Recently by Sam Wonfor

Just a quickie.

I happened to be watching an episode of Eastenders while sorting out socks this morning (... jealous?) when one of the long-running soap's most ridiculous incidental offerings came to my attention.

As I surveyed the stockpiles of sock-piles, which I'd named, 'trainer sockes with emblems'; 'trainer socks without emblems'; 'patterned socks'; 'socks for work' and 'his', I watched as hardman Phil Mitchell (he of The Mitchells, the alcoholism, the 'sorting of things', the exhaling, and the red, bald head) purchased a jiffy-bag-clad gun in order to ;sort' Archie - who also happens to be his uncle and stepdad all roled into one.

Can I just say now that this will be my last Holby City-related blog for a bit, and it's gonna be a short one.

Fans of the show won't need any telling that last night's episode finally saw the marriage of Joseph and Faye, played by Patsy Kensit (Patsy just plays Faye, not sure who plays Joseph... and it's unimportant for the purposes of this blog).

Anyway, it's been a long-running storyline with all the twists and turns you might expect: bit of homicide suspicion, bit of adultery and a bit of unrequited admiration.. to say nothing of a bit of collagen in the old lips Kensit?

As any regular readers of Wonfor's Watching will know, I am an ardent follower of the comings, goings and whatnot at the medical hotspot which is Holby CIty.

It's a guilty pleasure for which I endure a mountain of mickey taking... but I couldn't give a pair of hoots.

However, last night's heart-wrenching episode (you have to get into the mass-produced serial drama zone or there's really no point) did throw up something that has been niggling at me for years... and I reckon this morning is the time to put it out there.

Having grown up with television and all its tricks as part of the fixtures and fittings of our household (Mum and Dad founds their careers behind the small screen), you'd think I'd have a built-in shield against getting too wrapped up in the on-screen comings and goings.

Tell that to my stomach.

I'm currently halfway through the last six episodes of The Sopranos (so that would mean I'm just about to watch episode four) and I'm thinking of asking my doctor for a temporary prescription for vallium or some other tablet which could take the edge off... or at least slow my heartbeat down to a blur.

...Lionel Richie and Snow Patrol are in direct competition with each other.

As things stand, we have one coveted interview slot left in the March issue of Culture Magazine.

On what we lovingly call "the flat plan" the said slot currently reads Snow/Richie.

I've just written a blog and I know it's probably not blogging etiquette to pepper the blogosphere with multiple blogs.

But this is a short one. (a bit longer than this though, so do click to read more, won't you?)

I've seen the bloody lot now.

Although this blog was intended as a platform for my musings on the small screen happenings enjoyed by the masses (or at least available to more than the members of our household), I feel compelled to share the madness which infiltrated my living room this week.

And apparently, it wasn't the first time.

Call me naive, but when I perused the festive Radio Times - highlighter in hand - in the run-up to the the holly-laden festivities, I thought there may have been a chance I could have watched the stockingful of Christmas TV spoils before 12th day dictated the last post for the baubles and associated flashing lights.

Can you tell it was my first Christmas with a toddler?

Holy gangster's paradise Batman, rap star extraordinaire Coolio (and father of six) is next. He says if it wasn't for his family, he wouldn't be here.

Does he hate them that much that he'll go into that house to get away? He says he knows nothing about Big Brother. Idiot. (although I do love Gangster's Paradise and always will).

Now despite the idiot comment, Coolio is pretty cool... so having Ben from A1 bounding up and introducing himself like an excitable spaniel was a pretty cringeworthy moment.

We're back with celeb number four... Scottish socialist Tommy Sheridan (and at this point my sister phones... back in a mo)

More of Tommy later no doubt... but they're coming thick and fast.

Lucy Pinder is next, who confesses she is "famous for her boobs"... don't feel bad that I didn't know who she was now.
She was discovered on Bournemouth beach. Well done on the 32G.