If the guy working down the chip shop really is Elvis, then I'm pretty sure Ernest Hemingway has been striding the cobbles of Weatherfield for the past week. Ken Barlow's sudden transition into the angst-ridden author has been a welcome if unlikely sight, particularly as Blanche gets even better lines than usual and he isn't just wiping tables as a foil for Roy.
It looks like this might be over now though as last night he realised his own mediocrity. There was no surer sign of this than when he put his whiskey in his pocket before he took Eccles for a walk. A man of his talents shouldn't have to stoop as low as Eccles, surely Schmeichel would have been more fitting.
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