In the bar the good old fashioned Eastenders knees up was going with a swing. Dot Cottontail had brought in the jellied eels; Chelsea Fux the pie and mash. Thicky Ricky had agreed to go out for the fish and chips but hadn’t managed to find his way to the door yet. Fat Pat ‘Eavens Above was calling for the male stripper along with Christmastree Clarke. At the bar, Churchill was trying to buy a round of drinks from Tracingpaper but as neither were allowed to speak they were having communication difficulties.
Behind the bar, Meggy Bitchell was still complaining to anyone who would listen that she had once been Britain’s brightest star and had been robbed of numerous Oscars over the years by nonentities like Judi Dench and Glenda Jackson. “Their bras didn’t fly off in a highly amusing way in a classic comedy like mine did,” she moaned. But, of course, no-one was actually listening, so her tales of woe disappeared in to the ether.
Meanwhile down in the depths below the bar, deep in the cellars, there was a strange murmuring, softly at first but gradually growing in volume until the noise was enough to halt the festivities in the bar above. Foxy Bitchell turned to Ronnie McDonald and said, “What’s that?” A look of terror spread across Ronnie’s face. “Don’t you get it?” she screamed, “He’s still controlling us. It’s Dad trying to run our pub from beyond the grave.” “I don’t believe you,” spat Foxy in anger. “Alright, don’t believe me,” Ronnie replied, “but it’s true.”
An eerie silence descended on the pub. Slowly the door creaked open. A hunched figure in a worn T-Shirt and an old pair of jeans entered the bar. A gasp went up. The figure looked across the room to where Dot Cottontail was hurriedly putting out a fag.
“’Ello Ma!”
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