The Albert Square scoundrel has antagonised everyone with his dodgy dealings. Now one of his neighbours wants him dead
Ever since the day I was born, Ian Beale has been there on the periphery of my reality, sobbing. This is the strange thing about Ian Beale, the liminal space he occupies in the collective British mind. Even if you don’t watch EastEnders week to week, even if you skip the Christmas specials every year, you still vaguely know what Ian Beale is up to – getting married again, getting divorced again, having his children murder each other, being homeless, crying on a sofa while Phil Mitchell turns ever more into a stone – whether you want to or not. EastEnders is just Ian Beale propaganda, really, designed to let you know that Ian Beale exists and – irrespective of whether you watch him do it – he is suffering.
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