Myitt grins. "Thanks for that, anyway. If I really want to believe all that rot. But regardless, I know what it's like to feel like you've been lied to your whole life. It ain't fun." She looks at Kara, eyebrows raised. "Something tells me she'll be all right."
The jukebox has decided to switch. 'Hey Jude, don't make it bad...'
"Get a load of that, will ya?" Corliss remarks. "All the way from the bloody Scouse docks to the middle of nowhere, outer space. Didn't think they were this popular."
"Come on, Cor, Tiny Tim was on a few hours ago," says Myitt.
"'im, I could almost believe, being in a bar full of aliens in bleeding outer space," Corliss says, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I guarantee you Elvis and Bowie are on there." Myitt nods sagely. "You wanna bet?"
"Yer on."
"You're going to lose."
"Bet you a pint there's no Elvis, this place wouldn't be so tasteless as to make that cliche," Corliss snorts.
There's no answer yet, just Paul McCartney's endless six minutes of na-na-na-na's.
Myitt nods at Shal. "So, you doing all this talking...it's hurting the boy. Isn't it?"