One of the best - indeed one of the few genuinely positive - aspects of being a single twenty-something male is that nobody ever makes you watch the Hollyoaks omnibus in bed on a Sunday. It's a bewildering complaint uttered by practically every attached, or recently detached, guy I can think of. The almost indescribable pain of this programme wittering away at the foot of the bed because your significant other wants to find out what's happening to one of an army of 5" 6' blonde girls with interchangeable personalities and indistinguishable looks. I'm glad to be out of it, me.
It's brutal irony then that I suddenly find myself watching this very programme again. Out of choice. On my own. It's not even the omnibus and I'm not even in bed. It's a Tuesday evening and I've a dozen things to do besides. Life is cruel, but Phil Redmond is crueller I've discovered. A lack of recent exposure to 'oaks has left me the equivalent of de-immunised to its terrors. Aaah, the things I do for England.
Why am I putting myself through this, you ask? Well, it's pretty simple really, Paul Darrow, one of the icons of my childhood - and the star of a series I'm pretty heavily involved in - is guesting as a Judge presiding over a bizarre and (frankly) incomprehensible trial of some kind. I like Paul's work and I've told him I'll be watching. Having made this commitment whilst making the great man's tea during a recent Kaldor City recording I feel I can't back out; he's got a fearsome memory and the possibility of him mentioning it to me next time we meet looms.
A few minutes in, and, with no sign of Paul, I begin to regret my foolishness. There are some girls pretending to be the Spice Girls (which would be zeitgeisty if this were last century) and some astoundingly bad dialogue. Sylvester McCoy, another childhood favourite, turns up and engages my attention by sighing a lot. He has a wig perched on top of his head like an exceptionally unappetising loaf of supermarket own brand bread. This man, whose Doctor Who triumphs include "The Curse of Fenric", deserves so much better than this. To his credit, he tries, fighting to lift the production.
When Paul appears, also bewigged and wearing some unflattering glasses, it's pretty clear he too is fighting to save the production: the screenwriter has no grasp of how a court of English law functions, and Paul's Judge is called upon to do his own job and that of the court's clerks and usher as well. The writing is startlingly inconsistent; one moment the judge is threatening all and sundry with contempt of court charges, the next he's tolerating a three way slanging match between the accused, a witness and people in the gallery. What in the name of sanity is going on?
Paul's great, by the way; the judge's contempt for those in his court room is one of the character's few tangible traits and he seizes on it, snarling at the ciphers around him and putting them down with an acid-tongued rapidity that almost convinces you the dialogue is worth saying. Paul Darrow as Hanging Judge Jeffries or some such would be well worth seeing. Anyone fancy funding a production of Miller's The Crucible? I'll direct it for free if you like.
Paul gets particularly good mileage out of three words, 'contempt', 'appalling' and 'liar' all of which he practically punctures the fourth wall with. No one else in the room can hope to compete with this man, now he's taken over the scene. For a moment, maybe a minute, this is drama.
It quickly fades this sensation of enjoyment, but the lesson - not one I needed, to be honest - is clear. Paul Darrow can make you enjoy anything. His ability to extract the maximum entertainment factor out of any line of dialogue is remarkable. It's one of the reasons I enjoy writing for him so much.
I've a sick feeling I'll be watching him again come Sunday. The Hollyoaks Omnibus has dragged me back for one final time together. How tragic.

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