I remember the moment I started watching. Do you? It was a hangdog morning in bed after a night out with the footy team dancing at Menopause Mansion. Unable to move, bedroom TV it was going to be. I surfed around the TV listings thingy and they caught my attention: five neat, bite-sized half-hour entries in a row for “Coronation Street”, the chief attraction of which was a guaranteed 2.5 hours of not moving my head.
I knew it was a popular British serial and people on it drank at lunch. I tuned in that first morning to the throes of Steve and Karen McDonald breaking up. I was riveted. I peered like a voyeur into the lives and homes of the citizens of Weatherfield. I loved how it got dark at freakin’ four-thirty, just like here. I loved the characters chirping and slagging each other off with accents like mouthfuls of marbles, just like most of my footy friends. I loved that the townsfolk came in all shapes, sizes and ages, with bra-bulges and hair scrunchies. I loved that their houses (which they smoked in!) were crammed full of bric-a-brac, piles of laundry, stopped clocks and plastic rooster napkin-holders.
It was adoration. So kitsch, so cool. And it didn’t take long..a few hours over some post-match bevvy to figure out that most of my teammates…men!… watched it too! The no-nonsense Scot from Paisley, the party boy from Aberdeen, the spoons player from Belfast, the lad from Nottingham who ran into a bus teeth-first (while on foot), the Irishman who sings his own brogue-saturated extendo-mix of Floyd’s “Mother”.
It is like being part of an “understanding”…we-who-are-Corrie-watchers. Almost like we ought to have a water-buffalo handshake, a secret knock, or a road-wave like Harley riders do. So it is with pleasure and relish that I have joined the writing team here at Corrie Canuck, kettle on and ready for service!