Last week, one of the saddest events in British soap history occured; the death of Max Cunningham.
For my generation, Hollyoaks has often been the first step into the world of soap opera viewing. It's a nice stop gap between the childishness of Grange Hill (created by the same guy), and the miserablist nature of the adult world, so wonderfully encapsulated by Eastenders.
Hollyoaks is a world that is populated by a high proportion of the beautiful people of the world (with the exception of my kinswoman, Chloe Bruce.) Even the geeks and the freaks were hot, and most of them managed at some point to cheerily shrug off any personality affliction that they might have been bestowed with, to find the preppy style confidence that would net them a partner.
Not Max though. Max was one of the few average joe's left on TV. He bumbled his way through life, living on chance after chance, and enjoying getting truly sozzled with his best mate OB. He wasn't one of these lads who was out down the town dropping chat up lines to any piece of skirt that showed up on his radar, he was more interested in having a laugh. He also fell for all the wrong women. His step sister Mandy for one. Mentallist would be murderess Claire next. Even his final relationship was with much maligned Stephanie (de la) Dean, the local trouble maker in her youth, and spiteful brat ever since.
Max also wasn't one of the muscle bound hunks that this show produces. He didn't have the latest funky hairstyle, although it did become clear when him and OB had discovered straightners. Yet that to couldn't take away from the fact that here was an uncomplicated, likeable, chancer. A loser in life, but one who kept smiling and enjoying it all the same because it'd all work out sooner or later, and somehow.
In essence though, he was the screen version of me, and countless other blokes like me. We aren't the sort of blokes who are going to be parading round with rippling six packs. We might have open six packs of Carling, but that's as close as we get. We don't know how to drop the perfect line to the fit blonde at the bar. To be honest, we don't really want to either, we'd rather just have a laugh with our mates. Women aren't about pointscoring. The main thing as well, is that we don't have the answers to life, we just keep plodding along in the certain knowledge that it'll all be ok.
Max Cunningham never had the answers, he plodded along until he reached his zenit, marrying Steph on "the best day" of his life. All of us bumblers can be reassured of the fact that we should just keep on enjoying it, and live with no regrets. The only thing I worry about, is that there isn't another character like him on TV, no one else with his imperfections. Now all we're left with is cliched characters who be geek, freak or chic, will always prevail very quickly. TV is back to living a lie, and for future generations of losers, that's a shame.
RIP Max, you gave a lot of us hope.
For my generation, Hollyoaks has often been the first step into the world of soap opera viewing. It's a nice stop gap between the childishness of Grange Hill (created by the same guy), and the miserablist nature of the adult world, so wonderfully encapsulated by Eastenders.
Hollyoaks is a world that is populated by a high proportion of the beautiful people of the world (with the exception of my kinswoman, Chloe Bruce.) Even the geeks and the freaks were hot, and most of them managed at some point to cheerily shrug off any personality affliction that they might have been bestowed with, to find the preppy style confidence that would net them a partner.
Not Max though. Max was one of the few average joe's left on TV. He bumbled his way through life, living on chance after chance, and enjoying getting truly sozzled with his best mate OB. He wasn't one of these lads who was out down the town dropping chat up lines to any piece of skirt that showed up on his radar, he was more interested in having a laugh. He also fell for all the wrong women. His step sister Mandy for one. Mentallist would be murderess Claire next. Even his final relationship was with much maligned Stephanie (de la) Dean, the local trouble maker in her youth, and spiteful brat ever since.
Max also wasn't one of the muscle bound hunks that this show produces. He didn't have the latest funky hairstyle, although it did become clear when him and OB had discovered straightners. Yet that to couldn't take away from the fact that here was an uncomplicated, likeable, chancer. A loser in life, but one who kept smiling and enjoying it all the same because it'd all work out sooner or later, and somehow.
In essence though, he was the screen version of me, and countless other blokes like me. We aren't the sort of blokes who are going to be parading round with rippling six packs. We might have open six packs of Carling, but that's as close as we get. We don't know how to drop the perfect line to the fit blonde at the bar. To be honest, we don't really want to either, we'd rather just have a laugh with our mates. Women aren't about pointscoring. The main thing as well, is that we don't have the answers to life, we just keep plodding along in the certain knowledge that it'll all be ok.
Max Cunningham never had the answers, he plodded along until he reached his zenit, marrying Steph on "the best day" of his life. All of us bumblers can be reassured of the fact that we should just keep on enjoying it, and live with no regrets. The only thing I worry about, is that there isn't another character like him on TV, no one else with his imperfections. Now all we're left with is cliched characters who be geek, freak or chic, will always prevail very quickly. TV is back to living a lie, and for future generations of losers, that's a shame.
RIP Max, you gave a lot of us hope.
