Gail Platt is everywoman.
Think you’re not like her? You are. All women are, or become her at some stage.
Who is she?
She’s an oversexed llama at first glance. She falls in deep, and lusts with all her heart.
She likes the bad boys. The ones with money and power. She is easily fooled by the mail-order correspondence school–trained accountants and multilingual Lotharios.
Two weeks ago, she was trying to mount Lewis, the greatest con man that ever walked the streets of Weatherfield. Five seconds later — having made an absolute breast of herself over it — she is hair-tossing and cat’s-anussing over the parentage of Kylie Platt’s unborn child.
She’s going to be a double grandmother. Can’t be easy.
She tries to adhere with tradition by calling Audrey ‘mam’ and putting on a strong brew after a nuclear attack at the Rover’s.
She’s working class, but a bit posh. She’s made mistakes, which makes her the perfect judge of all.
She’s in all of us.
She’s a construct of male writing.
The only thing left for her plot-wise is to devour her young.
I’m sending a Tweet to the show’s producers right now to pitch my idea.