Shameless - TV review

Back in the 1980s, when Bobby Ewing was miraculously resurrected in a Dallas shower cubicle, audiences were stunned.

Years later, Dirty Den made his way back to Walford after supposedly surviving being gunned down. Again hard to imagine.

But last night the unthinkable happened – Frank Gallagher got a job.

Yes, Channel 4s brilliantly uncompromising Shameless returned for a new run, and with it so did the thinking man's drunk, portrayed in all his grimey glory by David Threlfall.

Poor Frank. The serial employment-dodger, is deemed fit for work by the Department of Work and Pensions following countless years on the dole.

The series has lost little of its charm since its debut in 2004. In fact, if the early days of Paul Abbott's world depicted a typical Manchester, more recent episodes show it to be greater – a Greater Manchester, if you will.

More and more we are treated to the sublime inner-musings. Last night Frank compared the thought of getting paid work to a prison sentence, referring to himself in a cell as a dead man walking, condemned to a life of work. Sheer poetry.

Elsewhere, the colourful patrons of local boozer – The Jockey, Chatsworth estate's equivalent to Mos Eisley's Cantina in Star Wars – were busy brewing moonshine. After stumbling on liquid gold, the locals go mad for the illicit alcohol, clammering to buy the limited stock.

There's always a way to make a quick buck on the estate, but who would have thought that Frank would be one of the few to earn a wage legitimately?

Granted, Mr Gallagher is never likely to make managing director of a Blue Chip corporation, but surely he can hold his own in a fast food joint?

Flipping burgers looks to be the pinnacle of Frank's talents. On his 'journey' to employment – or becoming a 'wage-slave' as he would put it – we saw the happless curmudgeon poison a ward of hospital patients while cleaning; cause mayhem on the roads while in charge of a stop/go sign and even get sacked from being a cockle-picker.

So with the threat of losing all future benefits, Manchester's finest takes the fast food role.

Strange that writer Abbott puts working in a burger bar beneath the dangers of collecting cockles from sodden mud flats. We know what you mean mr writer. Inspired stuff.

Indeed, Abbott's fantasy world has always been a late night joy.

A voyeuristic peek at the seedy under belly of Manchester, more real than Coronation Street ever dare to portray.

Put before a firing squad comprising of cas regulars, Frank says goodbye to the life he knew.

"Any last words?," he is asked before the triggers are squeezed.

"Do you want fries with that?," he blurts out. And quicker than Clark Kent becomes Superman, he is transformed from his green Parka jacket and lank greasy locks to a smart new uniform and pony tail beneath his peaked cap.

Following a hard day's toil, Frank is celebrated by his contemporaries at The Jockey as he enjoys his first hard-earnt pint.

And as the motley crew of losers mercilessly tear into the burger bar employee, his wisdom is brought to the fore.

"Don't forget, we are all free up here," he declares, pointing fervently at his head.

After all, as he says, there is more than one way to skin a society.

I'm sure there is Frank. I'm sure there is.

Paul Naylor