Walford has never been rated on TripAdvisor as the best place to find a happy new year. Yet even by EastEnders’ own standards 2017 got off to a particularly tragic start with the death of double fun-bomb Ronnie and Roxy Mitchell. Like Aunty Peggy before them, these two summed up the classic spirit of East End womanhood: glamorous, hard as freshly Shellaced nails, but vulnerable, too. They kept the faaa-mily bond by bowing out together after Ronnie and Jack’s big fat country wedding.
The big day began with Shirl hurling her hen-night skinful into the Queen Vic toilet, while Mick Carter munched a bacon bap. “What a beautiful start of a wedding day,” he ruminated, while the rest of the Square held out little hope for a happy ever after. Phil, with his head like a deflated Wonderbra cup, was bedridden after a liver transplant, but sent a sports car for the bride-to-be. “It’s like that film, innit?” mused Honey. “Thelma And Louise.” By this time there were so many bad omens it would have been a miracle if Ronnie and Roxy made it to the fancy country house for the ceremony. But they did, looking as resplendent as ever. “I think my boobs are going to come out,” worried Roxy, unaware that they were already hoisted so close to her nostrils, viewers would be forgiven for thinking Phil and Grant had already turned up to the nuptials.
With the reception in full swing, R’n’R took to the dancefloor with the same aplomb they displayed when they tumbled off the easyJet and into the Queen Vic 10 glorious years ago. In a touching homage to the early days, they pulled the same classic dance moves and sprayed their guests with soda syphons. Clearly in the mood for trouble, Ronnie grabbed two bottles of champagne and summoned Roxy to the pool. “This isn’t just the end of an era, it’s the beginning of a new one,” said Ronnie. “Don’t look back.” Pertinent words indeed. Hammered, giggly and pondering a new start, Roxy dived into the swimming pool and… didn’t come back up. As Ronnie realised her sister wasn’t surfacing she dived in to save her. Sadly, Ron’s cumbersome wedding dress wasn’t suitable swimwear and they drowned together in an eerie scene. Let’s hope they’re dancing on that great glittery podium in the sky. It’s what they would have wanted.
In more jolly sisterly news, Coronation Street hailed the return of Our Toyah. That’s Toyah Battersby to you, who was last seen heading off for the bright lights of London 13 years ago. Wait. Who? “Leanne’s sister,” explained Tracy. “No, stepsister. Whatever. Some barm pot. She was one of them, you know, soap dodgers, always banging on about the ozone.” Well, she did arrive in her pyjamas, having left her husband. “It’ll be fine,” soothed Leanne. “People get stressed out at Christmas, don’t they?” “Especially if they’re called Battersby,” Nick helpfully replied.
All hell broke loose on the Battersby-Barlow front with Leanne’s squeeze Nick rowing with Peter over a Bros tape. Yes, really. He mistook it as Peter’s attempt to win back Leanne, who’s now faking happy families with Nick. Cue a Christmas Day brawl on the cobbles, the highlight of which was Nick sending Peter flying into Gail’s front garden. Peter then retaliated by lobbing prized gnome Mr Tufty at his assailant’s head. There was a bigger bombshell ahead as Peter slipped off to a hotel to meet his secret lover, who was revealed to be not Leanne but… Our Toyah. Sweet, soapy intrigue, played out in screeching style.
Over in Hollyoaks, Leela Lomax (stick a “The Very Miss” in front of that and you’ve got yourself a cracking drag queen name) was like the Virgin Mary of soaps when she went into labour over Christmas. Only without the virgin bit. She was still in her wedding dress as the sprog was two months early. Tellingly, her baby was a different race to her serial-killer husband-to-be Cameron. So, er, who’s the daddy then?
Finally to Emmerdale, where Moira did what all villagers who are having a hard time do: boozed it up and nearly killed someone. She mowed down current village hotpot Pete (whom she’d also been sleeping with, which isn’t exactly conventional as she’s his half-brother’s mum) while she was sozzled. In happier news, crumple-faced patriarch Zak Dingle dumped his bit on the side Joanie and went back to be-apronned wife Lisa. If the thought of watching their love scenes conjures up an image of two sheep who’ve spent too long in the dip, look away now. It’s not an image you can unsee.
