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| The Easter Bunny
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Once upon a time there was a pub. But this was no
ordinary pub because it was beside the famous T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man.
It was in this pub, no ordinary pub because it was beside the famous T.T.
Course, on the Isle of Man, that my story begins.
It was an April
evening, and a few people were enjoying a quiet drink in their local pub, no
ordinary pub because it was beside the famous T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man,
when in walked an Easter Bunny. All conversation stopped abruptly. All eyes in
the room followed the stranger as he strode confidently up to the bar. When the
landlord got back up from the floor he asked the stranger if he could help
him.
“Give us a pint and have ya anything ta eat, for a’m
starving?” replied the stranger, “Oi’ve just walked all the way
from de Ginger Hall, where dey refused to serve me.”
“Why was
that?” asked the landlord, fearful that this stranger might have a
reputation that he should have known about.
“Well, der were dese
two blokes,” replied the stranger. “One of dem was askin me about a
T.T. racer called Ginger Hall, and sounded Australian…and den de other one
warned me to clear off quick in case I was in another silly story about his
home village. He seemed ta be an influential sort of a lad because he tipped de
barmaid a wink and she wudden serve me. So I decided ta move on to dis pub, no
ordinary pub because it is beside de famous T.T. Course, on de Isle of
Man.”
The landlord was feeling sorry for the stranger who had
travelled far to reach this pub, no ordinary pub because it was beside the
famous T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man. He was mindful, also, that the stranger
had been turned away from a pub in that village that did not want to be
mentioned in any more in silly stories.
As he pulled a pint for the
rabbit he offered to make him one of his cordon bleu toasted sandwiches. The
rabbit sat up on a bar stool and gulped down his pint as the landlord prepared
a Welsh rarebit toasted sandwich. As the rabbit chomped through the sandwich
the landlord tried to make conversation, asking him about the
“Skerries” T-shirt he was wearing. It was only when he had finished
every last crumb that the rabbit spoke again, briefly, to order a cheese and
ham toasted sandwich and a second pint. The landlord pulled the pint and, as he
topped it up, he asked the stranger his name, hoping that it might ring a
bell.
“Dey call me Eddie Bunn,” muttered the rabbit, then
demolished another sandwich, and ordered a ham and tomato one.
The rest
of the pub, and this was no ordinary pub because it was beside the famous T.T.
Course, on the Isle of Man, remained silent, as everyone strained their eyes
and ears to see and hear everything about the stranger. This Eddie Bunn was a
rabbit of few words, and they heard his voice only briefly as he asked for more
beer, and an apparently endless selection of toasted sandwiches.
To
this day it is said that the stranger consumed seventeen toasted sandwiches,
each with a different filling, and was half way down his eleventh pint, when
tragedy befell him in the pub, no ordinary pub because it was beside the famous
T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man.
Suddenly the rabbit slumped forward
onto the bar, then slithered limply to the floor of the pub, no ordinary pub
because it was beside the famous T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man.
The
landlord (he was a marshal on the famous T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man, and
was a qualified First-Aider) rushed round the bar to the aid of poor Eddie Bunn
and checked his airways, breathing and circulation as the shocked drinkers
surrounded him. The landlord tried everything to revive the fallen stranger,
but there was absolutely no response to his treatment.
He turned to the
other customers, exhausted and distraught, just as the paravetics came through
the front door of the pub, no ordinary pub because it was beside the famous
T.T. Course, on the Isle of Man, and, between sobs, said, “That is the
worst case of Mixinmatoasties that I have ever seen.”
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