the hottest MILF in Ibiza

Posted on September 12, 2011 by Myras_Kitchen 4 Comments

Hen nights are always a bit crap, aren’t they?  There’s that moment, when you’re being jollied along by some grim party rep, and a some vile mate of your mate pukes down her dress before 10pm, and you’re dragged off to bump and grind with some random, and you are nowhere near optimum intoxication, when you find yourself seriously contemplating life as a hermit.  In the Outer Hebrides, preferably.  But then most hen nights, you don’t go with your Mum.  And for most of us, sadly, that Mum is not Myra McQueen.

Myra’s never been married.  She sometimes likes to trot that one out, when she’s had a few and is getting maudlin.  But she throws herself into the multiple marriages of her many children with more enthusiasm than Lizzie Bennett’s mum.  This time, it’s the third turn of slapped-arse-face Mercedes, currently carrying a child of non-specific Costello origin.  And it’s Later.  So that means higher levels of debauchery (or lower, we’re not sure).

The whole blissful Chavathon (Mitzeee’s word) was set in motion by two supreme Myra acts:

• She saucily pinched Silas’s bum, blaming it on Theresa.  And thus unleashed HELL on the female residents of Hollyoaks Village.
• She insisted on molesting innocent customers of The Dog with a moustachioed blowup sex doll which was affectionately named Brendan.  Brendan remained clutched to Myra’s bosom for the rest of episode one, thus ensuring that the big BB did make it into Later after all.  (Wot, no Brendan again?  We are still reeling at the loss of the potentially gangstery and sexy doings that could have gone on).

Clad in pink sparkly penis deelybobbers, the hens and SextoyBrendan then embarked in the Hollyoaks cab, leaving Grandad Costello “holding his willy in the car park”, and looking like he would have killed them all right there and then, if he’d only had enough rope to hand.

Myra’s maternal instincts were in evidence throughout the trip.  On finding out Theresa had left her passport at home with her brain, Myra assured her that either they all went, or none, but still dumped her beside the road in the rain at the first chance, thus leaving her to Silas’s tender mercies, which may or may not be worse than going on a McQueen hen night.  If there were any doubts that Mercy should be hitting Ibiza with a pregnancy bump strapped to her belly, Myra was there to put them right.  She’d partied through all her pregnancies, she said, and it hadn’t done them any harm, except maybe Carmel, who was a bit off-centre.  You do wonder.  “Each one of you was a nail in me coffin,” Myra slurred, later, mourning her lost opportunities.  She urged Mercy and Michaela (yes! Michs! More later!) to stick with their filthy rich men.  “You’re both happy, aren’t you?” she said, squinting at their blatantly miserable faces.  But then Mercy’s always looks like that.

Parenting done, Myra was determined to enjoy herself.  “Make it a large one, this time,” she said, waving a pineapple shell the size of Bart’s head at Michaela.  She then embarked on an orgy of pole-dancing (it chafed, apparently); had it large after dropping two E’s which she’d mistaken for Panadol; and got chatted up by some prime German sausage who she thought was called “Danke”.  Danke’s phrase book chat up line: “Would you like dinner on my YACHT?  My chef makes good lobster.”  I’ll bet.   Unfortunately, at this point, Jenifique (see below) nicked his wallet, leading to a Benny Hill style chase, with Danke “hilariously” ending up in the marina, and the McQueen contingent ending up stranded in a boat under a digital moon.

Throughout all this, happy-go-lucky Mercy surveyed the sun-drenched Ibizan landscape like someone had just splashed cow shit up her boob tube.  Nowhere else had ‘worser memories than here,’ she grumped.  But why?  It couldn’t be the reappearance of little sister Michaela, now a brunette but no more classy than before, having snagged latest squeeze idiot toff Michael Jackson (yes, from the same show that brought you Sinead O’Connor) by falling on top of him (you’d be amazed how often that works).  Because the return of Michaela, now living the high life and channelling her inner Noel Coward (“Earl Grey, pumpkin?”) was a total joy.  OK, so could it be the presence of Jenifique, the irritating random blonde cousin, who had come to stay a few days with Michaela and had ended up making herself just a little bit too much at home by peeing in the pool?  (Yes, they went there).  Could it be a crisis of conscience over her engagement to smitten nineteen-year old nice-but-dim Riley, while possibly carrying the curranty-eyed child of Carl, his horrifically controlling Dad?  Or just a worry that sweet little mini-Boris Johnson Seth Costello would blow her cover, pushing Riley into the arms of another?

Or … could it be some lately-invented backstory of betrayal and shattered dreams: memories of her first love, Johnny?  The latter, apparently.  For the moment she clapped eyes on Johnny, now in the arms of “porno chav” Jenifique, she whacked him into next Tuesday.  Oh c’mon Merce, whatever it was, it’s not like it just happened.  You’ve been in the show five years.  And when your last hubbie and love-of-your-life Malachy died of soap variant fire-related injuries, you were engaged to someone else two weeks later.  We’re not talking elephant memories here.  Besides, Johnny is a charisma vacuum.  But apparently, he shagged her best mate when she was eighteen and BRORKE HER HAARRT.  “I an’t trust one blorke since yow!” Mercy wailed, spectacularly re-writing history and forgetting about Mal again.  Poor, forgettable Mal, not twelve months cold in his grave.  “I’d have you wrapped up in any package,” oiled Johnny, proving without doubt that even when the occupied sign is up on her uterus, Mercy’s vag hasn’t lost its magic pull.  My gag reflex was complaining.  Luckily, so was Baby Costello, who fulfilled its genetic destiny by kicking Johnny into touch.

Anyway, somehow they ended up washed up on what Mikey J immediately termed “a desert island.”  No mate, it’s not, it’s a rock off the coast of Ibiza, there’ll be a group of stoned clubbers along in a minute with a picnic.  For a moment, as they woke up on the beach with sand in their mouths, I wondered if we were in for a Lost style experiment, and they were all dead and a figment of each other’s posthumous imaginations.  But it’s a known fact that Myra and Michaela are made of Kryptonite and less destructible than Captain Scarlet, so apparently not.  Johnny Douchebag took the opportunity of being stranded to step up his campaign to win back “the only girl he’d ever been in love with”, miserable-cat-faced Mercy, by bringing out the big guns: a pair of hairy pecs.  This usually works for Mercy, and she barely resisted.  More interestingly, the tight smile on Michaela’s face finally cracked with hysteria as she blew her top and turned back into the fishwife we all know and love.  “I HATE MICHAEL!” she screamed, apropos of nothing, and proceeded to rant about his tendency to demand she alphabetise the tins and fold towels and roundly declared him to be a TOSSER.  This didn’t unfortunately stop her accepting the offer of his hand in marriage, but then it is basically an unwritten rule that a McQueen never turns down a proposal, no matter how ill-advised.

To cut a long story short, they were found by Danke so Myra whacked him over the head (Michaela: “Aw Mum, most people only try to kill a German once a week!”), and they legged it, only to find that just the other side of the rocks was a paradise resort, and Johnny Sleazeballs had had his phone with him the whole time but didn’t say, so much was he enjoying his alone time with Mercy, even though she looked like an S bend in a banana skin.  (Myra: “Johnny, rearrange these words, in any order: YOU.  SHITE.  GOB.”  Don’t hold back, Myra).

Inevitably, the whole thing descended into a Mike Leigh-style family meltdown, with added fist fighting, in which Jenifique unexpectedly delivered some home truths to Mercy: “You hate yourself so much, you don’t even wanna be happy!”  Mercy threatened to rip out Johnny’s ball sac (oh please Mercy, do it), and finally decided “I deserve to be happy!”  Well, that’s debatable, but it’ll make a change from the scowl she’s worn the last five years.  Her face cracked hesitantly into an unnatural smile.  Don’t worry, it won’t last.

But back to Myra, Mum extraordinaire.  Back at the resort, Myra confided to Mercy that she’d only wanted her to stick with hunk-of-spunk-and-filthy-rich Riley because she’d regretted being a single Mum, and felt they’d all missed out on father figures, money, holidays and what not.  Mercy, to her credit, put her straight.  Aw Myra, you are awesome.  She only wants her kids to be happy, y’know.  Which sort of explains her nicking all the letters Johnny sent way back, and covering up Mercy’s infidelity.  She has her own special logic, does Myra.

Meanwhile, Michaela was in the gents’ loos trying to dump Jacko gently, but he was so dim she gave up and went for the jugular: “You’re about as much fun in bed as me nanna, and I can say that as somebody who shared a bed with her, and she wee’d in it.”  He still didn’t get it, so she legged it on the airport bus with the people she belongs with, la famille McQueen.  Mercy stopped back for a few minutes to be uncharacteristically nice to Jenifique, and was rewarded by missing the bus.   She won’t be doing that again.

The whole fiasco ended where it began, back home in the pub, jetlagged and seeking the hair of the dog, this time with Michaela instead of Mercy.  Duncan looked confused.  (“Myra … didn’t you leave with a different daughter?”)  Sadly, Brendan seemed to have got left behind in the general melee, but we like to think he is making the best of it and is sat right now on a sun lounger with his arm around a BlowupSte.  That’s my kind of happy ending.

But what of our non-inflatable bride-to-be, and her similarly lost bridegroom?  Cut to Mercy, dressed in white, sitting on a rock like a pregnant turtle leaving desperate lovey dovey phone messages for hubbie. And who’s this, coming down the beach, also dressed in white?  I’d like to say he was carrying a football, but sadly no.  It’s the groom himself, trusting Riley.  They love each other, apparently.  So that’s all fine, then.  We know that always leads to a happy ending in the Oaks.

And as the sun went down on Ibiza, Mercy got her very own Mamma Mia moment.  Just with two babydaddies, not three.  Maybe it doesn’t matter, an they can all just get along.  But somehow I don’t think we’ve heard the last of it.

Best quotes:

Michaela, having a Margot Leadbetter moment: “Coasters, coasters, COASTERS!”

Myra, high as a kite: “Guava is the future!”

Michaela, getting Mercy bang to rights: “I didn’t have you down as a cheating slag.  Oh wait … yeah, I did.  We all did.”

Mercy, considering the desert island menu options, including cannibalism: “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m pregnant.  If I don’t get a ham and mushroom pizza soon, I’m gonna end up murderin’ someone.”

Myra, on the joys of being a McQueen: “I couldn’t have a better family to be stranded with.  Or eaten by.”