Phil them up

It is a mixed blessing to be an actress on Eastenders, as it is only a matter of time before you have to snog Phil Mitchell. Like retarded moths their characters flap towards his glowing maw, an uninviting pothole in a ridiculous red light-bulb head that looks like it belongs hanging upside down in a prostitute's window rather than perched atop his lumbering thumbs-in-pockets body, squeezing air through its non-lips so he whispers like a sex pest. There it could hang, cheerlessly gurning down at her customers as they grimly thrust away their self-respect.

They are too far down this bumpy track to stop now, they have made their 'he's irresistable to every no-tail that drifts into the Vic' bed and now they must lie in it. But why did they even buy the sheets? Is it so that we ugly blokes can watch him munching through the faces of various underwear-clad FHM fodder and think "cor, if he can get a girl like that there is hope for me yet"? This is otherwise known as the Ron Jeremy theory. More convincing is the fact that he came into the show with his bruv, Grant Mitchell (played by Ross Kemp, Karl Pilkington's well built twin) and Phil was the more attractive romantic interest for the Albert Square ladies. But this was simply because he was the less psychotic of the two. Is that really how women choose their partners, on a least-worst basis?

'Was' is actually the key word here. You see, whilst Grant was plain old fashioned 'squadie can't handle being home from the war' mental, Phil had a lovely drink problem written for him. Every now and again the plot-lines will dry up and the writers will dust off the 'Phil falls off the wagon' story. That's the good thing about addiction, it's always there for you in times of trouble.

I love a soap alcoholic, partly because it invariably opens up the inner-ham in the relevant actor and we can enjoy their attempts to channel Oliver Reed's 'Wild One' appearance on Aspel and Co for a few minutes - special mention must go to The Bill's Jim Carver for providing a particularly delightful example of this. It is also partly because of the predictability of it all. No sooner has the wagon lightened its load but out comes the Smirnoff bottle full of tap-water or the Bells full of apple juice (depending upon budget). There will also be some ill-advised romantic entanglements. Which brings us back to Phil. During his most recent wagon-departure Mr Mitchell willingly stumbled down the dusty track of Queen Crow Shirley Carter.

Ouch.

Now sober he is currently laying siege to the sugar walls of lovely Dawn Swann. If ever one were required, you would struggle to find a better arguement for sobriety.

Sadly the actress who plays Ms Swann is due to be written out of the programme later this year. Presumably through having vomited herself inside out.

Our Father, Who Art on Holiday

Oh dear, it appears that the lord has washed his hands of us. At least, that's the impression being given by Dr Rowan Williams in his capacity as Doom-merchant of Canterbury. Speaking at York Minster he has declared that God "will not give a happy ending". Personally I didn't even know he gave massages, but then I haven't been to church in years. It could be virgin sweat and deep-fried camembert at communion for all I know.

"God's faithfulness stands, assuring us that even in the most appalling disaster love will not let us go - but it will not be a safety net". Splendid, so we will be going it alone with the earthquakes, floods and imminent return of 'Britain's Got Talent' but at least we'll get a sympathy card. A card which will remain on humanity's doormat as Williams also gave the good news that it will be "choked, drowned, or starved by its own stupidity." So the there the card will remain, our address carved into the paper with lightning, as our bloated forms lie stinking up our apartment, ingnored by all as the milk bottles pile up outside.

Notice how he doesn't include himself as part of the human race's dullards? "Look at you, you fat rhino-skinned sacks of crap. Look at you not praying. Well you're all fucked. I'm not, but you are. Well and truly."

"But Rowan, we pray too?"

"No you don't. If you did (which you don't) then you don't do it as hard as me. Which is irrelevant anyway, because you don't."

Miserable sod. It's not surprising he's so misanthropic, what else would you expect from the lovechild of Harold Shipman and Charles Manson? I blame the parents.

(I'm not really suggesting that the Archbishop of Canterbury is related to two of the most famous beardy killers of all time. In fact the very idea that he would have any involvement with an ideology that is responsible for large amounts of death, both historical and contemporary, is quite simply nonsense).