Saturday, April 15, 2006

Burning down the house...

Strange days in Albert Square. Phil Mitchell's funny little son goes missing, sneaking out of Ian Beale's house at 1am, with a mobile phone, a comic about animals and a small back pack, probably containing a jellied eel sandwich or some such southern delicacy. Maybe he's going to London to seek his fortune? Pretty soon, as stated in the Eastenders writer's bible under the "predictable reactions from those that frequent the Queen Vic" section, the full square is on the case, trying to find little Ben. They check the swing that people usually sit on in this particular part of the East End when they are troubled, and rustle around in a bush in the square (they find the mobile phone!) but, oh dear, no sign of the little 'un. Then Phil puts his finger on the whole sorry mess. "He's deaf in one ear. He wears glasses. He's custom built for weirdos." So, that's that, then. Ben's thrown his lot in with the Scientologists.

In other peculiar television news, this week's episode of House, which I am forced to watch because M has an unhealthy obsession with old blue eyes, was seriously f*cked up. It was about a 'super model' who was, we were informed, 15. She looked at least 30. She harped on about being beautiful. She was, at best, average. She had been traumatised by something lurking in her past. House soon got to the bottom of that mystery, obtaining a grizzly admission from her father who, when confronted with House's accusations that he may have been "doing his daughter", attempted to absolve himself by pointing out that it was just the one time. House shouted at the super model patient, "you've got cancer", only to realise his diagnosis might be slightly flawed. He gave the correct diagnosis. "You're a boy." The supermodel drops her dressing gown to show House her breasts and, apparently, a smaller than average growth of pubic hair. "We're removing your testicles," explains House to the woman he will now refer to until the end credits as "him/her", before adding with a smile, "then you'll be a woman again." That's some weird medical drama.

Got the incinerator incinerating, managing to poison the environment with at least a dozen Ikea boxes, lots of carpet grippers and various bits of timber that most men would store in their shed for several decades. I am now suffering from smoke inhalation and I also managed to remove quite a few hairs on my left arm and fill a neighbours house with smoke. Great fun.

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