Episode 930-939

Thus endeth DeRo: Obviously, Marc (deciding that if he can't have Roman, Deniz can't either) cunningly hid the zombie yoghurt in the Casa WildTurkey fridge so Roman would drink it and contract unspeakable zombie maladies, and Deniz would have to kill him.

Unfortunately, that leaves us with diarrhoea plot and stilted comedy montages, at least whenever we're not preoccupied with nerve-wrackingly intense contemplations of "Will Katja ace her skating this time, or fuck it up because of Ben?" Since we have absolutely no precedent for this situation from Diana/Julian, Jenny/Julian, Jenny/Lars, Stella/Lars, or, hmm, KATJA/BEN, the suspense is killing us. But hey, at least agonising about it distracts us from thinking about the zombie yoghurt pulling a "From beneath you, it devours" on Roman. Oh damn, too late.

In today's Essen Cup drama, Katja uses her Time Turner to ace her skating routine, frees Lena from Greasy Max's thrall, and tells Ben off for his dickishness. Only one of these things is a lie.

Meanwhile, Flo posts "Sexy Adonis for hire - have own panpipes" signs all over the Essen (well, all over No.7 anyway. What, no Öztürk uncles around to hire him?) and then tries to save Zoé from the scarf that's devouring her. Can he rid her of this deadly fashion mistake? Tune in tomorrow to find out!

Don't mind us, we'll just be over here writing Juliana/Lena slash. (You'll have to visit the source to see what we're talking about, but there were sparks! SPARKS!)

We all knew that Roman has some very strange ideas about how a figure skating trainer is supposed to act (showing up, giving pep talks, good advice, not being drunk or a dick, etc.), but lately his behaviour has been extra-disturbing: Massages? Mental training? VITAMIN SHAKES? And he doesn't believe that two hours before an important competition is the ideal time to integrate a difficult new jump into a routine? Clearly the man's off his rocker.

To make matters worse, he's also infected Deniz with his madness. The poor boy actually believes competitions are won through hard work and training. Deniz, no wonder you never got anywhere with competitive figure-skating. You just didn't have the true dedication it takes to lie there and wilt until a big strong man carries you off the ice.

Thank god, neither does Katja. GO GO FRECKLES GO! Cynicism be damned, that ice was ON FIRE WITH YOUR SASSY HOTNESS, PLEASE MAY WE GROPE YOU NOW?

For the record, legal counsel for the Marc Hagendorf Admiration Society would like to unequivocally state that Mr. Hagendorf acted against their urgent, express, and strongly worded advice when choosing the location of his romantic date (we believe the exact words used may have been "WTF OMG NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"). The MHAS would like to dissociate itself entirely from said choice in the clearest possible way.

Seriously, Show, what have we done to deserve this from you? Diarrhea plot was one thing, we could quietly ignore that. Hearing about it on first dates bordered on TMI, but we could gloss over that too and instead focus on Roman's uncertain insistence of loyalty. But poolside seduction, Show? Really? You couldn't have found an unused corner of the studio to double as a romantic café? Hell, with an hour and a couple of drop cloths, we could've whipped something up for you. Maybe there's some poignancy in paralleling this scene to Deniz's romantic dream, but at the moment we're kind of overwhelmed by the odours of chlorine and dirty feet.

On the other hand, you did give us the "I love you" "I love you more" exchange that under normal circumstances would turn our stomachs more than Roman's virus, but laced with irony and that bitter bitter pain you know we adore, so we probably can't hate you for long. We do, however, plan on savouring it while it lasts.

And so it begins...

In which Roman lies his pretty mouth off, Annette says all the wrong things, Marc sets himself up for exactly the same heartbreak as ten years ago, and Deniz slays us with anxious/suspicious faces. Show, you are cruel and we love you.

PS: The typo at 0:22 is not really a typo, of course. It is our brand new favourite word. "Unfrotunately" = "NO FROTTING OCCURRED, SADLY".

In which even Annette (she of the ruthless Gordian Knot approach) finally realises that this is not a simple matter of slicing off one part of your heart, putting it in a box o' woe and living without it. Roman's in deep and no matter where he turns, something will break and he'll get cut on the shards. (Man, Show, your suicidal elevator lyrics are making us come over all emo today.)

What's left to do but pray? Oh, Nettchen. Don't you know that soap gods are evil? You pray for clarity, they give you achey candlelight dinners, desperate snogpounces and tender hair-stroking. You pray for resolution, they give you fierce goodbye cuddles, tempting phone calls, and the biggest emotional muddle since Oz mosey-ed back from Tibet and found Willow and Tara doing the sweater swap.

Actually, fuck those prayers, and fuck clarity and resolution, too. We're good with what we got. Pass the baklava. And the vodka!

In which the littlest Wild plays with his hockey stick (what? No! It's an actual hockey stick, you pervs!), Roman tells him about the janitor's position (the one where you're naked under those sexy coveralls and ask if anyone needs their plumbing fixed in your porniest voice), and Simone Steinkamp shows that she's still got a soft spot for Roman Wild, if for no other reason than the fact that she can now add a "Wildcest" category to her Male Function fanfic archive.

Alternative descrip: GROCERIES YAY!

Marc, honey, we have great respect for the respectful way you respectfully drop by to respectfully pounce Roman. And you know we've got precious little patience for anyone who doesn't see that Roman fully enjoys your respectful pursuit. (Oh noes, the frail blond skater is being overpowered, whatever will he do? Shall we prepare the fainting couch? HA!) But could you maybe ixnay the ivatepray etectiveday? You don't want Roman to cop on to our sooper sekrit operations in the halfpipe, do you?

But thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for being there at the right time. Today we get our first glimpse of a character who rouses some dark, dangerous feelings in the Igloo. We know we've said we can't abide hatred on principle. In Egon's case, we will make an exception.

And now, Wild brothers, we know you're not up for cuddling from anybody after a traumatic event like that. We'll just be over here holding the hordes, and if you decide you need hugs later, we're here.

It's hard to write a description through seething hatred. Here's all we could come up with today: Flo hits the road, but it's not enough to stop Egon from crushing Roman some more. Marc recognises a woobie rowing machine workout when he sees one. Roman breaks our fucking hearts when he says "he slapped my face as if I was a child" (and there are so many things wrong with that line that we can't even start). And Essen cops need some sensitivity training if they can't tell that this kid's terrified to be handed off to his father.

In other words, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.