The Royle home is no palace. Space is cramped and the walls are stained yellow by nicotine. Brain-dead conversation is set against the continuous drone of the television. In charge of the remote control is the skinflint patriarch, Jim Royle, a slob who sounds off while his long-suffering wife, Barbara, runs around after him. Daughter Denise, an aspiring hairdresser, lazes around the house obsessing about her appearance and worrying that her fiance Dave doesn"t appreciate her. The only moving part of the household is is the youngest Royle, Anthony, a surly teenager and general dogsbody who is constantly dispatched to buy more cigarettes.