Five Things We Learned In Corrie This Week

Distance is a matter of perception.  Weatherfield is a very small world; everyone on the Street works within a four minute walk of their front room, has all their relatives two doors down, and can only have a romantic entanglement with people in the same postcode.  This might be why they consider travelling perfectly reasonable distances to be comparable to taking a donkey across the Sahara.  Kevin was absolutely horrified to learn that Jack would have to go to Liverpool for his rehab.  Liverpool and Manchester are connected by a motorway and direct rail services; you can get from Victoria to Lime Street in half an hour.  This is obviously way too far for our Kev, who was looking at flats near the hospital so he could avoid the absolute horror of a forty-five minute drive every day.  Perhaps he's worried he might not get back in time for The One Show. 

Score wisely.  Like all sensible people, I rate my friends on their sexual attractiveness and refuse to pal around with anyone with a higher score than me.  Fortunately I'm a solid 9 so this rarely comes up (I deduct one point to be humble).  I was pleased to see Abi has a similar system, making Steve a 5 (he believed he should be a 6 on sense of humour alone, not realising that only counts if people are laughing with you) while Tracy was a 8.  Tracy herself believed she was a 10 when she gets her hair done, which explains why she was so furious when Maria burned off a centimetre with her straighteners.  Tyrone, meanwhile, reckoned he was also an 8.

Yup, I'll give him that.

To forgive is divine.  "Oh, hi Ryan!  So glad you're recovered from that coma I put you in a couple of weeks ago.  And now you want to go out with my daughter!  You'd think that after the past year or so, I'd be extremely suspicious of any older man paying attention to her, but no, you take her away on holiday to the fleshpots of Ibiza even though you barely know her.  Don't worry, I've totally forgiven you for trying to extract a grand from me through blackmail and intimidation.  That was clearly an aberration, and you're definitely a stand up citizen now, and not a complete wastrel who's going to spend his time in the Balearics sleeping all day and larging it while off your face on chemicals all night.  Please, take Bethany with my blessing!"

Rula rules.  The return of the fabulous Claudia Colby was obviously the week's highlight; her and Audrey's icy exchange of backdoor brags in the Rovers had more acid than a university chemistry lab.  It's the veneer of friendship that makes it all the more glorious: two immense manes of backcombed magnificence occupying opposing banquettes and declaring the coldest of cold wars beneath sugary words.  The prize in this battle of the curling tongs?  Maria, which would make it a pretty hollow victory, let's be honest.  Claudia offered her a franchise, then had to explain in words of two syllables or less what the word "franchise" actually meant.  Maria ran to former sister in law and love rival Carla for financial support, though Ms Connor was less than impressed by the business plan.  Firstly it was in a spiral bound notepad with Justin Bieber on the cover she'd got from the Kabin's Back to School range, and secondly the plans for "doubling Carla's investment" seemed somewhat vague.  It seemed to boil down to "I will be really good at cutting hair; also there will be a chandelier."  Fortunately I managed to get hold of Maria's business plan, and the details make all the difference.

There are literally no flaws in this scheme and Maria will be a millionaire by Christmas.

The British pub needs radical new ideas.  CAMRA estimates that eighteen pubs close in Britain every week; the local boozer is in a parlous state.  Thank heavens then for out-of-the-box thinkers like Gemma, who has big plans to turn the Rovers into a 21st century venue.  Firstly, the tatty back room will be made over into a VIP area, where local celebrities can drink cocktails and snort cocaine while Sean bobs by to make another batch of hotpots.  Secondly, a champagne hot tub, presumably next to the smoker's area in the yard.  I can just imagine Rita and Mary passing an evening knocking back Dom Perignon in their bikinis while Steve sucks on a tab a couple of feet away.  The cool hip-hop beats will be turned up to eleven so you can't hear Eccles yapping in the yard next door. You may scoff now, but when there's a queue halfway down Rosamund Street of hipsters and tastemakers trying to get close enough to Instagram a pint of Newton & Ridley, it'll be Ms Winter who'll be reaping the benefits.

There wasn't time in this week's blog to discuss Mary's filthy Idris Elba fantasies.  Please feel free to share any of your own with the author - preferably with illustrations - on Twitter @merseytart.

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