Skip to main content

Born in a rub-a-dub bare

I have to admit that a generation has passed since I watched Eastenders regularly, but news of the arrival of cockney poster boy Danny Dyer at the Queen Vic certainly warmed my cockles. If a quick skip through BBC iPlayer is any guide, the former movie and reality TV star looks the part. But has anyone stopped to consider the significance and symbolism of his rebirth on prime time TV at Christmas time?

The writers’ intentions couldn’t be clearer. An unstable Messiah figure has now taken up residence at the packed inn. In the coming days, I imagine Pearly Kings will journey to pay homage, perhaps heading to Walford East tube from as far afield as, say, up west.

According to The Daily Star, Dyer is determined to use as much bewildering cockney rhyming slang during filming as he can. This makes absolute sense, as he will no doubt see the local manor as den of iniquity that has abandoned its true cockney roots. By installing himself as the guv’nor of the local battle cruiser, he’s in the perfect position to preach to the nearby residents about a return to a simpler way of life. Jellied eels on the bar, a good old knees-up of an evening and a picture of Eric Bristow up by the dart board.

I can’t see him ever getting crucified by the locals though. Geezer’s too savvy. He’ll have an escape plan up his sleeve. A little B&B in Thurrock perhaps.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Fawlty Towers script? Si, senor!

Ok, so I gave ChatGPT the following scenario: "Imagine a theatrical script for a situation comedy set in a hotel in Torquay, England. The proprietor is called Basil, an eccentric man who believes the calibre of guests to be low. His wife, Sybil, is often frustrated by Basil's incompetence. They employ a Spanish waiter called Manuel, who struggles to understand English. Basil suspects that two guests, who claim to be married, may be lying." Here's what our favourite AI came up with: Scene: The hotel lobby in Torquay, England. Basil is standing behind the reception desk, looking at a piece of paper. Sybil is standing next to him, looking annoyed. Manuel is hovering nearby, trying to look busy. Basil: (to Sybil) I don't know why we get such low-calibre guests at this hotel. Look at these two - Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They claim to be married, but I suspect they might be lying. Sybil: (sighing) Basil, it's not our job to judge the marital status of our guests. Just m...

Becoming a Twister board

I spent yesterday evening in an old factory building off Brick Lane playing kids' games with an organisation called Fun Fed. The idea is that a bunch of adults get together and act like children for a couple of hours. We played tag and stuck big coloured discs on ourselves so that we could become human Twister mats. There was an awful lot of running around and I was thinking that I ought to get to aikido a bit more often. Being a child is very hard work.

It's been a tough year. Let's give ourselves a clap.

If something didn’t smell right about the UK handling of the pandemic, the British public was never going to notice. But they knew that if they couldn’t smell something, they really ought to get a Covid test sent to them in the post. There has been something incredibly British about the DIY swabs and their delivery via the gig-economy workers of Amazon, hasn’t there? Touch of corona? I’ll pop something in the post to you. Should be with you tomorrow. I suppose it was inevitable that we’d need some new kind of system. After all, the coronavirus outbreak was the first thing in the history of the NHS that couldn’t be cured by paracetamol, rest and plenty of fluids. This understandably left GPs flummoxed and anxious. The UK decided pretty early on that if you were ill with a novel pathogen – which proved deadly in maybe 1% of cases – you really shouldn’t go to the doctor. You should STAY AT HOME and spread it quickly to your flatmates or family members. And because they were now at ...