Charlie Brooker’s Screen Burn Read Free Page B

hospital. Having been confronted with some genuine menace for once, as opposed to the Street ’s usual pantomime whimsy, a bunch of easily rattled simpletons phoned the ITC in protest. The regulator agreed that, yes, it was all a bit unpleasant, wasn’t it? Foul Mr Quigley had appeared to ‘enjoy’ inflicting pain, and that simply wouldn’t do. Well, look, he was hurting Steve McDonald for God’s sake – an oily, opportunistic skunk so astoundingly unsympathetic that an arthritic priest would can-can for joy at the news of his violentdeath. The main thrust of the ITC’s condemnation was that Quigley’s lurid display of sadistic nastiness might have upset the show’s younger viewers – presumably they’ll go on to declare that in future, all fictional drug-dealing villains should be played by one of the Chuckle Brothers, in order to lessen any potential trauma.
    Still, out of many millions of viewers, only four actually complained, while the rest gawped on in pleasure, drowsily spooning mouthfuls of congealing Bolognese into their glistening chops while Quigley eventually sputtered his last, courtesy of a broken rib poking through his lung. With any luck the success of this unusually bleak Street story line will encourage Granada to crank up the show’s violence quota considerably, turning it into something akin to an Alan Bennett adaptation of Fight Club .
    Even the sponsorship stings could join in the fray: whose heart could fail to be lightened by a sequence in which one of those cheery Cadbury’s chocolate proles unexpectedly plunges a shortbread screwdriver into a co-worker’s forehead, then jigs with delight as the caramel brains ooze out and slap messily against the marshmallow cobblestones? Well?
    If the Street fails to capitalise on its gore-spattered lead, the remaining soaps should seize the initiative and usher back in a golden age of needless violence. Remember Dynasty ’s machine-gun massacre? Brookside ’s Jordache stabbing? We deserve to see their like again.
    EastEnders should try harder. For starters, they can forget about supposed arch-baddie Nick Cotton. The man simply isn’t menacing; he’s half as terrifying as an Argos catalogue. Whereas Jez Quigley looked as though he’d enjoy riding an onyx stallion through a field full of groaning, recently impaled victims before galloping home to bathe in the blood of the fallen, Nick Cotton merely looks like he might, at a push, dispute the price of a dented tin of custard with a supermarket checkout girl while you wait behind him, wondering when he last washed his hair.
    Here’s what they should do: with a nod to the recent box-office success of Gladiator , they should dig up that drab little garden in the centre of Albert Square and replace it with an immense coliseum in which Walford residents settle their differences. Phil Mitchell is no Russell Crowe, but what a thrill it would be to watch him mercilessly pursuing Sonia around a sand-filled arena, frantically twirling a mace. They could take bets on the BBC website, and donate the proceeds to Children In Need: I’ll have a tenner on Barry Evans (trident, net) versus Beppe (twin daggers, shield). And Roy could make an excellent thumbs-up/thumbs-down Caesar figure, although you’d have to shield your eyes if he turned round suddenly and his toga rode up.
    Speaking of togas, our soaps could do with more naked flesh too.
    Sex-crazed Hollyoaks (aka ‘S Club 7 Street’) is currently the market leader – it’s like watching a group of aroused, anatomically correct Chapman Brothers dummies jostling in a tube carriage. It recently featured an entirely implausible naturist swimming club, and now both Brookside and EastEnders are to follow, showcasing special ‘nudity’ subplots. Albert Square is set to be rocked by plans for a nude calendar shoot of Queen Vic regulars. If you’re reading this while eating, you’ll be delighted to learn the April page features a blistering close-up of a