The appeal of EastEnders is difficult to explain. A downright bizarre parallell universe whose grip on reality can be placed somewhere between Narnia and a bad acid trip, this is a corner of East London in which exists the world's busiest launderette since no-one seemingly owns a washing machine, ditto a fridge which would explain why there is always at least 80% of the population of Walford in the local cafe at any given time of day. A place where the mantra is less Love Thy Neighbour, more Fuck Thy Neighbour. A place where no one can keep a secret for more than about 14 seconds, which is troublesome in a place where everyone who has the misfortune to pass through it is in some way or another a lying cheating devious bastard with all sorts of unsavoury secrets to hide. A place where the standard form of communication is blind rage and incoherent yelling at one another. A place which seems to be more difficult to escape than the island in Lost. Seriously, there will be maybe 3 or 4 occasions anually when someone will stroll into the market with 392 glossy shopping bags having apparently been down Oxford Street, not to mention the fact that everyone in Walford works within 6 yards of their front door.
Although all these points seem like criticisms, they aren't intended to be. Things have to be this way because EastEnders is a piece of entertainment. Soaps cannot be 'realistic' because lets be honest, real life is fucking boring. What would you rather see, Who Killed Archie or Who Called Archie A Bloody Rotten Bugger And Gave Him The Finger? In reality, most people settle arguments by shouting and swearing. In Walford, disputes are solved by a great big statue to the temple.
My favourite things about EastEnders recently are as follows:
The temptation with any soap is to adhere to lazy ethnic stereotypes. For a long time I saw this family as a waste of time, nothing more than the token stereotypical Asians with their own takeaway food business, an attempt to reflect the diverse ethnicity of East London. But the producers threw an unexpectedly fantastic curveball at the Masooods by having their eldest son Syed embark on a passionate affair with local raving homosexual Christian. The shit hit the fan over New Year with Syed's mother Zainab finding out about the affair, in typical soap fashion, on the day of her son's wedding. After a fucking eternity in soap terms, the whole sordid business came out [so to speak] which has sent Zainab batshit insane, disowning her sinful son and wrecking her marriage in the process. It's been a joy to watch Zainab morph from a typically uptight muslim wife and mother to a deranged she-nutter utterly unable to seperate her love for her son from the humiliation he has bought on her family. Recenty she has fritted between reluctantly allowing Syed into the family home, changing her mind and burning all his shit and cooking meals which no one eats, all with the facial expression of a woman who just got slapped in the face with a decomposing seagull carcass. Husband Masood [I've only just realised they refer to him by the family name... So what, is he Masood Masood?....] spends most of the time trying to convince his wife to see reason, doing so with the air of a man who just enjoyed a massive spliff. As for Christian, he has recieved a couple of beatings for his troubles, and seems to spend his days prancing around in a tracksuit which he is far too old to pull off, casting longing glances at Syed whenever their eyes meet across the market.
- Phil and Shirley [and Ben Mitchell]
Despite the fact that all they seem to do is argue about how best to deal with Phil's son, dance-crazed poofta Ben and neck bottles of vodka, Phil and Shirley are a wonderful pairing, despite the utter bleakness of their lives. But this is the appeal of them, two people whose lives resemble a train wreck, it's only in the world of soaps that these two middle-aged reprobates could be allowed custody of two young children. Shirley, a lady with a face which could curdle solid brick, and Phil, still pink and rotund as ever, are dealing with psychopath-in-training Ben, who has taken to torturing his younger sister inbetween dressing as Lady Gaga and crying EVERY FIVE FUCKING SECONDS. I really hope the producers stick with Ben Mitchell until he is an adult [Or get rid when he gets to 15 and have him return 3 years later played by someone else] so we can witness first hand his inevitable development into a full-on serial killing nutcase lunatic. And Phillip himself is always worth watching just on the off chance he has a drink and stomps around Albert Square telling peopel it is "time to die!" or accusing characters from the board game Cluedo of murder.
.... is leaving! I'm sick and tired of looking at this gormless twat gurn his way through every scene he is in, showing about as much charisma as a kitchen worktop. And, have you seen the face on those lips? What a complete jizz tissue. FUCK OFF NOW. And take Roxy with you. All that bitch seems to do these days is shout at people stood 2 inches in front of her.
- Jack Branning's Miraculous Recovery
It is amazing how a few weeks ago when he took a bullet in the brain, doctors said he would be paralyzed down one side of his face, which led to some unintentionally hilarious scenes when he woke up from his coma and looked like a really shit ventriloquist whenever he tried to talk. BUT LO AND BEHOLD 3 weeks on, his lop-sided face has been cured and he is free to use both sides of his face to try and act with.
It was amazing a few weeks ago when Jack got shot and Darren was asked to look for wheelchair-bound tosser Adam but returned with an empty chair and said he"found part of him." One can only assume Adam, in the panic following a gunshot, was crawling down the street outside like some kind of beached eel trying to find the sea.
Although the producers saw fit to have Shane Ritchie tag along, the news of which ranks alongside being told you have won the lottery, but Shane Ritchie has to tag along.
Should be the most irritating little cunt in the existence of intelligent life, but I somehow aspire to be him. BUFF TING.
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