Bert, a hack from the local newspaper, had been sent to cover what had proved to be a non-existent story. Moreover, it had taken him to a part of the port town, where the airborne mixture of diesel, rusting iron, fish and salt had clogged his brain even more than his sinuses. Naturally the subsequent sight of a backstreet pub brought on an immediate and inevitable thirst.

He peered in at the window. The bartender looked friendly enough, as did the small group of regulars clustered around him. In a corner booth, a pair of young women were drinking some sort of coloured fizz. Satisfied that he wasn't going to get mugged, at least not in the bar, Bert went in.

The mahogany door with its etched glass panel, creaked once and slapped shut behind him, sealing in the beery fug with its underlying tang of yesterday's bar-snacks. He acknowledged the regulars with a non-committal grunt, bought a beer and claimed some territory of his own on a tall stool at the opposite end of the counter.

To pass the time, he gazed vacantly at nothing in particular and strained to catch the conversation round the bartender. He was just getting his ears attuned to some protracted and inane joke about Roll-on/Roll-off Fairies, when the street door swung open with a bang and a well-built, if paunchy, fellow stomped in.

The conversation at the bar stopped in mid guffaw, and the guffawees turned to gaze first at the new arrival, then stare at the girls in the corner. Bert too, took note of the sudden, if somewhat suppressed shriek. Which, he reckoned, had probably come from the wide-eyed fat one as her thin friend had a hand cupped to the other's ear and would have deafened her if she'd not been whispering.

Bert, a student of body language, came to the conclusion that the focus of their attention was the front of the man's trousers. However, although he could seen no obvious reason for this, it was rapidly dissolving the girls into twitching heaps of near hysteria.

“Hey lads!” announced the bartender, leaning across the counter to clap the two nearest regulars on the shoulder, “It's the Snake Charmer!”

“Oh for God's sake don't start all that again,” complained the man, “Call me Charmer if you like, but for fuck'sake drop the Snake crap!”

“Sure!” chortled the bartender, in a posh voice, “Snake Crepes are orf, Suzette!” Thus getting his pun in before the floodgate of standing jokes burst open, starting with “What do snakes use when they make love?” - “Anacondoms!” - “Groan!” and finally finishing, in unison, with that lewd rhyme about The Lady with the Rake.

Bert watched the Snake Charmer, as they had called him. The man just stood there and took it all with practised patience. A nudge from the reporter's conscience suggested that he should engage mental work-mode just in case there was a story in any of this.

The butt of the snake jokes took up a pose of studied innocence, or maybe it was insolence, while seemingly attempting to read the label of a certain whiskey standing on its head in an optic behind the bar.

“Never attempt to read anything upside-down unless you're a newspaper vendor,” said Bert, as an icebreaker.

“What?” said the man, failing to understand a word Bert had said.

“I said you look like you needed a drink,” lied Bert.

The man, surprised by a voice not concentrating on the humorous qualities of serpents, eyed the reporter with some distaste. Bert waved a banknote at the bartender and suggested a double scotch. The man, left with a choice between the company of one idiot or many, chose the idiot with money. Then pulled up a stool and joined Bert at the less populated end of the bar counter.

Having lost their victim's attentive pretence of inattention, the pack ground to a halt. Somebody wanted to know what “Snake creeps” were. Somebody else said “Crap,” and the bartender sniggered.

“Thank God, that's over for today,” sighed the man, “I think they're getting worse.”

With drinks purchased, Bert introduced himself, but without admitting to being a journalist. Then in an offhand conversational tone, asked what it was all about.

“Look, there's a booth free over there,” muttered the “Snake Charmer”, apparently eager to talk.

Once they were seated, the man explained that that his nickname was relatively new. He had recently been relocated from being part of the large crew of an oil-tanker to the small one of a North Sea rig-tender. Unfortunately constantly pointing out the differences had so bored his new crew-mates that they had decided to take their comic revenge.

Alcohol was not allowed on the boat, so it was the crew's habit to tank-up the evening before sailing. The next of these outings had, at first, run its normal course, then unknown to the Charmer, somebody had started spiking his beer with double vodkas, and after a few of these he'd not have known the port from a lemon. Seeing their victim ripening nicely, a visit to a house of ill-repute was suggested and as he was in no state to refuse, they set off across town at a trot.

Rather than the promised brothel, they took him to a friend's flat, where as a result of climbing three flights of stairs, he had passed out. The girl, a tattooist by trade, was then invited to provide Charmer with something cosmetically embarrassing of the sort he couldn't show his mother. With the help of a pair of fire-tongs and gales of encouraging laughter, she had pricked out upon his prick, two little red eyes, a forked tongue and lots of green and blue zigzag patterning. Then his mates, falling about at the monstrosity of what they had done dragged their still unconscious victim back to his berth on the boat.

At this point in the narration, Bert and Charmer's attention was momentarily diverted to the pair of girls from the corner booth as they flounced past on their way to the toilets.

“When did you find out what they had done?” asked Bert in fascination.

“The girls?” said Charmer as he followed them with his eyes.

“No, your ship-mates,” answered Bert.

“Not 'til much later,” said Charmer, “The boat sailed on the morning tide and the bastards deliberately let me over-sleep. When I finally climbed out of my pit and staggered to the heads, I was too hung-over to notice the tattoo. In fact thanks to this,” here he patted his beer-gut, “It was three days before I spotted it.”

By now Bert was finding it difficult not to show his amusement by laughing out loud. Charmer went on to tell him how his mates had denied all knowledge of his little problem. Their story was that he had “gone off with some tart or other” and had not been seen again until they were at sea. At that moment, the narration came to a complete halt, as the two girls returned from the bogs.

As the bog door flapped shut behind her, the thin one peered over the back of the pew behind Charmer and with a nasty leer, stuck out her tongue and wriggled it about. Bert could see that she had drawn two eyes on it with some sort of a marker pen. His self-control gave way and despite his promise not to laugh, it was with tears in his eyes that he erupted.

Through the tears he could see that the Charmer was mortified, but there was nothing he could do about it. Then Charmer turned and saw the girl. She rapidly withdrew her tongue, leaving a dribble of marker ink on her lip, and made a dash for the door.

Her chubby friend was there already, holding it open, but seemingly reluctant to follow her friend's shrieking exit, she stuck out her hip and blew a kiss in their direction. Bert's first thought was that his luck had changed, then he realised it wasn't aimed at him. The fat little Eve's garden of Eden was in need of a certain charming snake.

“Well,” announced the Charmer, getting up, “Have to be going. Mustn't keep customers waiting.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Bert, “How? What ...?”

“Don't tell the humour brigade!” grinned Charmer, hoiking his thumb at the crowd by the bar, “But their little joke was the best thing that ever happened to old Sid, my not so little trouser-friend. He's never been so busy.”

I'm amazed,” said Bert, “Absolutely amaz...”

“Why not get one yourself,” said Charmer, “A garter-snake, maybe a grass-adder, or better still an anaconda, the serpent of the water-hole.”

— • —

Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1998 & ©2007.  All rights reserved.

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