‘Good grief,’ I said, taking off my panama hat and wiping its sorry brim on a privet hedge. ‘Pooped on by a pigeon. And a stealth-pigeon at that. Nothing is right in this horrible time. I really really hate it.’

And with that said, in a very grumpy voice, I slouched off down the road. I passed by the row of very pretty cottages that had always caught my fancy each time Mr Rune and I had passed them. And realised now quite why they had taken my fancy. They were not there in nineteen sixty-seven. I recalled my Aunt Edna saying that there had once been a row of lovely cottages there, but that they had all been flattened in the war with many dead.

And so now I viewed these cottages with sadness and put more slouch in my stride.

And presently I reached the door of The Four Horsemen, and wondered whether I might pop in and sample some of the new guv’nor’s exotic beer. It could not hurt and nobody need know.

And so, with all the misplaced confidence of the underage drinker, I pushed upon the saloon bar door of The Four Horsemen.

All upon a whim it was.

It is funny how things go.

Because if I had had the faintest idea of what I was about to get myself into, I might well have walked right past that door and slouched on down to the High Street.

But probably not.

And so I entered into that bar.

And changed my life for ever.

There was a regular fog in that pub, though the technical term is fug. A wholesome, healthsome, fragrant fug, as of the Wild Woodbine. I stepped into this nebulosity and felt my way to the counter, encountering as I did so a regular rabble of folk. An aged piano was cranking out a popular dance-hall medley and there was much laughter and general joviality.

As I proceeded upon my tortuous route through this jocular throng, I recognised many faces coming towards me out of the swirling tobacco-flavoured mist. And all that I recognised were regular drinkers from The Purple Princess. As I saw them and they saw me they turned their shamed faces away.

‘Traitorous bunch,’ I said to myself. ‘I of course am only here in the spirit of research.’

The polished mahogany bar top was before me as I squeezed between merrymakers and attempted to make myself heard above the all-encompassing hubbub. At last I caught the brand-new guv’nor’s eye.

It was a steely blue eye that I caught. One of a pair housed above finely chiselled cheekbones and lying to either side of an aquiline nose, beneath which grew a delicate blond moustache. The hair of the barlord’s head was blond and there was much of it. And there was a certain vitality about the carriage of this fellow. A certain athleticism about his physique that would surely have pegged him as a gymnast or sportsman rather than a publican.

‘What is it, boy?’ said he. Which I did not consider to be a good start. ‘Have you come to collect the case of Kahana?’

Now there is a thing that folk who went through the Second World War will tell you. It is a thing to do with rationing and how there was never enough of anything. And this thing is that if you saw a queue, you got onto the end of it. In the hope that there might be something you needed waiting for you at the other end. And also, that if you were offered anything at all, you took it without question, whether you actually needed it or not. And as this new guv’nor clearly had me down as a delivery boy, come to collect a case of Kahana – well, I was not going to disillusion him. I mean, a case of Kahana! There was no telling just how much I might really need that. Whatever it was.

I nodded to the new guv’nor that I had indeed come to collect that case of Kahana. And he said that I would have to wait until it was packed, but would I care for a drink while I was waiting, on the house, of course.

So, as this all seemed to be working out so terribly well, I ordered a pint of the Haettenschweiler that I saw flagged up on the nearest pump handle.

And the new guv’nor laughed and said no to this. And poured me a lemonade.

And so I stood amidst the noisy throng, drinking lemonade and passive smoking and listening in to others’ conversations.

A tall spare chap in a seaman’s cap, with a rugged sweater and a whiskered chin, held forth to a crowd of smoking folk, who shared a joke and listened to him. He was clearly a sailor home from the sea and I cocked an ear to his talk.

‘That there,’ he said. ‘Above the bar. Now that can tell a tale.’ Above the bar hung a swordfish saw of almost a yard in length. ‘I had signed aboard a merchant packet,’ said the tall spare chap, ‘in Tobago, hoping to make it back to Blighty before Christmas. We had a cargo of ivory, apes and peacocks, sandalwood, cedar wood and sweet white wine. But we got no further than the coast of Trinidad, when out of the blue an aeroplane fell from the sky. It struck the packet and for all I know I was the only survivor. I found myself in an open rowing boat, without oars to row with, or hope of rescue, drifting all alone and out at sea.’

The company ‘ooohed’ and ‘oh’d’ at this and so the seaman continued. ‘And that night a mighty storm blew up, with breakers as high as a house, and being, as you know, a pious man, I prayed to the Lord to offer me salvation. There was a flash of lightning and that swordfish saw you see above the bar there burst up through the bottom of the boat.

‘Using the skills I had acquired whilst once working as a circus strongman, I snapped off that saw, put my foot in the hole and used that saw to row the boat ashore.’

There was much cheering and I shook my head – that was quite a tale. And then the company took to the singing of that famous sea shanty ‘Orange Claw Hammer’ and I joined in wherever I could. Especially during the verse about ‘I’ll buy you a Cherry Phosphate’. And when that was done the tall spare seaman patted me roundly about the shoulder regions and ordered in a round of drinks for all the singers, including myself.

And I took this opportunity to acquire a pint of Haettenschweiler.

Which did not taste nearly as good as it sounded, which was a bit of a shame.

‘Tell us another of your adventures, Jim,’ called out a tweedy cleric, and the tall spare sailor man thumbed his grizzled chin and said, ‘Well, I’ve many more.’

And then he went on to spin a marvellous yarn about how he had been torpedoed off yet another merchant packet in tropical waters, had been once more the sole survivor and found himself washed up upon a beautiful island where he was captured by cannibals, who later adopted him and later still made him their chief.

And I thought to myself what a very interesting fellow this was and what amazing adventures he had had and how very lucky he had been with the sinking of each boat. And I also thought that if I ever felt the desire to sign on for a voyage upon a merchant packet, I would check the crew list carefully to make sure that his name did not appear on it.

And while I listened I finished my drink and then felt a tap on my shoulder. ‘The case of Kahana is ready,’ said the new guv’nor. ‘Come around behind the bar here and you can take it out through the back door.’

I squeezed between jolly folk, moved behind the bar counter and followed the muscular barlord. And in doing so now found myself in a rear parlour whose contents put Fangio to shame. Here were stacks of boxes labelled as containing electrical appliances. TVs and food mixers, irons and Teasmades and toasters and hi-fis and Hoovers. And there were crates of exotic fruit and veg and casks of ale from foreign parts and something that looked like a treasure chest.

So whistle I did between my teeth because I was very impressed. I have always had this thing about pirates and I actually met some during my adventures with Hugo Rune that are chronicled in The Brightonomicon. And if ever there was a pirate hoard or ever a smugglers’ den, then this was it.