There Ain't No Party Like A Webster Party

It's Saturday night but all I can think about is Bank Holiday Monday.  There's a simple reason for this: I want to go to Sally Webster's garden party.  I really want it.  It is my life's ambition.  In fact, I am so obsessed with it, Monday's episodes can't help but disappoint me.  I haven't been this excited about a Corrie storyline since I heard Molly Dobbs was going to be hit in the face by a tram.

What's so great about it?  Let's start with Sally Webster herself, a woman who was never knowingly undersnobbed.  Sally makes Annie Walker look like a topless dancer.  Ashley and Claire lived in her house for years, but the only time their conservatory saw any action was when Ashley diddled that woman from Emmerdale in full view of the neighbours.  Sally, on the other hand, uses the word conservatory as a weapon.  It's a club to beat her fellow residents with.  Does anyone else in the Street have a conservatory?  No, they do not.  If Gail Platt wants to sit in the warmth she actually has to go outside.  Only Sally has a glasshouse welded to her kitchen, and she will never let you forget it.

We should hate Sally for it but she's so clueless, so utterly vile in her dedication to her social mobility, all we can do is revel in her magnificence.  She is the Margo Leadbetter of Coronation Street, and that is a glory to be treasured.

It's also important to remember the reason why Sally is having a garden party: purely to rub her neighbour's faces in it.  There is no other motivation behind it: it's a social event fueled by spite and anger.  These are the best social occasions, of course.  Have you been to a wedding?  Remember how utterly tedious it was?  Remember how the best parties are the ones where Callie and Ross screamed at one another all night, then broke up, and you spent the rest of the evening telling her why Ross was a waste of space and you'd always hated him anyway?  How much more fun was that?  If everyone's happy that's intolerably tedious.  We want misery, jealousy and spitefulness to keep us merry.

And let's not forget Sally's preparations.  Something by Nigella.  Fish instead of beefburgers.  Hummus for the vegetarians.  She's aiming high, is Sally, and I want to be knocking back Chardonnay with her while bitching about Stella's hairdo.  Then we can sing Total Eclipse of the Heart together and life will be perfect.

 
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