Wed Den bells

Until I realised that the unwieldy cream sofa he was struggling through the gate with was actually his fluorescent orange half-sister, Sharon, clad in a wedding frock on account of the fact that they'd just got married.

To one another, eeeww.

So then I assumed, natch, that Dennis was carrying out the time-honoured, traditional groomly duty of lugging the new trouble-and-strife over the threshold for a bit of honeymoon 'ow's yer favver.

Don't be a doughnut, Lozza! This is EastEnders, it

couldn't just be a normal happy occasion now could it?

Turns out Little Den was actually lugging the poor mare indoors because she'd fainted in the middle of The Square - not from excitement at the prospect of tucking into the three-tier wedding cake her cousin Ian had rustled up as I thought - but after finding out that her dad, Dirty Den, had turned up yet again, but this time as a corpse, under the floor of the Queen Vic, not to mention the nose of his Princess.

Meanwhile, in a grim room elsewhere in Walford, Kat and her mini doppelganger Tracey/Casey/Stacey, or whatever obligatory East End name she's called, are ruminating over the whole sorry affair of Den's dodgy demise, when suddenly, apropos of nothing, they decide to go and get bladdered.

Well, it's what he woulda wanted, innit?

Cut to another grim room and the talent-free acting zone that is Letitia Dean.

"It ain't right," she wailed after finally coming round courtesy of a nice cuppa from Pawwwwwleeen and remembering her dad was dust. "All that time I've been standin' on 'im. Walkin' on 'im... "

Don't worry love, if the tabloid tales of Leslie Grantham's (Dirty Den's) rather unusual 'hobbies' are anything to go by, being walked all over by a two-bit actress in a pair of kitten heels would be right up his rue.

Shane Richie is in EastEnders and he used to be a redcoat, or maybe it was a bluecoat.

A seamless segues, I'm sure you'll agree into my next subject.

Wakey Wakey Campers (Tuesday, 9pm, C4) is the Hi-De-Hi of reality sadism shows, where, in the name of entertainment, a bunch of ordinary folks (i.e. budget-friendly people who don't need to be paid) experience life minus their usual mod cons and home comforts.

Instead of a turn-of-the

century house, or a 1950s school, this time round it's a holiday camp circa 1960s that they have to endure, and I say endure, for Channel 4 has made this more like a boot camp, complete with an unconvincing major-type leader, petty rules and

military-style daily itineraries.

Now, I speak as an expert, because I went to Butlin's at Ayr as a wee lassie, and this mockery of a mock-up is not how it was at all.

In fact, it was one of the best fun holidays I had as a child and was much more like Hi-De-hi - cheery grown-ups in snazzy blazers, a south-sea island themed pub, complete with a volcano that farted on the hour and loads of brilliant games and competitions.

We were right on the coast with beautiful Heads of Ayr as our back-drop. By day we swam, went sightseeing and played games and in the evenings we danced and sang along with the crew.

My little sister won a talent contest with a rendition of I've got Home In Glory Land (don't ask, we didn't), I got a key-ring with a photo of us on the mini-rollecoaster and my big sister got to sip someone's shandy. What's not to love?

Maybe the chalets were

fairly basic, but they were clean and comfy -we were always so tired we all slept like logs anyway - and we squealed with delight when the speaker system crackled into life as the Gladys Pugh of Ayrshire announced that breakfast (with plenty of choices, unlike the single cold fried egg of Wakey Wakey) was about to be served.

Speaking of eating. I hope you weren't during Messiah IV: The Harrowing (BBC 1, 9.30pm, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday) for it was just one long gore fest. And a badly done one at that.

Every five minutes somebody was ramming a finger into a fly-blown orifice with a look of barely disguised disgust. Or plunging elbow deep into some cadaver or other while saying things like: "I'm now inserting my hands into the lower bowel," followed by really poor squelchy sound-effects and close-ups of actors doing that off-the-peg, trying-not-to-be-sick flared-nostril look.

And, while I'm on one, every stereotype suspect in the book was wheeled out, so it's no longer any fun trying to work out whodunit, because they all could have.

The first Messiah was great. Dark, twisting, intelligent.

The second was good, the third starting to wobble.

This latest (number four) was just plain lazy, using obvious clue signals and playing the squeamish card for all it was worth.

And as for all those cod-religious references and ecclesiastical music.

Only a true saviour can prevent the inevitable Messiah V: Postus Mortemus.