The scene: Tan Hill Inn, some oversize boozers and their squaws (probably not local) tucking in to a couple of scoops on an ostensibly Christmas morning. Plot develops, namely the weather becomes (remarkably) more hostile than the locals, looks like a lock-in.
Set to on the lock-in, with grub, a table of plenty that closely resembles Christmas Dinner, a bounteous repast.
Seems just get started on the blow-out, when two helpful coves dig out the front door and announce that they've liberated all . . .
. . . To baleful glares from all assembled, who evidently do not appreciate being so 'rescued'.
Fade to sickening, patronising 'Waitrose makes Christmas' blurb.
Apart from the obvious cuntinuity errors, the nearest Waitrose to the Tan Hill Inn is 60 miles away, passing plenty of supermarkets (and local suppliers) on the way.
The southern cunts.