Television has been kind to the Wags, cruelly prohibited from carrying out their official sporting duties – 360 degree distraction – by Fabio Capello. And it's been particularly kind to Chantelle Tagoe, who not only took part in BBC3's Wags, Kids and World Cup Dreams (where she proved a bit of a trooper), but also in last night's Come Dine with Me: Wags Special. Then again, Chantelle is Emile Heskey's other half, which makes her Premier League Wag material, and a reliable source of the odd emulsion of envy and contempt that is the Wag's main contribution to our culture. Chantelle did us proud in this respect, revealing that her living room has just been decorated with an expensive 3D- effect wallpaper that looks exactly like factory-fresh corrugated iron: "It's only just come out in the shops," she said proudly, "so we're probably the first to 'ave this." Unless the taste for township chic is going to go mainstream, I would have thought it's an exclusivity that she's going to be able to hang on to. On the wall were two giant portraits – one of Nelson Mandela, who I assume Chantelle does recognise, and the other of Martin Luther King, about whom she sounded a bit doubtful. "I know of him," she said, in a tone that suggested it would be unproductive to press her for details.
Come Dine with Me is always an exercise in social one-upmanship, but it was given an extra edge here by the fact that being one-up is pretty much a full-time career for these women. Jude Cissé, the partner of the French striker Djibril Cissé, seemed to understand that a certain decorum comes with privilege. "I don't believe in having a house that's bling and having spent thousands of pounds on things that are not necessary," said Jude sagely, before showing us a few of the couple's basic essentials, such as the giant framed blow-up of the Hello! magazine cover recording their wedding ("It wasn't about the money," said Jude, "we wanted it to be right") and Djibril's trophy room, complete with signature red baize pool table. The giant ormolu throne Jude was sitting on at dinner didn't look an epitome of tasteful restraint, either, but then she has a social status to live up to: "We hold the titles Lord and Lady Frodsham," she explained. "I think it might entitle me to sit in the House of Commons, or something".
Nicola T was the odd one out here – a glamour model and Big Brother graduate who could only boast of a connection to a League Two player, Simon Walton. Perhaps the pressure got to her, because she pulled a sickie on the second night and sent Simon instead, who didn't exactly do anything to dispel the sense that she might be playing out of her Wag league. "This is bigger than Crewe's dressing room," he said, taking a tour of Chantelle's wardrobe, complete with a set of shoe lockers even Imelda Marcos might have envied. Still, whether from gracious condescension – or simply because they responded to her rather cheerful candour – she got the most votes and won. The prize for genius in the kitchen would surely have to go to Jude, though. When her chocolate fondue got clogged she pulled a packet of Angel Delight out of the cupboard, called Djibril on the mobile for emergency translation services, and served it up, with considerable aplomb, as a traditional French dessert called "Delices des Anges". Was there a metaphor here for Jude herself – an instant-whip pudding with a fancy title? I think it would be unkind to say.
Coronation Street, which last week found itself in the deeply uncomfortable position of having a rampage killer storyline in the week of the Cumbrian shootings, finally got round to giving us the cliffhanger climax to its week-long special, with Tony Gordon holed up in the lingerie factory, sprinkling petrol over Carla and Haley. You could see they were in a tricky position. If this had been a one-off drama it would have been shelved for months, until all the commemorations and funerals were over. But it would probably take a nuclear war to get Coronation Street to break narrative continuity, and riots might well have broken out if they'd stretched things out any further. As a result, there were still some wincing moments when the entertainment version of a spree killer prompted memories of the real thing. "What if he comes out with a flipping gun and shoots someone?" said Steve McDonald, as various people battered on the door of the factory.
The postponement also meant a cruel extension of another traditional Coronation Street trick, which is to stretch a cliffhanger between the early evening broadcast and the one that comes later. Originally, audiences would only have had to wait an hour or so to find out whether Gail will be going to jail for murder – that familiar signature having frustratingly blared over the top of the jury foreman's verdict. As it is, they'll have to grit their teeth till this evening to find out whether Norris loses the five pounds he's bet on an acquittal. Meanwhile, the scriptwriters must be offering up some quiet prayers of thanks to the gods of gratuitous soap violence, relieved that an incinerating blaze played no part in last week's events. One line, at least, would have had to go. "I don't think they're going to find anyone's body," someone said, as the firemen searched through the factory. "You could have cleared it up wi' a dustbuster."