It’s a cobra? A freaking cobra? Who, in the name of all which is holy, keeps a cobra as a pet and moves it around in a glorified fish tank on public transport? And now it’s ended up on the same train as Harris Beadlesby, a man so bereft of common sense that he makes brainless morons look like James Bond. Maybe not as played by Timothy Dalton. That would be too much. But at least Roger Moore or Pierce Brosnan. Fate clearly had one hell of a curry last night.

 

Somehow or other, I see an opportunity here. This is probably the most stupid thing I’ve done to date on this trip. In fact, it’s probably the most stupid thing I’ve done to date in my life, and the competition is pretty intense. However, it might just get us out of this.

 

I spring upwards and twist around. I grab the clarinet from the now horrified inspector and yell at him in French that actually, we’re special snake-charming emergency experts and we’re here to respond to crisis events.

 

I’ve read somewhere that cobras are not remotely interested in the sound of a snake-charmer’s flute. What entrances them is the motion as it sways back and forth, left and right. I bloody hope they’re right or I may be signing my own death warrant with this stunt. I push my way past a couple of overweight, French ladies which is pretty easy as they’re charging up the carriage in the opposite direction. I just have to wedge myself into the chain of a mountain bike to let them get past. That done, I settle myself in a crouch, rocking back on my ankles, and face what appears to be a very irritable reptile. I’m not entirely sure why it should be so pissy. After all, it just got freed from a transparent suitcase and given how scared those mice looked, I assume it was being kept reasonably well fed up to this point. Admittedly, the exit was a bit unexpected, and it may have knocked its hood on the way out but that doesn’t seem to be such a bummer. It might not have a ticket but given the sudden terror on the face of the inspector I doubt it has to worry about incurring a fine.

 

Whatever the reason, it does not look happy and content. Maybe it’s just the vibe on the carriage since nobody else appears too overjoyed either. But none of this is a major worry right now. My main concern is how to become a proficient snake-charmer with a combined experience of zero hours. Zero seconds more like, if you want to be picky.

 

How the hell do you actually play a clarinet? Well, you blow into it, no doubt. I raise the thing to my lips and blow as hard as I can, just in case the sound does help after all. There’s a slight rustle and what sounds like a rhino with a serious wind problem. The main effect is to focus the cobra’s attention even more closely on me. I go swiftly to the theory which I think I might vaguely know and start rocking from side to side. The cobra stands higher on its tail for a moment. Not sure if this is good as it might indicate an intent to strike in the near future but at least it looks slightly more curious than angry. Fantastic. Now I’m an expert in cobra body language. If this thing needs a psychotherapist, I may just have found a way out of this mess.

 

Got to keep swaying though. Perhaps the music does help a bit as well. Who knows? Just because I read it somewhere I can’t even remember doesn’t mean it’s definitely not true. At least the rhythm might help me to sway in time. Let’s try again.

 

The snake hisses suddenly and moves forward a little. I jerk backwards and let out a cry of alarm. At least, that’s what I try to do but the mouthpiece is between my lips. I yell into the clarinet, and a strange, high-pitched roar emerges. The snake pauses and looks straight at me. Maybe the sound does help? I don’t know but I go back to swaying anyway while I try another vocalized blow into the clarinet. This works as well. It occurs to me suddenly – it’s like playing the kazoo. You semi-sing into it and a kind of music emerges. It’s nothing like you would hear in an orchestra and no doubt Karl Givret must be spinning in his grave at this piece of musical vandalism but the thought that Harris doubtless has a similar opinion is enough to make me grin to myself.

 

I try manipulating the keys of the instrument. The sound basically grows worse. I don’t really know what tune I’m trying to produce but it sounds like some sort of hybrid between the American national anthem and that song they use for the Cup-a-Soup adverts on ITV3. I’m busy swaying like a drunk scarecrow in a hurricane now and catch someone giving me a very evil look from the corner of my eye. Probably a US citizen who, with credit to his patriotism, is more concerned about respect for his country than dying of envenoming in the next ten minutes. Still, I don’t want to have to choose between a serious dose of haematitic poisoning and getting beaten to death by an American patriot, so I broaden the repertoire. The new tune has a certain similarity to, “Take on Me” though with more of a “Bob the Builder” feel but at least it’s less offensive in terms of international politics.

 

It also seems less offensive to the snake. I add in some back and forth swaying to complement the side-to-side routine and the cobra actually follows my lead. It still doesn’t look like my best friend or as if it’s considering whether or not it wants to offer me a drink back at its place after this dance is over but right now, it does appear to be marginally less inclined to end my life within the next minute. Or however long it takes you to die from cobra venom. My expertise in herpetology doesn’t stretch beyond cold sore creams. Not that I get a lot of that sort of thing, you understand. Just saying. So I hear.

 

Perhaps this serpent is nonetheless concerned about catching a cold sore from me if it bites me on the face. Which, I hasten to add, is an entirely groundless concern. Again, just saying. Whatever its motivation, it does seem to be eyeing various parts of my body with what looks like a critical appraisal. If my dance floor analogy holds, then it’s like the random pervo who gets a bit wasted and then thinks he has a right to check out your anatomy, piece by tantalizing piece. I just wish I could yell harassment and get a bouncer to throw him out. I swear though, if that thing strikes and goes for my menstruating crotch, then even if I die, I am going to make sure I murder Harris first.

 

For the moment, I seem to be holding it in sufficient enthralment for me to stay alive. It continues to follow me. The question now is how to get it to somewhere safe. I suppose its original tank is probably the best bet. It looks intact enough, only with its front door blown open. If I can get the damn thing back into the tank and slam the door shut, then all I need to do is find something substantial to keep it closed and we’re all set. Good idea but how do I make the snake move? The tank is about ten metres down the carriage behind it.

 

I start off by swaying slightly more to the left than to the right. That works. The snake is moving off my central axis. If I move slightly to the left each time, then bit by bit, excruciatingly slowly but still noticeably, it and I move in a circle. I push ever so slightly forward so as to get it to sway backwards and away from me at the same time, giving me enough room to move around it until I have my back to the tank. You might be wondering why I don’t just force it to move backwards itself without the turn, but the reason is that once I have it following me, I can move backwards myself, with the snake following me forwards. That I can do, covering a much more substantial distance in the same time. Getting it to move backwards itself is painfully slow. I’m now onto the theme tune from, “Goldfinger” with a shade of the ad for Bird’s Eye Potato Waffles so my musical inspirations are running thin. My legs are also starting to ache like hell. I need to get this over and done with as soon as I can.

 

We’re about halfway down the carriage, about five metres from the tank. I’m still trying to think of a way to entice the cobra back into it. This is not that easy when you’re also trying to perform a busking act for a lethal predator without ever having earned even 10p with a similar act in Liverpool city centre. And given the quality of some of the acts which somehow earn cash in Liverpool city centre, that makes me astronomically crap. I’m hard at work, no doubt about that.

 

All of a sudden, the train lurches to a halt. Perhaps somebody finally figured out that there might be what constitutes an emergency going on. Congratulations, guys. Obviously, France still has to reach Switzerland’s standards of efficiency, but you got there in the end. Perhaps a relief to most people, the music comes to an abrupt halt, and I suddenly roll over backwards onto my back, my legs splayed in the air in front of me. I look up to see the cobra fly forwards in the air. Bloody hell! Am I about to get sexually assaulted by a snake?

 

Thankfully not, it seems. The snake skids briefly over my face. A lovely sensation. But it’s still moving fast and skates straight over. Its momentum carries it right into the tank where it crashes into the back but twists around, its hood wide open and a furious hissing coming out of its mouth. Not good.

 

I look around and find a random pétanque ball sitting next to me. I pick it up and sling it at the snake. Predictably enough, it flies with all the accuracy of an empty packet of salt ‘n’ vinegar crisps slung by yours truly at a public bin and misses the reptile entirely. However, it does crash into the back of the tank and that distracts the cobra. It looks round to see what gives. This is my opportunity, and I lunge forwards and slam the tank door shut. A heavy suitcase next to it, rammed against the edge, quickly ensures that it stays closed.

 

I honestly wonder if I got bitten. Sweat is pouring off me like I just showered under my own armpit. My breath is coming so quickly that if there were any chance that I might be pregnant, I’d be worried that I’d gone into labour half an hour ago. I could hardly be flushing more hotly if Tim had just promised me a night of unbridled and uninterrupted passion at his place. However, I don’t appear to have any bites on me (unless you count where a couple of those really annoying horse flies got me on the way over the French border) and there is no sensation of numbness anywhere. Maybe in the part of my brain concerned with common sense and self-preservation but what’s new? I think that actually, somehow, I’ve just about survived this experience.

 

The clarinet is lying to my right. I reach over and pick it up, then get to my feet. Scraping my hair out of my eyes, I stride up to the inspector and look him directly in the face.

 

“Lieutenant Indy-Anna Jones, Special Snake-Charming Emergency Response Squad!” I bark at him in fluent French and wave the clarinet in his face. He gulps visibly and backs away from me, his gaze rapidly descending to his feet. “Now piss off!”

 

In the end of the day, he doesn’t even stamp our tickets. Am I the only one who does any work round here?