MERVYN GROPES WAS SO UNPOPULAR that someone in the branch suggested they club together and buy an albatross to hang around his neck. But the idea petered out following a formal protest from the International Albatross Society, which declared the association insulting.
Why was Mervyn so despised? Because the members had tacitly but unanimously agreed that he would be. You see, when a number of people greater than three join in pursuit of a particular pastime, nature decrees that certain roles within the group must be fulfilled.
It's like government, but without proper elections. The Bush administration would find the process reassuringly familiar.
There is always a Branch Leader. People congregate about him in the pub, he decides when and where the next dive will take place, and the rest are happy to believe that it was a democratic decision.
There's the Branch Rebel, to whom they can listen intently at the AGM to show how open-minded they are before over-ruling her in favour of the ludicrously ineffective way they've done things for the past 30 years.
There's the Unsung Hero/Uncomplaining Workhorse, who slaves until 3am, patching the inflatable and reassembling the outboard before taking a nap in the van, then driving it to Cornwall.
And then there's the Branch Twat. Never mind an albatross, the neon sign attached to his forehead reads: "Kick me. I like it." And the membership dutifully oblige. But not without some justification.
The branch is assembled on Ringstead beach. The sea conditions are favourable, the viz less than ordinarily appalling. So what is the Dive Marshal's biggest operational headache? That the nearest garage with two-stroke is 20 miles away? Finding a half-experienced boat-handler who hasn't already sunk four pints of Tanglefoot?
No. It's persuading somebody - anybody - to dive with Mervyn. That's because if you're buddied up with him, you're highly unlikely to spend more than five minutes in the water.
The boat circles the marker buoy as the divers kit up. The cox observes Mervyn from the corner of his eye. He notices a certain flustered quality in his movements. Sweat drips from the end of his nose. "Can I help, Merv?"
"Er, no, I'm... Well, that is to say... I mean... Has anyone seen my fins?" If the cox has ever experienced the Mervyn Factor, he will have packed a spare pair. Also a mask. "Gosh, thanks, Skip. Can't imagine what I can have done with them."
Then he will tumble overboard in a largely unplanned entry and immediately truss himself up like a bobbin with the buoyline. In
a blind panic, he will slam the inflator valve on his drysuit and, with his weightbelt still aboard the boat, will skeeter away in the stiff breeze towards France like an inflated prophylactic.
Irritating and potentially dangerous though such incidents are, far worse would occur if Mervyn actually completed a descent. Under water, he moves with all the grace of a rhino on a skid pan. His finning style is less "bicycling", more cross-country skiing.
He does, however, possess an uncanny knack for submarine archaeology. On one memorable dive, he sent a lifting bag up to the boat. Plymouth was evacuated for six hours while the Royal Marines rendered the contents harmless in a controlled explosion.
Why was he not expelled from the branch? Because without Mervyn, the role of BT would necessarily have devolved to another member. And that member might very easily have been me.