Monkey magic?

It’s an old hypothesis but if an infinite amount of monkeys had an infinite amount of time and they were put in a room with an infinite amount of typewriters then somewhere along the line The Complete Works Of Shakespeare would be produced. A huge amount of monkey shit would also be produced but even that would be far preferable to the current bilge that the BBC pumps out four times a week (five including the omnibus for the really masochistic and double that number for viewers with BBC 3 who can’t get enough wrist-slitting cockney japery and want the repeats) in EastEnders.

Last night’s episode focused on relative Albert Square newcomers the Miller clan who comprise of dad Keith, Toby-jug-faced mum Rosie, cheeky wideboy son Mickey, daughter Demi, son Darren, granddaughter Aleesha and family pet Ghengis the dog. The fact that the latter two usually take the acting honours tells you everything you need to know about the Millers but it’s not entirely their fault. Especially as it seems that the EastEnders scriptwriters have taken every social problem, council estate and chav-tastic stereotype they can think of, stuck them all in a bag, given it a good shake then produced scripts for the Millers with whatever falls out first.

So far the Millers have had a teen pregnancy, a problem child at school, an illiterate dole cheat father and a binge-drinking teenage son. Expect a crack-addled illegal immigrant cousin who can’t get enough of a new casino that’s opened up in the Evans old car lot arriving very soon.

I used to love EastEnders and it’s now patently rubbish. It’s most exciting plotline at the moment concerns Dot learning to drive with that bloke from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.

If I was in charge I’d give the monkeys a chance. God help us...