Grace Dent on Fatboy

[faceless]

Illustration: Thea Brine
Grace Dent's World of Lather
This month in soap: big up yourself, Fatboy, the acceptable face of EastEnders yout'. Plus fisticuffs at the funeral in Coronation Street.
Grace Dent
The Guardian,
22 May 2010

Badda-bing. Dis momf's World Of Lather is a solid gold BOOM TING, get me? Ya gotta trus' yer woman. BANG! You is feastin' your EYES on a four-course meal POWERSLAM of JOURNO-LISTIC PEMPIN. It's OK, I won't keep this up for another thousand words; although suffice to say Fatboy from EastEnders could. Arthur "Fatboy" Chubb, the most noteworthy of the E20 EastEnders young team, could twaddle on like this forever abbreviated by the odd whoop, bleep or big up.

Yet, Fatboy has won my heart. What began as horrified staring at this huge, bug-eyed child in a fluoro Ed Hardy hoodie, the Venn diagram meeting point of Jar Jar Binks and Dappy from N-Dubz, has now shifted to deep love. I love Fatboy's "wheels", ie a retired, graffiti-splattered ice-cream van. I love his simple approach to life: making money, "checkin out batty", eating jollof rice. Get rich or die trying (though by "die", I really mean "get sulked at by Dot Branning and refused a last-minute service wash"). I love how much Fatboy infuriates old-fart viewers with the uncomfortable truth that he's actually quite authentic.

"But I can't understand what he's saying!" they snivel into their Gotan Project box sets and Boden catalogues. "Something about Bom-ting? Bred-win Godly podly pow? Make the au pair put BBC2 on." Without Fatboy, EastEnders right now is a wholly compelling, yet dark place. Yes, EastEnders is always dark, but now the fog of dysfunction is haunting about 80% of the cast. Little Ben Mitchell is torturing Louise with hot spoons and locking her in cupboards and sheds, re-enacting the child abuse he suffered. Auntie Ronnie is delusional and blank-faced. Uncle Jack has a debilitating head injury. Auntie Roxy is pushing the self-destruct button again. Heavily pregnant, widowed Stacey is recovering from a mental health hospitalisation, her mum Jean's sanity is on a knife edge. Shirl, she of the vulva-level leather skirts and bare legs, is an alcoholic who celebrated a day off this week by blocking a litre of cheap white rum at a dining table by 10am. "Watchoo expect me to do wiv a day off?" she slurred at Phil, who in response stormed out of the flat, over to the Vic, took a golf club from an airing cupboard and set to destroying a dishwasher. This was magical. EastEnders is far too much "I don't know what I want. Boo-hoo. I'm confused." But Phil knew what he wanted. He wanted to hurt an inanimate object with a blunt instrument until the urge to kill his whole family subsided. We've all been there.

Meanwhile across the Square, no one would blame Syed Masood for parting his mother's hair with a nine-iron. Zainab hasn't moved on a great deal with accepting her son's sexuality, as last week's "burn my gay son's clothes" bonfire party may have suggested. Zainab is obsessed with keeping face with her female friends, a collection of pinch-faced matriarchs in snug jilbabs who turn up to check her window ledges for dust and slag off her pakoras for inferior quality gram flour.

Poor Syed is so wounded he's booked himself a session with an internet charlatan who claims he has skills to turn gay men straight. I've always wondered what these offensive idiots, who prey on people's sadness about being stigmatised, actually do for their cash. Syed, show that man the door. Tell him to go and concentrate on politics. In my experience, Syed, homosexuals are a very focused bunch. Believe me, no amount of a woman rubbing herself erotically through a 24-hour flame-retardant girdle and screaming "WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME?" will convince them that Jake Gyllenhaal oiled in boxers is actually vile. But quote of the month goes to the wonderful Tamwar Masood who, on hearing about the gay reversal plan, said: "People ask me where I get my brains from, and it's most certainly not you, Syed, or either of my parents. This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard." Tamwar is great. I long for him to escape to university, but I pray he stays in Albert Square.

Over in Coronation Street, jailbird Tracy Barlow showed up for her granny Blanche's funeral, which was a cloying affair that Blanche would have hated, especially Deirdre's speech, which lasted longer than Ken's last attempt to leave her. I was dying for Blanche to sit up in her coffin and say, "Oh put a sock in it Deirdre will you? It's like listening to a broken accordion. I couldn't abide half of these people. I'm better off dead." Outside the church, Tracy started a fist fight with Steve's new wife, Becky. No mean feat, as she was attached by one hand to a prison officer. Tracy is locked up, coincidentally with Gail McIntyre (nee Potter, Tilsley, Platt, Hillman). Gail let slip to Tracy that Becky has problems conceiving but made her promise not to say anything. Fat chance: the womenfolk of Corrie love using their fertility as a weapon. "At least my eggs are working!" Tracy shouted. "Don't bring my tubes into this!" wept Becky. I can't wait for future episodes, as the pair scream at each other about mid-cycle mucus and Norris sets aside his ham barm in dismay.

--------------------

[SpursFan1902]

I wasn't sure where to put this post, but I couldn't let a monumental Tottenham Hotspur sighting go unrecognized. Prior to being assigned manual labor, Fats was behind the bar at the Vic drinking tea.....Out of an I <3 Spurs mug. It had the badge instead of the word "Spurs" but there it was! COYS!!

[eefanincan]