Chicken: Farmyard Woe

Chicken - a Scaryduck's Brother special

There are of course many advantages to be gained when moving in with your girlfriend. I won't list them here...use your imagination. But inevitably there is a certain amount of baggage that gets brought to the party. For example - and I'm expecting back-up here - every shit middle-of-the-road CD I've ever bought her (including that bald fuck Phil Collins) is now being played on MY sound system*. I'd have put a damn sight more thought into xmas presents if I'd though we would end up shacked-up together. She'd have got Radiohead.

And then there is her horse.

Now don't get me wrong - her horse is a much-loved part of the family. My daughters think it's the coolest thing on four legs, the girlfriend has doted on it since she was twelve (and yes, I know where your mind is going with this - Sandra is 38 now so pack it in), and believe me there are days in my job where I envy the life where you stand in a field and shit yourself without a care in the world.

The thing is, in the same way that I now can't avoid Phil Collins (unless I do some hammer drilling), I now am involved in the care of the horse. Going-down-to-the-farmyard-involved. Getting-your-car-muddy involved. Scraping-shit-off-your-Boss-trainers involved. And that's how I ended up entangled in the life of a chicken.

We were out shopping one Saturday afternoon when she asked me to detour to buy some 'feed' to put into the sharp end of said horse. I was always under the impression that she turfed it into a field every morning and it ate the grass, but apparently it eats 'breakfast'. You live and learn. Having loaded my beloved car with stinky bags of shit until the exhaust was dragging we set off for the farm where she pays for him to live.

Let me at this point put in a brief note about chickens. This might come as a shock to some people, but chickens are the most stinky, repulsive and nasty creatures to walk the earth. Not only would they eat anything and everything put in from of them, they'd eat each other at the drop of a hat given half a chance. They're like rats with feathers and with more attitude. And what's with all that horrible red dangly skin stuff around their faces? It looks like they're all wearing Harry Redknapp's eyelids. And I hate the way they strut around giving it the large one. They remind me of Chelsea fans - the clucking wankers.

Anyway, when we arrived, the farmyard was covered in the little pecky tossers, which was a bit of a problem as I was buggered if I was going to heft the aforementioned stinky bags across the yard. I wanted to back the car up to the barn.

"Don't worry" she said, "They're not stupid. They'll move out of your way". Hmmm...

I backed the car up at 0 mph across the yard until I reached the barn. I then crippled myself heaving bags of stuff into the barn whilst she cooed and kissed the horse like a 'My Little Pony' advert (and incidentally, that's the mouth that she kisses me with...nice).

When I was done, I noticed that the chickens where gathering around my car - and one of the fuckers even pecked the door! I ran at them shouting that piece of language that is internationally recognised in a way that the inventors of Esperanto can only dream of:

"Fuck off!"

Chickens shot off in all directions like a feathery firework. I check under the car to make sure that they'd all gone. Oh God, there's one still under there, next to my front wheel. Not moving, and its head's under my wheel. Bollocks.

I am of course of the opinion that all things horsey and farmyardy are her department, whilst cooking, eating, and manly DIY around the home are in my remit. I call to her:

"I've fucked a chicken...No, really...With my car. Help."

I move the car forward, to reveal a truly haunting sight. The chicken was squashed into the mud and its head and neck were at a really fucked-up angle. It's lifeless eye was staring up at me and we were just debating if we needed to let the farm owner know when its beady black eye blinked at me! I nearly shat myself.

Oh great. Now we've got to wring it's neck. Well, when I say we, I mean she...I'm not touching the thing.

"I knew it would be alright", she said matter-of-factly.

"You what?"

"It'll be fine in a minute"

"What do you fucking mean it'll be fine?", I whisper, fearing discovery by Mrs Farmer. " It's been run over!"

"No, it'll have had worse."

"Come again?"

"They always get trodden on - it'll be OK."

"It's not been trodden on though, has it?", I retorted, looking wildly around for signs of the chicken's owner. "It's been fucking parked on."

She then proceeded to pluck Lucky from the puddle of mud (she made a loud squelch and left a perfect Kellogg's-like imprint) and carry her into the barn. I got my car keys out and flicked the mud out of its beak. It made some very odd noises while I had to run around aiming kicks at her concerned comrades who, unlike the solidarity and niceness shown in Chicken Run, were trying to eat their former friend.

On closer examination, I discovered a tiny droplet of blood on Lucky's beak. In other words, the sole visible injury that the chicken sustained after having an Audi parked on its head for ten minutes was a nose-bleed. A fucking nose bleed. It's still alive today, months after its amazing car park impression.

Oh, and do you know why it got run over? Why didn't the chicken cross the road whilst all of its mates sidled out of the way of imminent Goodyear doom? The poor twat only had one eye. Talk about survival of the fittest.

Why don't they make cars out of the stuff that chickens heads are made of?

* I draw the jury's attention to a copy of Michael Bolton - Timeless: The Classics found lurking in a CD rack during my brother's previous marriage. His? Hers? Planted by Jeremy Beadle? You decide. - Scary