Phew. The onslaught of live EastEnders last week was gripping, no?

All week up to the firework finale of Friday night’s Albert Square knockabout, camera crews kept stalking cast members to ask: “HOW DO YOU FEEL?” And the universal response was: “Er, pretty knackered!”

No surprise: the big who-killed-Lucy-Beale reveal has been 18 months in the crafting, a logistical nightmare involving MI5 levels of plotting and secrecy. I felt knackered just watching, with its surprise baby, random killing and family recriminations, many involving characters who were merely names to me.

Like many, I stopped watching EastEnders religiously (in one fat scoop on a hungover Sunday) when I finished being a student. The habit never caught on with me again, with its clatter of shouting proving too reminiscent of my own real-life soap opera (I even have a baby daddy called Rickaaaay!).

But, I plugged in, along with 12million other viewers, for the 30th anniversary. The magnetic pull of all that hype, curiosity and cynicism made this easily the year’s most watched, most tweeted-about show so far, and rewarded viewers’ loyalty with telly gold. Such was the power of Adam Woodyatt’s sobbing performance that Phil was left to skulk around the car lot like a lost puppy, while Danny Dyer was husky and menacing as the best of them.

Not everyone ‘got it’, though. My ex/housemate (it’s complicated) sat stubbornly, annoyingly, watching rugby on his laptop as I tuned in.

“What’s the point of doing this live?” he asked, ignoring my frantic gesture for quiet. “It’s EXCITING!” I explained. “They could fluff their lines ANY MINUTE!”

He considered this. “If them fluffing their lines is as exciting as it gets, it doesn’t say much for the show, does it? Just saying.” Horrified, I replied: “It’s THEATRE! Possibly the biggest event in television history and you’re sodding TALKING OVER IT!”

He looked at me with the air of a man accustomed to living with a moron. “I don’t think this is television’s biggest moment, really, Liz. What about the moon landings?” I hate it when he’s got a point.

Bin There, Dump That is also good viewing on Watch (any channel screening David Attenborough’s Natural Curiosities and Masterchef New Zealand – yiss please! – is a winner in my book).

I’m always interested in programmes about people who do the jobs no-one else wants. I enjoy the black humour often employed by those who work on the precipice of death, disease, danger or dishonour.

There is defiance and a perverse pride bred by certain professions. Waste is one of them. My mother-in law was a bin woman for 15 years. She is one of the toughest, kindest, most inspirational women I know. Not because of her sometime profession (we’re not defined by our jobs, after all), but you can’t exactly have your head stuck up your bum if you’re up to your neck in other people’s muck, as proved by glamorous Chesterfield sisters Denise and Elaine in this show.

Oxfordshire is represented by binmen Paul and Paul (one has a tattoo of the Tasmanian devil next to a Cherwell District Council wheelie bin).

Meanwhile, over on BBC2 on Sunday, Meet The Ukippers offered much less edifying, but riveting viewing.

After Channel Four’s ill-advised UKIP: The First 100 Days (dramatic codswallop), this documentary followed a bunch of what appeared to be bumbling English eccentrics, like a bad Little Britain pilot.

You might have heard the media storm around UKIP councillor Rozanne Duncan describing her prejudice towards ‘negroes’ with jaw-dropping stupidity. Surely, we have the BBC to thank for unmasking the vile sentiment that rots at the core of some members of this party.