The super-fans permeate the televisual, musical and sporting worlds in abundance. Football fans who drag themselves around every league ground in England. Doctor Who devotees who can list the Time Lord's assistants and the order they appeared. Sad creatures who can recount Turkish entries to the Eurovision Song Contest (ahem . . .) Does the ongoing drama have the same kind of appeal?
I fear it does. In this week of 'celebrations' for that other soap ("Rickeeee", "Get outta my pub", "You ain't my muvva" etc.) I have to admit that I've never met anyone who feels as passionately about 'Enders as I do about Corrie. Surely they must exist though? The hardened fans who can talk you through Lou Beale's family tree or wax lyrical about landlords of the Queen Vic. Where are they? Perhaps they are all hokey-cokey-ing dahn the Strand, 'avin a banana.
Recently, viewing from the safety of social media, I watched as fans of the BBC drama The Archers, tore themselves to shreds over ongoing plot developments and recasting of characters. It was a thing to behold as middle England rattled its tea cups in unison, demanding that everything revert back to its cosy former self. Amusing for a casual listener like me but what must it be like to be in the depths of such soapy shenanigans?
Do we care too much about our fictional friends in Weatherfield? Of course not, he said, surrounded by dozens of Corrie DVDs, books, a dog-eared TV Times from 1978 with Ena and co on the cover, worn paperback books with titles such as Trouble at the Rovers, a signed photo of Pat Phoenix acquired when, bizarrely, she turned up outside my house in an ice-cream van, an LP (get me to a museum . .. ) of Corrie actors murdering hits of yesteryear . .. on it goes. I obviously reached the point of no return around the time that Kevin was growing his first 'tache.
Are there moments when you question your own Corrie-related sanity? I still recall with a certain amount of horror, the day when a woman in my office asked me "What's the fragrance of that after shave you're wearing?". Without a moment's hesitation I barked out "Woman, Stanley, woman!" Civilisations rose and fell in the silence that followed.
Fanatical about Corrie? Probably. Very probably. I haven't yet reached the point where I record episodes when I go on holiday. I didn't find myself soaking up in the sun in Nassau and thinking "I wonder what Sally's doing now?" I've not yet become the kind of loon who sends ITV a wreath when a character dies. That time may yet come. When it does and I'm found marching up and down the back ginnels of Greater Manchester decked out in an army great coat and hairnet (not that there is any hair worth saving), then it will be time for me to be gently led away and be whacked over the head with a ham barm. Until then, I'm happy to be counted as a Friend of Weatherfield. Now, where did I leave that Ivy Tilsley commemorative ornamental lavatory brush?
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