IMAGINE if BBC1 suddenly noticed EastEnders’ dire ratings and scrapped the show.
The initial feelings of euphoria would be amazing, but its death throes would trigger a special kind of right-on hell.
The self-reverence and pity would swiftly become unbearable, Twitter users and The Guardian would blame it on a Government conspiracy and the show itself would bow out in a fit of vengeful indignation that would make Brookside’s 2003 exit huff look almost dignified by comparison.
That’s one of the main reasons why I’m really enjoying the characteristically self-deprecating and cheerful departure of Neighbours, even though I stopped viewing it regularly in 1991.
Since then I’ve restricted myself to watching some outstandingly weird cameos from the likes of Andre Rieu and Russell Brand, whose 2020 appearance remains his career high, and occasional check-ups on Paul Robinson’s limb amputation.
Mostly it’s his left leg, occasionally it’s his right and sometimes Stefan Dennis forgets completely and hurtles round Lassiters like he’s Usain Bolt.
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But, as a way of maintaining the audience’s attention it’s a stroke of comedy genius that’s way beyond any of our own soaps.
Tuning in again every day for the past few months, though, has been a disorientating process, not least because the show now has two entirely separate and unequal casts occupying the same vaguely familiar set.
First lot are the current regulars, who are neither here nor there, frankly.
They are mostly imposters and clones, driven by their issues, who spout the same worthy garbage you hear on EastEnders and exclaim: “The last time I saw you I didn’t know if I identified as queer”, as absolutely no one from Melbourne has ever said in real life.
Nowhere deserves to be cursed by this sort of dialogue, but I can’t think of any country that suits being woke less than Australia, which simply doesn’t have the required levels of pomposity to pull off political correctness.
It has no place, either, on Neighbours which, unlike some deluded British equivalents, always had the good sense not to take itself remotely seriously.
So I won’t be joining any of the “bring back” campaigns until the war against woke has been won.
I want to remember the show as it was in the 1980s and as it has been for the last few months in Erinsborough, where they’ve been welcoming back the real Neighbours.
That’s Harold Bishop, plain Jane The Superbrain, Joe Mangel (via video message), Doctor Clive, Melanie Pearson with the donkey-braying laugh, Shane Ramsay, who’s now a crypto currency multi-million-aire, and Mike Young, played by the brilliant Guy Pearce, who’s been demonstrating exactly why he went on to have a stellar Hollywood career.
Tonight, you may also see: Holly “Flick Scully” Val-ance, Margot “Donna Freed-man” Robbie, Panda from The Masked Singer (Natalie “Beth Brennan” Imbruglia) and Paul “Des Clarke” Keane, who’s clearly been through the ringer since leaving.
And there’s a royal walk about from Jason Donovan and Kylie Minogue.
Although, I say “Kylie Minogue”, from the long-distance shots it could just as well be Jilly Goolden who’s been getting rag-dolled by Bouncer the dog since about 1991.
Even before you throw in missing Ramsay Street alumni Russell Crowe, Liam Hemsworth and the great Murray Bartlett, from The White Lotus, it adds up to a level of talent and success that Coronation Street, Emmerdale and EastEnders combined could not begin to match.
Fitting them all into one pre-existing soap, however, is an entirely different matter.
On pain of death, Channel 5’s press office has forbidden me from telling you tonight’s plot, but I’m not even sure I could explain it even if I was allowed.
It’s the artistic equivalent of trying to unscramble an omelette.
The old characters have to explain away a 30-year absence while picking up new plot lines and also name-checking every single character, except Henry Ramsay (don’t ask) via a History Of Ramsay Street album, which is Erinsborough’s version of The Tibetan Book Of The Dead.
No production trick is also too cheesy to pull, either.
Not even an appearance by the ghost of Madge Bishop and one or two other corpses. Yet, weirdly, it’s a far more moving experience than I would have thought possible.
Part of that’s down to pure nostalgia and a reminder of exactly where I was when I used to watch the show in the 1980s (Aberdeen).
But it owes even more, I think, to the funny, warm, laid-back, outward-looking, wander-lusting, whinge-free country of Australia and its amazing people, who, typically, find exactly the right words to pay off the last ever Neighbours.
“Thanks for loving us.”
TIPPING Point, Ben Shephard: “Derived from a word meaning ‘to knock down’, which native American axe shares its name with a style of steak?”
Parveen: “A sirloin axe.”
The Chase, Bradley Walsh: “Witches are most often depicted flying on what objects?”
Keisha: “A UFO.”
Tipping Point: “In 1739 the legendary highwayman convicted of stealing horses was Dick who?”
Adam: “Van Whittington.”
ALL those shows which still indulge the schoolboy bullying tactics of Alastair Campbell, the architect of the Iraq war.
The inexplicable cross-channel obsession with Joe Lycett.
Lorraine Kelly allowing Arg to murder Brown Eyed Girl, live on ITV, at 9.50 in the morning.
Tuesday’s 6pm BBC News opening with an eight-minute preview of an England Women’s football match.
And The Last Leg’s Josh Widdicombe claiming he’s enjoyed the 2022 Euros so much he’d like to: “Scrap the men’s game.”
’Cos that’s what TV’s been missing – the empty, virtue-signalling words of one more grovelling, right-on creep.
ALL those shows which still indulge the schoolboy bullying tactics of Alastair Campbell, the architect of the Iraq war.
The inexplicable cross-channel obsession with Joe Lycett.
Lorraine Kelly allowing Arg to murder Brown Eyed Girl, live on ITV, at 9.50 in the morning.
Tuesday’s 6pm BBC News opening with an eight-minute preview of an England Women’s football match.
And The Last Leg’s Josh Widdicombe claiming he’s enjoyed the 2022 Euros so much he’d like to: “Scrap the men’s game.”
’Cos that’s what TV’s been missing – the empty, virtue-signalling words of one more grovelling, right-on creep.
INCIDENTALLY, if any of you are thinking of filling the summer television void with Netflix’s eight-part reality series Snowflake Mountain, a word of warning.
Don’t.
It’s a feeble attempt to weld together the prize plot twist of Too Hot To Handle with the format of Channel 4’s Brat Camp which, almost inevitably, ends up being too camp to handle.
Immediate problem here is that the far-flung “wilderness” setting turns out to be an outward bounds centre, just off the A592, near Kendal, in Cumbria.
So there’s no chance of them being eaten alive by marauding bears.
The young contestants aren’t really proper snowflakes, either. They’re just a bit spoiled and clearly acting up for the cameras.
Watch the show for any length of time, though, as I made the mistake of doing, and you’ll notice it’s so completely devoid of any jeopardy, drama or content that a rather disturbing pattern emerges.
Episode two: Sunny is caught short and has to take a dump in a hole in the ground.
Episode seven: Randy is caught short and has to take a dump behind a large rock.
Episode eight: Devon is caught short and says: “It was a tent with a paint bucket in it and I did a s**t in it. And I’ll never forget it.”
So let those few words be a reminder to you all: Snowflake Mountain/Bucket of s**t.
IN episode three of his Alan Whicker masterclass, Paul Holly-wood Eats Mexico, the portly Scouse baker drank chilli cocktails and had a chilli-eating contest, with the world chilli-eating champion, in a Mexican restaurant, where he asked the owner this question: “What do you specialise in?”
“Chillies.”
THIS week’s winner is Man City’s Erling Haaland and Kerry Katona. Sent in by Stu Clarke.
THE departing Neighbours sending itself up beautifully as Freya read the History Of Ramsay Street Book: “It’s amazing how many of them moved to Queensland, isn’t it?”
The BBC’s brilliant pundit Michael Johnson making every word count at the World Athletics Championships.
Charlie Watts: My Life As A Rolling Stone (BBC2). And Channel 4’s excellent Night Coppers wrestling with another drunken nuisance who tried to avoid a night in the cells with this memorable plea: “I’m a member of the Conservative Party.
“I want to get into politics. This is not a good look.”
Not a good look? You’ll fit in perfectly, pal.
This Morning, Alison Hammond: “I’m going to miss you too, Matthew (Wright).”
Lorraine: “You’re looking very Italian and gorgeous, Arg.”
Spooked Scotland, paranormal investigator Chris Fleming: “I feel like we’re being watched.”
Click. Not any more you’re not.
Posing as a “sugar daddy girl” (glorified escort), ITV2’s Olivia Attwood read out the following request from a potential client, on Getting Filthy Rich.
But how did this gross act of humiliation end?
“A man has written, do not shower the night before you come to me and do not use the toilet all day.
“I will ask you to lay on the bed and kiss and worship your butt.
“Nothing extreme, just kissing it. But then I will ask you to . . . ”
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A) “Pee on me.”
B) “Front a four-part investigative series for my channel ITV2.
