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".