Exactly 30 years ago today Eric Morecambe died. I couldn’t help wondering what the Afterlife was like after that:

SCENE: The Pearly Gates.  St Peter, dressed in traditional white robe and complete with halo, is updating a large ledger. There is a knock.

ERIC [offstage]: Anyone home?

ST PETER [somewhat testily]: Ring the bell please.

ERIC: The bell?

ST PETER: The bell to the gate. You can’t miss it. It’s a big chain with a fancy handle.

ERIC: Like Freeman, Hardy and Willis?

ST PETER: I beg your pardon?

ERIC: Why, what did you do?

ST PETER: Did you find the chain?

ERIC: I’m trying. But this long metal rope with a big knob on the end is in the way.

ST PETER: That’s the bell chain, you buffoon!

ERIC: Ah right!

[Nothing happens for a few seconds]

ST PETER: Are you alright out there?

ERIC: Would you like me to pull it?

ST PETER [sighing noisily]: If you wish the bell to ring, I heartily suggest you do.

ERIC: Right you are, sunshine!

[Sound effect: a toilet flushing]

ERIC: Sorry about that. It was a long walk up all those stairs. Let’s try this one…

[Sound effect: the clanging of a huge bell]

St Peter gets up, walks slowly to the gate and opens it. Eric pokes his head through the gap, waggles his glasses at the audience and looks St Peter up and down.

ERIC: Good evening, young lady. Is your father home?

ST PETER: I beg your pardon?

ERIC: No need to apologise, miss. Could you let your dad know I’m here, only it’s been a long day and I was hoping to get settled in my room before the football. You can get Match of the Day up here, can’t you?

ST PETER: Match of the Day?

ERIC: You must know it. Jimmy Hill. Big chin. David Coleman. Lots of balls. And that’s just the commentary.

ST PETER: I think you’ll find the football season is over.

ERIC [grabbing St Peter by the robes and pulling him face to face]:  Now listen here, Sonny. I signed up for the deluxe package.  Cigars. Beer. Dancing girls. And footie on tap 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.  [He puts St Peter down, brushes imaginary dust from his robe, and pats the bemused saint’s cheek]  Nice halo, by the way.

ST PETER [coughs]: Erm. Thank you, I’ll see what I can do. I should be able to rustle something up.

ERIC: They can’t touch you for it, sunshine! Wahay!

ST PETER: Just for the record, what’s your name?

ERIC: John Eric Bartholomew, but you can call me “Sir”!

ST PETER: Very droll, sir.

ERIC: One last thing, how long ‘til Little Ern’s due?

ST PETER: About another 15 years.

ERIC: Only it’s his round.

ST PETER: I wouldn’t hold your breath.

ERIC: You’ve met him then!

ST PETER: Of course. Short, fat, hairy legs and you can’t see the join.

ERIC: Oi! That’s my line! [He takes a brown paper bag from his pocket] Have I shown you this one…?

[Exeunt Stage Left]