Hooty Jill treats her cooking with all the taut complexity of neurosurgery. Can she really trust Pip with the preperation of a few beans and handing over the sacred trust of frying the bacon? However will young Pip cope with such grave responsibility? But I notice the shrill note of terror in David’s voice when Ruth’s resumption of the domestic chores is mentioned. “We mustn’t let that happen!!!”#CasseroleOfTheApocalypse
If ever there was a week for Bert to be played by Sid James, this was it. “Mrs Tregorran’s marrows are coming up a treat! Yuk Yuk Yuk!” (And Jill’s no better: “Is that all you’re entering from her garden?” Fnarr Fnarr.) #PhwoarrLovelyPear,Missus
The village hall is to be saved! (perhaps) “Ooooh – I wouldn’t count your chickens” opines Sid James/Bert Fry. But thanks to the largesse of Ambridge’s new benefactor, the re-christened “Justin Elliot Multiplex & Heliport” will now include a dedicated ‘Chicken Counting Suite’ for just such an occasion.
How utterly useless are the Brookfield Archers at cooking anyway? Is Pip’s move to a building some 20 feet away really the herald of mass-starvation for the rest of the family? Will they end up like some rural version of “Alive” where they begin to cannibalise the weaker members of the household? I’d be worried for Sid James/Bert Fry if he weren’t so tough & gristly looking. (Plot Prediction; Things at Brookfield take a grisly turn when David looks at Ben and all he can see is a nice, juicy steak…)
Could the writers be lining up “The Ghost of Nigel’s Mother” for an Archers Halloween special? We hear the unearthly tap… tap… tap of dancing feet as the ghost of Julia Pargetter sashays through the wall of Hooty Jill’s new bedroom. Possibly to be partnered by the ghost of John Tregorran (Pending further investigation by Jenny Darling, P.I.)
Neil wonders “Why are people calling Justin Elliot an ‘Empire Builder’ and a ‘megalomaniac’ on the village web site?” Possibly because he’s a megalomaniac empire builder? #JustSaying
Oliver & Caroline are putting some of their belongings in storage, eh? For the few weeks of their “Grundy World of Tuscany” holiday? What exactly are they expecting to happen to Grange Farm? An attack by ISIS? Thermonuclear accident? Eddie Grundy ‘accidentally’ flogging all their chattels to Fat Paul?
Nice to hear some properly slimy animal husbandry this week, and to hear how Ed’s developing as a farmer. A properly dramatic farming scene between Pip and Ed.
…followed by another nicely played scene between Neil and Kenton on the current refugee crisis, only slightly spoilt by the crass mention of the Rugby quiz. Perhaps it might’ve been better to have the contemplation of the plight of the refugees be instrumental in Kenton realising how trivial his own recent financial problems have been…
Thank goodness Rob’s doctorate in Food Science & Misogeny came to the fore this week; “But darling, the names of those fungi are all science-y and more than two syllables long – don’t you trouble your pretty little head about them!” What a patronizing git – I’d’ve pushed him in the curd vat and given him a light cutting with the wire slicer. #BrainsAreBlancmange-yToo
More food-related crises. Auntie Cardboard trialled multiple batches of ginger biscuits using various forms of ginger. And cardboard. And something from a twenty-year-old jar from the back of Peggy’s cupboards. #That’sNotPowderedGingerIt’sBorax
Hazel Wooley is such a delicious villain. Every time her name is mentioned, all I want to hear is pantomime style hissing and booing. Her every appearance should be announced with a clap of thunder and a cloud of dry ice. (And – attention, writers! – A Lillian/Hazel slapdown catfight wouldn’t go amiss).
Rob is now the sworn enemy of the WI. Votes for women?! They’ll be answering back next!
…except that – with all the expertise of Ruth cooking a jacket potato – Rob can’t cope with Henry’s lightly grazed knee, and recalled Helen from a night of fish sausages and #CasseroleOfTheApocalypse with a phone-call. “I don’t want to ruin your evening, darling… no, let me rephrase that; I want to ruin your evening…”
Hooty Jill’s WI speak gets heckled by the wailing, possibly ‘socially lubricated’ harridans of Ambridge. The news that “Men are most welcome at our meetings” was welcomed by cries of “Shame” and Susan displaying just about as much misandry as Rob does misogyny. And then the hymn “Jerusalem” is played… awkwardly by Patrick (who gets around the male thing by having a pair of ovaries transplanted for the evening). Aren’t there any Ambridge ladies who like to fiddle around on the organ? #ThankYouSidJamesBertFry
“I just don’t know why I can’t seem to put Grace’s death out of my mind,” bemoaned Hooty Jill. “It’s probably because Radio 4 have a special 60th anniversary play to promote,” Carol reminded her.
Yet more excruciating small talk between Pip & Rex. I want to tear my ears off. #MakeItStop
Joe is riding around on his pony & trap on his 94th Birthday, as lucid (and mercenary) as ever. He seems uncommonly able-bodied for 94 years old. Does he need a renewal of his licence to be on the road?
Such squeamishness over Joe’s tomatoes is becoming silly! No-one would eat dirt or drink neat liquid fertiliser. Just because it’s human excrement that has boosted Joe’s crop this year, it doesn’t mean it’s not perfectly edible.
Hazel reminds us that “Daddy was nothing if not a generous, public spirited man, and I like to think that he passed those qualities on to me… That’s why I’ve decided to flog them off after a quick makeover. It’s what Daddy would have wanted.”
