Epilogue

“Are you staying for one more?” asks the Very Well Spoken Barman, dusting off his best glass of Old Tired Metaphor.

"I am not," replies Jonny B. "I have milked you for all you are worth, and now I am going home to die happy."

"Right you are," replies the Chipper Barman, who had returned from Coventry just to say this.

"We had some good times, didn't we?" says Jonny, to no-one in particular. "The Post Office thing. The sick chicken. The cow. The raid on the snooker club. The Risk. All good things, though, all good things."

Silence descends on the small pub, in the small corner, of the small village.

The clock in the corner ticks down the time. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Right. I'll be getting off then," murmurs Jonny.

He stands up and walks to the door. From behind him, he hears, but does not see, a group of people break into applause, slowly at first, and then growing louder, louder, until the noise is deafening.

It is Big A, with his 95 year old escort, Glenda. It is Len the Fish, toting a fat stogie. It is the LTLP, child in each arm. It is John Twonil. It is everyone from the bowls club, a couple of folk from the snooker, and the bloke who spent far too long renovating a cottage which really wasn't that bad in the first place.

It is me, Short Tony. I am standing behind Ann Widdecombe.

"Thank you all for coming," manages Jonny. And as he leaves the pub for the final time, his cast of characters fade away, to be replaced by a field of poppies, just like at the end of Blackadder, which was a pretty good ending, all told.