A CHINK of light appeared at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel on Monday night.

Lauren Branning, having cracked the Lucy Beale murder case, dared to dream: “If they catch who did it then they’ll find out what happened to her.”

Abi: “It’s not as simple as that though, is it?”

The girl’s got a point, Lauren. EastEnders hasn’t drawn out the most pointless whodunit in soap history, featuring its least adored character, for ten long, agonising, months only to unmask the killer in the blink of an eye, silly sausage.

There’s the show’s sort-of live 30th-anniversary week to come, remember?

So please don’t go blabbing just yet.

Weirdly, though, the whodunit culmination is a welcome distraction from the gibberish coursing through Albert Square.

It has become a girly fantasy land where men are made to get their tops off (Peter) or whisk women off their feet (Kush), like Richard Gere in An Officer And A Gentleman.

And for the other half of the audience? Kat the slapper wobbling her cleavage-of-despair at Stan the OAP.

No thank you.

It’s a place where fun runs are held in the middle of winter and £100,000 cash is routinely set alight in kitchen sinks.

Aspirations of owning a washer/dryer are dependent on winning the lottery, at least if you’re Fatboy — or indeed half of Walford.

And the stresses and rigours of modern life drive people either to drink or, in the case of this week’s laughable humdinger between Charlie and Roxy, into bed with their sibling-in-law on discussing the probable vegetative state of his wife, her sister Ronnie.

I mean, why wouldn’t that make them randy?

Ronnie, for her part, is in a coma, bed-blocking the NHS

private suite EastEnders seems to think exists in the real world.

Much has been made of the Carter clan allegedly saving the show.

But the truth is they’ve had a neutral effect.

Mick and Linda’s early promise as the Vic’s landlords has been snuffed out in the hideously ill-advised rape storyline.

And we’re about to lose by far their best character, Stan, played immaculately by Timothy West, whose euthanasia sub-plot is a cynical steal from Coronation Street, Emmerdale and Hollyoaks.

Worse still, it’s been shoddily handled with zero dramatic merit.

They’ve made the cancer sufferer an apparent invalid overnight reliant on Tina to mix a lethal dose despite him being perfectly capable of popping to the chemist and doing the deed himself.

Treated with equal disdain by the writers are Denise, who’s now a bitter, alcoholic, surrogate-dad beater; Peter, who’s almost as unlikely a coke dealer as he is a market grocer; and Jane, who’s being made to marry Ian Beale again.

Let’s just hope next week’s revelations resolve old loose ends, like her hiding Lucy’s mobile under Mr and Mrs Beale’s floorboards.

Ten months I’ve endured that saga, only to go and miss the big pay-off.

Yes, I’ve inadvertently booked next week off.

But I’d have still felt the same of EastEnders that Charlie does of Ronnie: “There’s new hope every day and then the next moment it’s gone.

“It’s every week that passes. I’m just desperate for it to stop now.”

Thirty years of hurt.

A CHINK of light appeared at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel on Monday night.

Lauren Branning, having cracked the Lucy Beale murder case, dared to dream: “If they catch who did it then they’ll find out what happened to her.” Abi: “It’s not as simple as that though, is it?”

The girl’s got a point, Lauren. EastEnders hasn’t drawn out the most pointless whodunit in soap history, featuring its least adored character, for 10 long, agonising months only to unmask the killer in the blink of an eye, silly sausage.

There’s the show’s (sort of) live 30th anniversary week to come, remember?

So don’t go blabbing just yet.

Weirdly, though, the whodunit culmination is a welcome distraction from the gibberish coursing through Albert Square.

It has become a girlie fantasy land where men are made to get their tops off (Peter) or whisk women off their feet literally (Kush), like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman.

And for the other half of the audience? Kat the Slapper wobbling her cleavage-of-despair at Stan the OAP.

No. Thank. You.

It’s a place where fun runs are held in the middle of winter and £100,000 cash is routinely set alight in kitchen sinks.

Aspirations of owning a washer/dryer are dependent on winning the lottery, at least if you’re Fatboy. Or indeed half of Walford.

And the stresses and rigours of modern life drive people either to drink or, in the case of this week’s laughable humdinger between Charlie and Roxy, into bed with their sibling-in-law on discussing the probable vegetative state of his wife, her sister, Ronnie.

I mean, why wouldn’t that make them randy?

Ronnie, for her part, is in a coma, bed-blocking the NHS private suite EastEnders seems to think exists in the real world.

Much has been made of the Carter clan allegedly saving the show but the truth is they’ve had a neutral effect.

Mick and Linda’s early promise as the Vic’s landlords has been snuffed out in the hideously ill-advised rape storyline.

And we’re about to lose by far their best character, Stan, played immaculately by Timothy West, whose euthanasia sub-plot is a cynical steal from Corrie, Emmerdale and Hollyoaks.

Worse, it’s been shoddily handled with zero dramatic merit.

They’ve made the cancer sufferer an apparent invalid overnight reliant on Tina to mix a lethal dose despite him being perfectly capable of popping down the chemist and doing the deed himself.

Treated with equal disdain by the writers are Denise, who’s now a bitter, alcoholic, surrogate-dad beater; Peter, who’s almost as unlikely a coke dealer as he is a market grocer; and Jane, who’s being made to marry Ian Beale again.

Let’s just hope next week’s revelations resolve old loose ends, like her hiding Lucy’s mobile under the Beales floorboards.

Ten months I’ve endured that saga, only to go and miss the big payoff by inadvertently booking next week off.

But I’d have still felt the same of EastEnders that Charlie does of Ronnie: “There’s new hope every day and then the next moment it’s gone. It’s every week that passes. I’m just desperate for it to stop now.”

Thirty years of hurt.

Spudulikes…

Fortitude’s immense Stanley Tucci.

Last Week Tonight With John Oliver’s return.

The audience’s quizzical reaction to Kasabian opening the Baftas, like Shrek and Donkey in the Duloc photo booth.

Joey “Snowy” Essex making an early bid for Sports Personality of the Year denying pro-athletes Louise Hazel and Mike Tindall of The Jump victory.

Host Davina McCall announcing: “We have our final three. One of them will be crowned The Chump champion.” (Joey Essex it is, then.)

BBC1 paint-by-numbers heartstrings-tugger The Gift’s search for a woman’s long-lost jilted lover hinging on a man named Willy Horn.

And Sky News’s Lucy Cotter on the Bafta Red Carpet to award presenter David Beckham: “Have you seen many of the nominated films?” Becks: “Yes, I’ve seen Lego… Paddington…” … Paddington… Lego…

Spuduhates…

C5 Stone Age experiment 10,000BC’s producers “providing the tribe isotonic drinks, sugars, jerky and fresh meat” on day nine instead of admitting defeat.

Stephen Fry’s wall-to-wall Bafta brown-nosing: “The great and the good of the industry rain down upon us with their brilliance, drenching us with their magnificence and showering us with their genius.”

Olivia Colman dragging her Broadchurch accent on a grand tour of rural England.

Katie Price’s undeserved Celeb Big Brother win.

ITV4 pro-celebrity angling from “deepest, darkest Devon” The Big Fish Off.

The One Show’s Alex Jones battling her inner TV demons for 27min 13sec before inevitably mixing up guest “Pam” St Clements with her EastEnders alter-ego “Pat” Butcher.

ITV responding to a ratings crisis with Barging Round Britain With John Sergeant.

And this audience response to Nancy Dell’Olio’s Get Your Act Together magic act… Sam Faiers: “I don’t know how she did that.” Rav Wilding: “How did she do it?” Faiers: “I don’t know.”