TV Watch: Watch out Fat Pat, Big Mo is a real BeastEnder.
No sooner had Ethel been sent on her way with the kind of funeral normally reserved for an East End gangster than Big Mo - who could probably eclipse most things - turned up in the square.
With a face like a bulldog chewing a whole nest of wasps and a mouth like a foghorn in the Grand Canyon, she's the only woman I've ever seen who makes Fat Pat look demure.
Mo and her raggle-taggle family are the Square's new residents, and it looks like the producers have been to the same Stereotypes 'R' Us store they found the family they're replacing...Mama di Marco's lot.
This time they've bought finest East End. Every time Mo, the granny, opens her mouth I think jellied eels are going to fly out.
Charlie, the dad, is a West Ham-supporting black cabbie who expects the ladies to make him a cup of Rosie Lee and naturally has a ready opinion on most things.
'Er indoors has recently passed on and as we aren't told otherwise I can only assume she came off worst in a fight with two pearly queens out doing the Lambeth Walk.
Then we've got Little Mo and Lynne, two seemingly responsible daughters - so let's ignore them.
The youngest, Zoe, is the least East End but she performs the "but I'm nearly 17" routine like Nicky di Marco never went away.
In between there's my favourite...Posh Spice. OK, they've called her Kat but there's no doubting who EastEnders bosses have in mind.
She looks like Posh, talks like Posh and has already made it clear she's only here to shop and pout. And so far she hasn't burst into song - another giveaway.
All we need now is for Kat to fall for Walford Town's star midfielder and the picture will be complete. That's if Walford Town are still going, of course. We've not heard much about them since their only fan, Arfur, died.
But hang on. Looks like Mo isn't so new after all. In fact she used to live in Albert Square 30 years ago.
And guess what, she used to be married to Pat's brother.
And guess what else, she and Pat had a massive fall out. And, stone the crows, if they aren't at each other's throats before you can sing Knees Up Mother Brown. As classic feuds go it has everything bar hair nets and rolling pins.
The only way to sort it once and for all is to dig up Arfur's flower beds, fill the hole with water and gather everyone round for some traditional East End mud wrestling.
It won't be pretty, but think of the ratings.
IF real life was more like soap, we wouldn't need Crimewatch.
Following Dot Cotton's example Jim McDonald skipped off down Coronation Street nick (ITV) to confess to Jez Quigley's murder.
It was more criminal him not taking the opportunity to ask for few more misdemeanours to be taken into account. One count of saying "you wanna catch yerself on Liz/Steve/Andy" at least 10 times a day.
Followed by countless counts of following that up with either "oh so that's the craic is it?" or "so it is".
And who can forget Jim's most despicable act, his crime against fashion.
I refer of course to his fondness for wearing grubby sweatshirts with the sleeves torn off, over long-sleeved checked shirts.
Hanging's too good for him.
DESPITE the obvious attractions of Beach Volleyball, the most interesting thing so far about the BBC's Olympics coverage has been their Flintstones-style studio set.
Have IKEA started a new Aborigine range without telling me or something?