The idea of TV soap operas was originally, at least in part, to reflect the nation as a whole. This was never really true – out of dramatic necessity, the characters in these shows take an unusual interest in one another’s business and tend to have peculiarly eventful lives. But it was more true than today, when soaps – for all their obsession with ‘issues’ – are squeamish and avoidant, preferring to duck difficult topics.
Here is my attempt to restore the balance with a more honest soap opera, where all the problems of modern Britain are concentrated in one place. Everything is absolutely fine on… Yookay Street.
SCENE 1 – THE STREET. Afternoon
We open on a long, terraced urban street with a corner shop at one end and a pub at the other. Unusually, there are lush green fields visible at one end and an enormous mountain at the other.
But here on the main drag, we follow SHIRLEY SMITH, 50 – very normal – as she returns home from work. She makes her way over the rainbow-striped LGBTQIA+ zebra crossing and ducks under the Palestinian flag draped from a lamppost, navigates her way around the Hostile Vehicle Mitigation barriers outside the pub, passes the mural of Paddington Bear which looks down on the vape emporium, the candy store and the line of three Turkish barbers shops.
A wild-eyed woman leaps suddenly from an alley into the street, shouting loudly and randomly. This is AMELIA, 35.
AMELIA: Vaginas! Vulvas! Perineums and penises! Free free Palestine!
Shirley smiles tolerantly. She’s become used to this.
SHIRLEY: Hello Amelia love. Haven’t seen you about for a while.
AMELIA: Evening Mrs Smith. Yes, the job keeps me very busy. But I think it’s very important to get out of Westminster and to interact with my constituents and our communities as often as I can. And how are you?
SHIRLEY: I’m fine, fine. Everything is absolutely fine.
Behind them, a huge brawl breaks out between 20 men, all wielding machetes.
AMELIA: Oh good. Bye!
She heads off up the street, shouting –
AMELIA: Men are women! All property is theft! Up the Lionesses!
Shirley smiles and shakes her head, then finding herself at her front door, lets herself in.
SCENE 2 – THE SMITHS’ LIVING ROOM
The very normal living room of Bill and Shirley Smith. BILL, 50, sits in front of the enormous TV. He is not watching any programme in particular, just shuffling through endless identical title cards.
Bill and Shirley are at the very ordinary end of the soap scale, like Pauline and Arthur of EastEnders or Kevin and Sally of Corrie.
BILL: Evening, Shirl. How was your day?
SHIRLEY: Oh, you know Bill, the usual. The firm’s been sold to the government of the United Arab Emirates via a sovereign wealth fund, we were all held hostage by a low-risk reoffender released two years early from his sentence for aggravated burglary, and they still haven’t fixed that photocopier.
BILL: Blimey, never rains, eh?
Shirley points upstairs –
SHIRLEY: I don’t suppose you’ve seen hide nor hair of our Lucy and our Peter?
BILL: Not a peep, love. They’ve been up in their rooms listening to music for 11 years now.
(NOTE: readers will recall such absences of teenagers were a budget-saving feature in soap operas of old. But not on Yookay Street, where the Smith offspring are confined to their rooms by crippling social anxiety.)
There’s a knock at the door, and Shirley opens it to reveal MRS O’BIGOTRY, 65, who sails in.
MRS O’BIGOTRY: Evening Shirley, can I trouble you for a cup of sugar? I say, I’m not one to talk, but I’m a bit worried about the high influx of undocumented illegal immigrants into the street. They could be up to all sorts!
Bill and Shirley smile tolerantly at her antiquated beliefs.
BILL: I’m sure they’re normal people just like you and me, Mrs O’B.
(As all soap watchers will know, one character with the ‘wrong’ opinions is permitted in every show, usually a malicious gossip to be shunned and occasionally pitied, and Yookay Street is no exception.)
Suddenly the door is kicked open, revealing a Swat team.
BILL: Haven’t you heard of knocking?
The leader of the team steps forward – this is OLLIE, 28, a totally reasonable passive-aggressive chap with a neck beard, a lanyard and a football scarf. He never raises his voice.
OLLIE: Sorry, mate, urgent business with yourself.
He waves a document at them.
OLLIE: You haven’t used your extension in six months, mate. In the middle of a housing crisis. This document empowers myself to appropriate it for use as urgently needed social housing.
Bill points –
BILL: Through there. Though it’s all a bit sudden if you ask me –
The Swat team pour in and through the living room.
MRS O’BIGOTRY: I call that a diabolical liberty!
OLLIE: I hope you’re not going to stoke division, mate. You wouldn’t want to be one of those awful people on the wrong side of history, would you? Really hope nobody is running the street down. There’s a new spirit of unity, hope and positivity, mate.
SHIRLEY: Keep your wig on, Mrs O’B. We all have to do our fair share.
As she speaks, she and Bill are frantically WhatsApping each other. A gaggle of Afghan goatherds enter.
SHIRLEY: Tell you what, I’ll make us all a nice brew – oh blast, I forgot to get milk.
OLLIE: Shame they didn’t bring their own goats.
SHIRLEY: Hold the fort while I pop to the shop, Bill.
SCENE 3 – CORNER SHOP
SID the shopkeeper, 65, is serving DENISE, 45, the blowzy landlady of the local pub – big earrings, heart of gold, etc.
SID: Right, one loaf of bread and one box of teabags – comes to £174.90.
DENISE: You know, Sid, you’re a very sensitive person underneath all that bluster.
Shirley enters, wrestling with the plastic security barriers to get a pint of milk from the fridge.
DENISE: Evening, Mrs S. Did my minces deceive me, or did I catch sight of a crack, armed response unit rocking up chez vous?
SHIRLEY: It’s nothing really, everything’s absolutely fine –
She’s still having trouble getting at the milk. Sid goes to help and hands her the pint.
SID: There you go.
SHIRLEY: Life saver! Those things are a menace.
SID: I have to be careful nowadays.
Suddenly, a swarm of shoplifters rush in, steal everything in the shop, and then rush out again.
SID: Oh well, mustn’t grumble.
DENISE: I’m sure those shoplifters are all very sensitive people underneath all that bluster.
As they talk, Sid, Denise and Shirley are all frantically WhatsApping each other.
The bell tinkles as JOANNE, 40, enters with her teenage daughter STEVE, 15, who is wearing boy’s clothes. They both look utterly miserable, edgy and exhausted.
DENISE: Evening, Joanne. And how’s your mental health?
JOANNE: Really good. Everything is absolutely fine.
DENISE: And how’s young Steve?
JOANNE: He’s absolutely fine. Still non-verbal and self-harming, and he did try to burn the house down again, but absolutely fine.
As she speaks, OLLIE enters the shop –
OLLIE: Mate, mate, I’m so happy to hear that from yourself. Isn’t it great that we live in an age where every parent is free to celebrate their child’s identity, if they want to avoid a custodial sentence?
SID: Gosh yes.
SHIRLEY: Hear hear.
Suddenly, 1,250 men enter the shop.
Sid coughs and taps a sign – ONLY 1,200 ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS PERMITTED ON THESE PREMISES AT ANY ONE TIME.
DENISE: I’m sure they’re all very sensitive people underneath all their bluster.
SCENE 4 PUB – THE P.I.P. AND THE PENDULUM, which was formerly THE HOPE AND ANCHOR
Later. Denise is at the bar, doing her accounts as Joanne stares doomily into her glass along the bar.
JOANNE: Doing your books, Denise?
DENISE: Not ’arf. Quite a grind. What with VAT, business rates, council tax, corporation tax, Class 4 national insurance and employers’ national insurance and a tourist levy, I sometimes wonder why I still bother –
Joanne signals urgently to her that OLLIE is approaching.
Denise frantically covers –
DENISE: But of course, it’s worth every penny for the brilliant public services and the security of our communities.
JOANNE: Talking of security, I did notice something a bit odd earlier. About 20 young men of Middle Eastern appearance were carrying huge crates into that empty flat next to the police station. But I’m sure it’s nothing.
OLLIE: I’m sure it is, mate. After all, you’d have to be a horrible person to point it out.
DENISE: And besides, reporting it would mean having to talk to a lot of people, which would doubtless trigger your anxiety.
We cut over to find Bill and Shirley sitting in a booth with Sid and Mrs O’Bigotry.
MRS O’BIGOTRY: I still say that lumbering you two with a horde of Popalzai tribesmen is taking the flaming biscuit.
BILL: It’s not such a big deal. We really weren’t making much use of that extension.
SID: Except for your old ma bedding down in there because of a lack of hospice care from our wonderful NHS.
SHIRLEY: Oh, she can always budge up.
They are WhatsApping each other under the table.
Suddenly, Ollie pulls the plug out of the jukebox and whips out a megaphone.
DENISE: Bless my blouson, not another brouhaha!
OLLIE: Hi everybody. Can myself have your attention? The National Centre for Information Defence has discovered that everybody in this street has been sending grossly offensive messages to each other, causing non-trivial psychological harm, as defined in Section 127 of the Communications Act 2003.
He blows a whistle. Armed police enter and arrest everybody.
SID: But they were private messages – nobody saw them except us!
OLLIE: The National Centre for Information Defence saw them. And they were very grossly offended, mate, I can assure yourself.
He gets a text – reads it quickly – sighs, then addresses the police –
OLLIE: This is very disappointing. The National Centre for Information Defence has discovered that every police officer making these arrests has also been sending grossly offensive messages to each other, causing non-trivial psychological harm, as defined in Section 127 of the Communications Act 2003. You will immediately arrest yourselves.
Suddenly, the lights go out. There is the sound of an enormous explosion, shattering glass, the groan of rending metal and the crash of falling masonry.
In the dim light, the battered and bloodied form of Ollie is just visible.
OLLIE:I very much hope that nobody is going to say anything divisive.
But nobody says anything. They are all dead. Ollie begins WhatApping frantically.
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