First of all, Coronation Street is the bee’s knees. The bloody Gucci of bee’s knees.
And next week (this if it’s Monday onwards. We’re very open-minded) is the officially official 50th birthday week of THE GREATEST SOAP OF ALL TIME (EastEnders? Take a long hard look at yourself!) and for those familiar with cobbles and accents and lesbian cobbles and genius writing and the oldest hair in the world (Ken Barlow’s) and Chit Chat magazine and Kevin Webster’s VPL in his dirty, dirty overalls and Blanche (n’more *sobs uncontrollably*) and references to real life crunch biscuits and Loose Women and Carla’s comedy northern accent and Rita’s somewhere-around-auburn hair and Becky and Steve – the Rhoda and Joe of our day – and Deirdre AKA Fag Ash Lil and knickers where the stitching’s gone all wrong and half a pound of Jelly Babies, pig and pigeons and trams and matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs and, you know, stuff… it will be dead good.
Because that there tram (ecky bloody thump) is veering off the viaduct and right into Coronation Street, where four whole characters will be up the shitter. It’s kicking off tomorrow night (to night if it’s Monday. Like we say, we never judge. We’re practically Buddhist) and it’s on every night. To explain, that means Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Sorry, and Friday. We may have to cancel everything.
ps. We’ve never used so many capitals and italics in one story. We are a little overwhelmed.
pps. Here’s the fancy trailer. It doesn’t ruin anything. And they spent money on it. Sorry, And they spent money on it.