The meeting of blowhards was in full swing. There we were, in a pub, a pub that none of us had been thrown out of. Yet. Discussing the various ejections from other bars because of misadventures. In the company I keep, being thrown out of a saloon is a badge of honour. The Wild West we like to call it.
Billy Hiccup recounted the number of staff that hurled him from the Bull Bar. It took hic of them, he said. Then Dad Longworth told a better one of the time he threw a barstool through the gantry in the Rio Inn. Forgetting that I was there that night he had embellished his story. It was a sodden bar towel he threw to the floor before he ran to his horse.
Story after story, each one taller than the last, spouted from the spitting mouths of my companions. Like Roy Scheider in Jaws who decides not to get involved in the “who’s got the best scar” scene I kept my distance from the exaggerated spluttering. Not because I couldn’t whopper with the rest of them, rather it was the fact I’d never been barred from anywhere, even the library. Then I got their attention.
“I caused a disruption on a plane and it had to make an emergency landing at the nearest airport.”
The piano player stopped playing and many sets of drunken eyes glazed into mine.
“Tell us the story.” said Kramer.
Every time I fly I re-enact impromptu takes on the classic Big Sammy film, Snakes on a Plane. Terrorising my family, I raise my arm and pincer my fingers to imitate a snake about to strike. Then I lash out at them with venom. After thirty minute of this they tire of my games and to annoy me say my “prop” is more like Rod Hull’s Emu than a snake.
Raising the snakes stakes I watched the stewardess approach with the drinks trolley. She laughed when she saw my snake. Laughter turned to screams when my snake bit her. Panic ensued and somebody shouted. “There’s a snake on the plane.”
Boadicea's Chariot 