Eastenders and Katie and Peter - Stateside, 14 May 2009

I decided to start this blog because recently there have been occasions when I've watched something on television and been interested in discussing it, or commenting on it. I read lots of other reviews on certain programmes and wanted to join in the fun. Channel 4's Red Riding trilogy was one (great, loved it) and ITV's Compulsion another (terrible, laughed at it) but I've missed the boat on those so it starts here. What hadn't occurred to me is that if I'm actually going to update the blog reasonably often then I'll have to write about some stuff that doesn't make me desperate to discuss it. I realised this last night.

I couldn't face watching Extreme Male Beauty when I realised it involved penis enlargement because I'd just had sausages for my evening meal and was keen for them to remain in my stomach, and I couldn't watch Lie to Me because I don't have SKY (see "I don't get paid for this" in yesterday's post), so I settled for Eastenders and a new experience of watching Katie and Peter - Stateside.

Eastenders has just won Best Soap at the British Soap Awards, and all I can think to say about that is "why?" Last night, Ronnie moved in with Jack Branning, the father of her sister's baby. Granted, Jack is probably the most handsome man on Albert Square (and clearly there are no other men in London, or indeed the world, to consider) but unfortunately his appeal is somewhat stunted by the fact that he only has one facial expression, and that is Brooding. You could tell him anything, and his expression would remain static except perhaps if the news was very extreme, in which case he might briefly raise his eyebrows a millimetre or so. "Jack, the Vic is on fire!" Brooding. "Jack, you're the father of your girlfriend's sister's baby!" Brooding. "Jack, you're booked to appear on Extreme Male Beauty next week!" Eyebrow flicker followed by Brooding. It must surely be like having a conversation with the pub's famous eponymous bust, expect that she only does Stern. It has to be said though that Jack, despite his lack of facial muscle skill, did get the looks in the family. His brother Max, whilst having at least three facial expressions (Depressed, Guilty and Lying) got the hair loss and the creepy eyelashes. Max is trying to get back with his wife Tanya. Or is she his ex-wife? I forget whether they actually got divorced between her burying him alive in Epping Forest and then being imprisoned for running him over, even though she didn't. They split up, of course, when Max had an affair with Stacey, his son's wife. Tanya then had an affair with Max's brother, the aforementioned master of the facial manifestation, Jack. Lately Tanya's head has been turned by the new doctor in the Square, who wears an Alice band and presumably conducts his surgery whilst jogging, since that is all he ever seems to do. So to summarise, Max slept with his daughter-in-law, then Jack slept with his sister-in-law, then slept with his other sister-in-law (ish) and got her pregnant, even though she thought she was pregnant by Sean, who is Max's daughter-in-law's brother. So it's all quite neat really, in a 'keeping it in the family' kind of a way. In any event, Max and Tanya are apart at the moment with each finding it difficult to forget the other. The irony is that I suspect most viewers would like to be able to forget them both. Max and Tanya, Tanya and Max. Who cares?! Enough already! Den and Angie they are not. Even the reappearance of Nasty Nick Cotton hasn't been enough to reawaken my interest in this year's Best Soap. Last night he was menacing Billy Mitchell by trying to extort cups of tea (milk, two sugars) from him. It's hardly in the same league as murder and heroin addiction, Nick. Dum...dum dum dum.

Katie and Peter – Stateside was almost exactly as I’d expected it to be, except more so. I must confess that I did take tea breaks during transmission (well it was on for an hour, for heaven’s sake!) so I may have missed bits. But I doubt it because whenever I returned with a fresh cuppa, Peter Andre was still going on about having a bad hair day. Or looking Greek, even though he is. Or having a bad hair day. Or having a bad hair day. Or having a bad…well, you get the idea. I don’t know how this show usually works, but this episode followed Katie and Peter as they prepared to attended a party for the Oscars. Again, my first question was “why?” Why were Katie Price and Peter Andre invited to this party? What do they have to do with film, or acting, or Hollywood, or the Oscars? This may have been explained whilst I was boiling the kettle, so I apologise if that’s the case. Katie went shopping for a dress and found one she liked but which needed some alterations so her breasts weren’t on show, which seemed rather ironic. Perhaps she meant “at the beginning of the evening”? The footage ended as we waved Katie and Peter off to the party and resumed the next morning when we saw the couple telling their manager (or as of yesterday, Peter’s manager) all about it. The most amusing part was the anecdote about Victoria Beckham, and the way she walked past Katie, and the way Peter forced her to chat to him, and the way I realised that these people are like schoolchildren in the playground, but with more money. In light of Katie and Peter’s separation, announced this week, the section of the show in which Peter was in the studio writing a song about his stepson Harvey was actually quite poignant. The song was dreadful of course, but the sentiment touching. In summary, I think watching Katie and Peter was one of those experiences akin to eating Marmite. It was worth a try but on reflection I think once was enough.

My friend Caitlin Moran and Corrie, 13 May 2009

The terrible thing about blogs is that essentially they exist to allow millions of people to write dull, substandard prose that wouldn't have the slightest chance of being published by anyone else, ever, and publish it themselves. The wonderful thing about blogs is that they allow people like me who should probably grow up a bit to pretend they're Caitlin Moran. I've felt affinity with Caitlin Moran since she was writing in the Times at the age of 16, when quite obviously, that should have been me. We are the same age (oh, ok, she's very slightly younger than me) and I was very jealous, but my envy was tempered with much admiration. Now she still writes for the Times, and I still don't. But we'd get on, Caitlin Moran and me. Because if all else failed, we could talk about how it's completely normal for woman in their thirties to be obsessed with Doctor Who. I used to have the Doctor as my screen saver in the office. People thought it was odd, for a woman my age. I say that if you can't see the attraction of travelling through time and space in a twee sixties police box with a charismatic alien of great intellect and perspicacity, then it is quite clearly you who are odd. I digress. When we met Caitlin Moran could regale me with stories of how she met all the giants of Britpop and the alternative music scene in the nineties, and I could tell her about the Happy Mondays poster I used to have on my bedroom wall and how I nearly went to see the Charlatans once. It's a friendship destined for success. So, in short, for more sophisticated, entertaining and frankly better reviews of televised programming, read those by my great friend Caitlin Moran. For the amateur's version, remain in your seat. In my defence, Caitlin Moran's probably had some lessons or something, and she gets paid for her writing, and I haven't and don't.

So, let’s get cracking with last night’s Coronation Street. Say what you like about Corrie, but if there’s a character that combines Susan Boyle and Alex Forrester so scarily in another show, I have yet to see it. Poor Norris, although an unlikely Michael Douglas (he’s probably younger for a start) couldn’t have been more terrified during Mary’s seduction attempt in the motor home if she’d got legless and impersonated Sheena Easton. Oh hang on, she did. Humour is one of Coronation Street’s great strengths; it’s routinely funnier than numerous creations that are, we’re told, sitcoms (My Family, anyone?) and so it’s a shame to see an amusing comic possibility stretched too far, as this was, to a cringeworthy degree. Mary’s character has recently become less and less plausible and for some bizarre reason has been morphed into a clownish oddball from the slightly eccentric Spot the Ball fiend she once was. Last week’s beautifully understated Ken Barlow storyline shows up the clunking naffness that poor Mary’s having to wade through all the more harshly. Ken’s lack of moral courage in not only failing to tell his wife he was leaving her for his mistress, who was off to Tamworth to star in The Colbys, but also failing to inform his mistress that he was leaving her for his wife after approximately four minutes in Utopia, her narrow boat, was superbly written and acted. And the humour is never far away. Ken’s son Peter had snaffled the Dear Deirdre letter his father had left, to Ken’s relief upon his return. But Peter’s loaded sniping left Ken panicking that he’d reveal his deception to Deirdre anyway, so on reclaiming his letter Ken showed it to his wife, in order to let her know that he had intended to leave her, but had now decided to ask Rita to start delivering his Guardian again instead, which was his version of expressing remorse. "That is my husband's farewell note” explained Deirdre to her mother, adding witheringly “Though Ken being Ken it's more of a long letter".