Cover your tracks. Nobody in Weatherfield should drive a car. Firstly, everyone you know, everywhere you work, and everywhere you shop is within a 200 yard radius; what are you going to do, get in the Fiat 500 to nip to Dev's? Secondly, there's nowhere to park a car, especially since Sally and Maria went off on one. You slide your Fiesta into a nice little spot outside the salon and suddenly Maria's there with a sledgehammer smashing your windscreen and screaming at you for polluting her Liam's lungs. Thirdly, the minute someone gets behind the wheel, with location filming and everything, you know something horrible is going to happen.
People who say that prison is useless and does nothing to reform a person should pay heed to Faye's progress. Ted was barely cold and she was whipping out the bleach to wipe down every surface in the place to destroy the evidence, like Thandiwe Newton in Line of Duty. That's a talent for covering up your crimes that she could've only learned from Big Sandra in C Wing.
Say goodbye. We're entering the fourteenth month of Sarah-Lou being surprised that Adam has a full and fascinating sexual past. This would be a convincing storyline if:
- she hadn't lived on the same street as the Barlows her entire life and therefore knows all about him
- she didn't have a, let's be frank, somewhat chequered love life herself
- Adam Barlow didn't look like that
She petulantly informed Adam that until he went back in time and erased all his former lovers she'd be taking the Pill. I was thrilled that after thirty-odd years Sarah-Lou has finally learned what contraception is; I'd appreciate it if she could take a moment to explain it to the rest of the Street, perhaps as a PowerPoint presentation or on flashcards.
Sarah-Lou's insecurities stem from the fact that Lydia keeps ruining their fun Prosecco evenings by lurching into shot and sulkily staring at Adam across the cobbles. You know how you could avoid this, Sarah? Stop seeing Lydia. You've known her five minutes, can the obvious lunatic and chat to your husband instead. Unfortunately the opportunity has passed because Carla has decided she needs a PA (personal assistant, not a Prince Albert) and Lydia has slipped into the role, along with her mad-eyed stare and fondness for getting ratted at eight in the morning. Underworld's staffing levels continue to be absolutely baffling; there are now more people in the office than there are stitching knickers.
"It has a magnetic catch for easy release," she purred in anticipation. Sadly Tim refused, denying us the opportunity to see him wearing nothing but a tiny pair of pants. I wonder what that would've looked like?
Goodness how did that get there. Presumably Tim will continue to keep his major surgery a secret for no real reason at all, meaning that he'll have to come up with an excuse to explain why he disappeared for a day and came back with incision scars. The plus side is Aggie is involved, holding his hand during the consultation, and Aggie doesn't seem like the kind of woman who'd let a man suffer in silence. She'll hopefully nip round to Sally's for a coffee and drop a load of unsubtle hints that she really, really, should ask Tim how his heart is. I'm all for it, because anything where Aggie becomes even better mates with the Metcalfes is fine with me.
Think pink! Speed Daal's makeover continued apace, the insurance money having presumably rained down on them even though it's been Christmas. The orange has been canned and replaced by a lot of plastic plants and pink neon; it's looks very "influencer" and Instagram ready. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a "selfie spot" and complimentary ring lights. On the plus side, the new Speed Daal sign is a lot smaller and out of the way, so hopefully we'll no longer get those unfortunate moments when someone stood in front of the Authentic Pakistani Street Food bit and half that sentence was cropped by the camera.
This was all the backdrop to Zeedan and Marrium reconciling thanks to her telling him how to stop his paintbrush drying out by using clingfilm. I don't think that was a euphemism. They were so obviously potty for one another, and slipped back into their romance so easily, it was hard to understand why they'd split up in the first place after only a few months of marriage. Ah yes, I remember now: plot.
Grandmaster Flash is in the house. Look, I'm going to be honest here; I don't buy that Sam didn't already know how to play chess. He's a highly educated precocious boy - that kind of kid attracts older relatives wanting to pass down their chess knowledge. There'll be a family gathering, and most of the cousins will be running around with water pistols or hammering at the XBox, but quiet Uncle Sidney will have seen something in the clever boy and will take him aside to show him his rook. (That sounded a lot filthier than I meant it to, I'm sorry). The point is, chess is a game that is only taught by nerds to nerds, and Sam will have been indoctrinated into its strategic ways long before Roy and Mary took hold.
This is all irrelevant anyway because I wouldn't have given up the chess scenes for anything. It was all delightful, from Roy and Mary's sparring ("the master of strategy versus the queen of cunning and spontaneity"), to her singing I Know Him So Well while she contemplated her next move, to Nicky Tilsley sitting at the back the whole time looking confused. I was entirely unsurprised to learn that after only three days of lessons Sam could absolutely kick his dad's backside at the game; to be honest I half expected Sam to have to gently pull a knight out of Nicky's nostril. Perhaps my favourite moment was Roy comprehensively destroying a ten year old then absolutely refusing to dial back his competitive instincts. That's it Roy, crush the child; teach him that life is unfair now before he has any hope. Good man.
The author was taken to one side and taught chess by his cousin Michael when he was seven while the rest of the family looked on in amusement. If you want to challenge me to a game contact me on Twitter @merseytart, but be warned: I'm absolutely useless.
