Five Things We Learned In Corrie This Week

Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt.  Tell you what, the next series of Who Do You Think You Are is going to be disappointing.  Instead of Anthony Hopkins or Denise van Outen travelling the world in search of their past, visiting libraries and museums and chatting to expert genealogists and historians, they'll just upload a picture of their nan to the internet.  Twenty-four hours later they'll get names, dates and even long lost relatives presented to them on a plate.  The programme will be about six minutes long.  

This all came about because Gail discovered a suspiciously new-looking photo in a pile of her belongings.  Hint for you, prop people; when we wanted stuff to look old in primary school we dunked it in tea then stuck it under the grill.  That way it won't look like you printed it off from the kiosk in Snappy Snaps just before filming.  Gail's delve into her past meant she learned she was distantly related to George the undertaker; on the one hand, what are the chances of that happening, but on the other, it means George gets tied into the Street a little more so I can't complain.  It also meant we got the return of Audrey, swigging G&T's and reminiscing about Archie, which was wonderful.  She seems to have patched everything up with Gail at some point, but sadly, the cessation in hostilities with Eileen that came about when they bonded over their inability to spot a serial killer husband has come to an end.  They spat fire and bullets at one another while Mary pulled an awesome angry face at George.

And no, I am not going to give the many extremely poor Fanny innuendos the oxygen of publicity.

Some wounds run deep.  Do you know how long Debbie Webster lived on Coronation Street in the 80s?  Seven months: June 1984 to January 1985, 34 episodes.  She's been in more episodes since she came back than in her entire time as a resident, yet for some reason, this brief period of living in a backstreet terrace has filled her with deep resentment and anger.  She's carried this anger for nearly forty years and decided to get her revenge by knocking it down.  Let it go, love.  Have a nice camomile tea and a lie down.

Although, actually, she does seem to have got past it, because once the planning permission was revoked Debbie ran round giving everyone their houses back.  Of course, she could've simply resubmitted the application to the new committee and done it all by the book, but apparently that's out.  She handed over the garage to Kevin, she prepared paperwork to give StreetCars and number 8 back, she basically stopped short of standing in the middle of the street and flagellating herself in public to atone for her sins.  This does mean she still owns a massive empty brewery rotting behind the Street.  Hopefully she'll turn out a smaller, more bespoke redevelopment, and then everyone can stop moving into tiny houses that can't accommodate them.  Yes Grace, I mean you.

Home is where the hole is.  Am I the only person who remembers the sinkhole?  Am I the only one who cares?  Because David seems mad keen to move back into number 8, even though the reason he moved out in the first place was there was a gaping maw in his back yard and he couldn't afford to fill it in.  Now he wants to return, even though the sinkhole is still there and will still need to be filled in, only now instead of trying to get a mortgage on a normal house, he's going to try and get a mortgage on a house with a massive structural defect.  Good luck concealing that from the surveyor; maybe you can just keep the back curtains closed, or stick a fountain on the side and pretend it's a water feature.  On top of that Tracy wants to buy the house, even though, as I say, there's a huge hole in the back garden.  There are thousands of other houses in Manchester Trace, and the vast majority of them don't have a portal to the underworld by the rotary washing line.  (Incidentally, happy 44th birthday Tracy.  None of your awful family seemed to remember, even though they all got sad about Val being electrocuted, and she's been gone for fifty years).  I will not rest until we see actual, physical evidence that the sinkhole is being filled in, with a digger and a structural engineer.  I appreciate it's not the most exciting storyline but I need closure.

Now do Chopsticks.  Todd's nefarious plan to break up Billy and Paul reached a new level of evil this week as he encouraged them to... er... get a piano?  I'm not quite sure why he thought a musical instrument would be some great impediment to their relationship; it was a piano, not the bagpipes.  Billy confessed he loved to play and sing, Summer seemed desperate to take lessons, and Paul was happy to join in; the only problem it was slightly too large for their flat. Maybe Todd hoped they'd herniate themselves getting it up the stairs.  They conspicuously failed to show us how they managed to negotiate the tight turns and steep flight - perhaps Billy asked Him Upstairs for a quick favour.  Soon the whole family were gathered round the Old Joanna, having a singalong, presenting us with the delightful sight of Daniel Brocklebank - who is a trained singer - damping down his natural talents so that he didn't blow out the sound equipment with his West End belt.  

Todd was forced to resort to Plan B - bellowing at Will in the ginnel.  The relationship between these two gets creepier and creepier; Will's constant declarations that he'll do anything for money while Todd shouts at him that he needs to act more needy gives it all the air of a pimp berating one of his rent boys.  It's all very nasty and seems like a real hassle.  Is Billy that much of a catch?  That Ajay seems perfectly nice, Todd.  Why not persist with him?

Be more Roy.  I know we shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but Hayley really went down in my estimation this week.  It seems Roy arranges his knives in order of size - which is correct - and Hayley never paid attention to this, simply whacking them back in the block willy-nilly.  That is not on and it shows what a saint Roy is, because if she'd tried that in my house, she'd have ended up with a bread knife in her larynx.  He also cooked a quiche, complete with home-made coleslaw, volunteered to be a whisky delivery service for Ken, and gave Peter a lengthy talking to that genuinely connected with his soul.  Frankly if there were more Royston Croppers around the world would be a much better place.

This blog post was written with the help of a big bottle of vodka because Peter's alcoholism is driving me to drink.  Send details of my nearest Group via Twtter @merseytart please.

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