“Get art!” screamed Linda after Mick begged her to accept that their ailing baby boy could be brain damaged. “I mean it. Get art.”

Stunned by his wife’s rejection, the livid landlord stormed into his 1970s-style pub and threw all the regulars out onto the street. “Art!” he roared. “Party’s over. We’re closing. Art. Art. Get art.”

A strange way to run a business and another uplifting moment in the joyless saga of crying Cockneys struggling to cope in a forlorn world without hope. AKA… Walford.

Think about this depressing dystopia. At least three of the locals are killers. Phil Mitchell’s a raging alcoholic. Bipolar Stacey’s recovering from postnatal psychosis. Cathy came home after pretending to be dead for ten years. The feuding Carters fight like deranged dogs. The relentless misery never stops.

Naturally, there’s not a single traditional family. Heaven forbid a married mother and father with a couple of kids. We can’t have that.

Even by its own low standards, EastEnders has been in a dark place lately. But worse than that, the Beeb’s self-important soap seems to have forgotten that its primary mission is to entertain the viewers. As opposed to constantly bombarding them with worthy-but-dull advice on how to deal with thoroughly modern problems.

When they’re not flogging tat in a shabby market, Albert Square’s right-on rabble speak to each other as if they’re reciting social service information packs. Talking heads spewing a torrent of politically-correct Lego language. Dud dialogue that sucks the life out of every simpering scene.

Recalling the trauma of learning her daughter Janet was Down’s Syndrome, Honey sighed: “I completely shut down. It’s easy to pretend it’s not happening. It’s difficult to accept.” Chapter 2, The Father. Billy: “I remember thinking… take each day as it comes.” This was all very helpful to Mick and he nodded sagely. Gosh, this programme does good work.

Now we’re waiting to find out whether little Ollie will suffer permanent problems after kidult Nancy knocked him to the ground. Stand by for the longest running saga since the endless Who Killed Lucy? epic. Nearly two years and the useless cops still haven’t got the murderer.

Meanwhile, the mystery of Stacey’s long lost sister was solved when it transpired that she was now his brother: “I used to be Sarah,” he revealed. “Now I’m Kyle. I used to be a girl but always felt like I should be a boy.”

Stacey: “So you always knew you were the wrong sex?” He did. And he had a tattoo across his chest saying: “I was born to survive.” Excellent.

Great to see a transgender man immediately accepted into the bosom of Stacey’s dysfunctional family. But when he made them duck lasagne he was pushing his luck. “That is delicious,” lied Kathy as she pushed away a full plate of weird food.

Meanwhile, paralytic Phil delivered his upbeat verdict on the magnificent Mitchell clan: “I’m not a lot of use like this. Ben’s a waste of space and Ronnie’s a train wreck.” A drunk, a loser and a loony. Yep, that pretty much sums them up.

And, taking a rare break from punching people in the face, Martin declared: “We can all agree that the last few months have a been a bit of a nightmare.” He meant the last few decades.

“It’s good news for a change,” he added, with misplaced optimism “Me and Stace, we’re getting married.” Woohoo. Happy days are here again. What could possibly go wrong?

Read my review on The Sun Online.