was me!It was me", à la Ethel Merman.
Neither was it the increasingly underused and meaningless Kevin, a character who seems soley to exist in order to screech like a rodent and then exit stage left. Which probably leaves us with loopy Anne or Jenny Plot-Device, the latter of whom seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.
Please though, not Carla. The woman is more sinned against that sinning and needs a break. Like a moth to the flame though, within weeks she will be clattering up the factory steps, barking out orders in her red wine and twenty-a-day cackle. Fingers crossed that her next victim is Michelle though . . .
