Truly Bradley Deeply

I know. It's a crummy old banner headline isn't it? Well, it took me about five hours to dredge that one up so be thankful. Indeed, being thankful is what this little piece is all about as we pay homage to the slice of joy that is Jenny Bradley. Yes, yes I know she's Connor now but sorry - to me she's forever Bradley. Always to be associated with a villainous Dad and a paper round.

Admittedly, I wasn't a massive fan of La Bradley back in the day. The 1986 version of her was basically Munch's Scream in an M&S pullover. Jenny wasn't a reet lot of fun. Reet. Mention her we must and perhaps that's where we begin to see the root of Jenny's angst. Bad enough that you've lost your mum and your dad is on an oil rig. At sixteen you then find yourself billeted with a cross between Ronald McDonald and a transvestite flamenco dancer. In the cramped confines of number 7, which had already seen off philandering Len and Sharon 'Kennels' Gaskell, young Jenny had to face Rita's alarming, shimmering knitwear on a daily basis.

There was some escape from M'Lady of the Papers though. Jenny attempted to break free and reach for stardom in that never-to-be-forgotten audition for Alec Gilroy. Sadly, she couldn't overcome the heady combination of fag smoke and whisky fumes so that was that. Never mind, there was always Martin Platt to turn to. Anyway . . . Our Jen went all continental in 1987 with a fling francaise courtesy of the lovely Patrice, he of the floppy hair. She could have had good lovin' with the ghastly Gary Grimshaw (any relation? Eileen probably wouldn't have a clue . . .) but Jenny opted for Monsieur Love. It didn't last. For Jenny, nothing much ever did.

Somehow though, Jenny powered on. Her eighteenth birthday party was a riot in more ways than one with dad Alan, unsure of what present she would like, settling on the attempted murder of Rita. A pair of white court shoes would have been a much safer bet. By Christmas 1989 though, Alan was getting into the spirit of his new role as Ghost of Christmas Past. Those December episodes were a little odd in places. There were numerous scenes of a glum Jenny having her fringe fingered by none other than Sally Webster. Watching these on ITV3 a few weeks ago, my other half asked "Err . . . were those two ever an item?" Alas no. In a different world we might have had them as a couple. Not so much 'Kana' as 'Jelly'. They would have been more fun than the rowdy boredom that is Rana and Kate. I'd rather watch Mavis and Emily sipping a medium sherry than Kana sucking the life out of another scene. Anyway, Jenny and Sally didn't happen.

For Jen though, it was seemingly downhill all the way in the early 1990s. Although Rita moved her  wigs out of number 7, Jenny remained with an ever-changing cast of Manchester Poly students. Flick Khan (nope - no idea), Angie Freeman (feisty, that one!) and her eventual dismissal from her environmental studies course at the poly. Weep for Jenny! Not for too long though as she was soon embarking on much carnal naughtiness with a married man, an affair which eventually propelled her out of the Street in 1991. By 1993 she'd morphed from mardy cow to schemer, as even from the other side of town, she could hear Rita's cheque book flapping in the breeze. "£30,000 please Reet" she asked. Poor old Jenny had to make do with a grand and one of Rita's withering looks, the power of which kept her away from t'cobbles for over twenty years.

Now she's back and by the 'eck Minnie Caldwell, she's risen like a phoenix (cue Conchita Wurst or failing that, Kevin in a Vera Wang gown). In three years, Jenny's hauled herself up from cleaning the bogs in t'faktry to standing loud and proud as landlady of the Rovers. You get the feeling that much like Annie Walker, Bet Lynch and Natalie Barnes, Jenny is to the manor born. That bar is going to be her stage and poor old Johnny is going to have to take on the subsiduary 'Jack Walker' role. He'll be forever reigning in his wife's excesses. You think he looks 'hang dog' now? He'll resemble Sid James by Christmas.

So Jenny Bradley we salute you. We raise an Uber Duber in your general direction, caution you not to let Rio Rita run riot with the voddy and if the going gets too tough, slap some lippy on, smile and think 'what would Bet have done?' Oh - and mine's a pint.

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