MalSabreur
Chirping
- Apr 19, 2023
- 62
- 218
- 76
I thought I'd share this with the. BYC members. I'm not sure where it belongs, but here it is.
It's absolutely true – as true as a chap my age can remember being six anyway. It is a story from when the World was a far happier place, and an event that I will always remember with tears of laughter filling my eyes.
THE TALE OF THE KILLER CHICKEN
I had one of those wonderful, magical childhoods that modern parents think they can pay for but can't. I was one of those feral, rural kids brought up by a pack of small dogs – other people's of course and spent my days running wild in open countryside and woods, plodging in ponds and ditches with wellies full of muddy water and frog spawn. A privileged childhood in many ways.
I was lucky to grow up in a small village on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds. There was nothing but fields behind the house for as far as the eye could see. There were about 300 people in the village so everyone knew everyone else and kept an eye on us kids. It was a peaceful, safe environment where we could spend whole days out across the fields without anyone worrying.
Nearly everyone seemed to keep chickens and Mr Blades two doors up had some pure white ones he was fattening up for Christmas. I've no idea what breed they were, only that even allowing for my small size, they were enormous. Of course, those days were less politically correct and concerned with animal welfare and health issues than today, so the cockerels had been chemically castrated, ie. had a hormone implant to neuter them and increase their size. Of course today physically castrating a cock is seen as cruel and chemically treating them as dangerous so true "capons" are a thing of the past.
For some reason, I don't know if it was intended to be for Easter or just because they had too many to eat, one of the cockerels wasn't knocked off and thanks to the implant, it grew and grew until it was huge. It was built like an East German weightlifter. Its neck started at its ears and slanted down to the outside of its shoulders. It was a right monster of a bird. There was no problem with it. It had the quiet nature of a hen and kept itself to itself. Then, slowly the implant stopped working. I suppose it had run out or perhaps been so diluted by the sheer bulk it had to work on it couldn't cope. The upshot was that this vast docile chicken suddenly reverted to its proper vicious roosterly behaviour. It was like the Incredible Hulk on a bad day! It attacked other peoples chooks. Shaun, the Portess’s Alsatian (as they were then) was terrified by it and worst of all, it took to attacking people .
Well it got to the stage where the whole street was being terrorized by this killer chicken. Women would put their washing out as quickly as possible in case it was around and we never went out on our own. You'd hear it roaming the street like a velociraptor screaming this "F*** OFFFF!" cry that sounded incredibly rude back in the days when kids got a clip round the ear'ole for swearing – words like “bum,” or “titties”. This state of affairs went on for what seemed like ages before this feathered Godzilla made a big mistake. Catching little Carol Blades on her own, it went for her and Mr. Blades went ballistic!
Now Mr Blades wasn't a big man, but he was a HGV driver and in those days they didn't have all these ponsey power steering and easy shift gear box gizmos. You needed strength! He also looked quite a bit like Charlie Drake. Even now I can't think of him without expecting him to say, “ Allo my darlin's.”
SO. The scene is set. Cue "High Noon" music as Mr Blades heads for a showdown. The street clears. Faces appear at upstairs windows as he fetches the axe from the shed. Neighbours grit their teeth at the sound of whetstone on blade. Silence descends. Even the songbirds fall silent as he stalks the bu**er and corners it down by the shed. He goes for it axe raised. The chook, realising he isn't coming for a friendly tête á tête, cocks its head on one side and fixes him with one evil yellow eye and the flies for him in a flurry of wings, flying beak and hooked talons and the unexpected happens. Mr Blades backs off! The Cockerel seizes its' advantage and follows up in a blizzard of swearing and flying feathers and as Mr Blades lets go of his axe to fight the brute off and with a collective, practically audible gasp of awe from the watchers, it shoves him through the six foot hedge. As he lies there dazed and battered amongst the wreckage of his prized privet hedge, the chook wanders amiably away, clucking contentedly to himself, all conflict forgotten.
They shot it at the finish. Mr Blades picked himself up, moseyed out of town and came back later with the posse. Well a rather bemused Mr Rowson from the farm at the bottom of the street anyway, armed with an ill suppressed laugh, quaking sides and a shotgun. We didn't see the final act. It happened behind the shed. Just one sharp shriek of pain, a cry of “YOU BLUDDY BA$T@RD!!!” then the sharp crack of the gun and it was all over as Mr. Rowson reappeared, a bloody peck mark on his bald head and his flat cap askew. Life quickly got back to normal again. Mums chatted as they hung washing out. kids walked to friends alone and roller skated in peace. Dads enjoyed a fag whilst doing the digging. Mr Vessey got back to teaching the blackbirds how to whistle out of tune Tom Jones songs whilst mowing stripes into his immaculate lawn. And Mr Blades? Mr Blades was eating "bloody chicken!" until he was sick of it. He never did fatten any more. In fact he stopped keeping chickens. We never did understand why.
It's absolutely true – as true as a chap my age can remember being six anyway. It is a story from when the World was a far happier place, and an event that I will always remember with tears of laughter filling my eyes.
THE TALE OF THE KILLER CHICKEN
I had one of those wonderful, magical childhoods that modern parents think they can pay for but can't. I was one of those feral, rural kids brought up by a pack of small dogs – other people's of course and spent my days running wild in open countryside and woods, plodging in ponds and ditches with wellies full of muddy water and frog spawn. A privileged childhood in many ways.
I was lucky to grow up in a small village on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds. There was nothing but fields behind the house for as far as the eye could see. There were about 300 people in the village so everyone knew everyone else and kept an eye on us kids. It was a peaceful, safe environment where we could spend whole days out across the fields without anyone worrying.
Nearly everyone seemed to keep chickens and Mr Blades two doors up had some pure white ones he was fattening up for Christmas. I've no idea what breed they were, only that even allowing for my small size, they were enormous. Of course, those days were less politically correct and concerned with animal welfare and health issues than today, so the cockerels had been chemically castrated, ie. had a hormone implant to neuter them and increase their size. Of course today physically castrating a cock is seen as cruel and chemically treating them as dangerous so true "capons" are a thing of the past.
For some reason, I don't know if it was intended to be for Easter or just because they had too many to eat, one of the cockerels wasn't knocked off and thanks to the implant, it grew and grew until it was huge. It was built like an East German weightlifter. Its neck started at its ears and slanted down to the outside of its shoulders. It was a right monster of a bird. There was no problem with it. It had the quiet nature of a hen and kept itself to itself. Then, slowly the implant stopped working. I suppose it had run out or perhaps been so diluted by the sheer bulk it had to work on it couldn't cope. The upshot was that this vast docile chicken suddenly reverted to its proper vicious roosterly behaviour. It was like the Incredible Hulk on a bad day! It attacked other peoples chooks. Shaun, the Portess’s Alsatian (as they were then) was terrified by it and worst of all, it took to attacking people .
Well it got to the stage where the whole street was being terrorized by this killer chicken. Women would put their washing out as quickly as possible in case it was around and we never went out on our own. You'd hear it roaming the street like a velociraptor screaming this "F*** OFFFF!" cry that sounded incredibly rude back in the days when kids got a clip round the ear'ole for swearing – words like “bum,” or “titties”. This state of affairs went on for what seemed like ages before this feathered Godzilla made a big mistake. Catching little Carol Blades on her own, it went for her and Mr. Blades went ballistic!
Now Mr Blades wasn't a big man, but he was a HGV driver and in those days they didn't have all these ponsey power steering and easy shift gear box gizmos. You needed strength! He also looked quite a bit like Charlie Drake. Even now I can't think of him without expecting him to say, “ Allo my darlin's.”
SO. The scene is set. Cue "High Noon" music as Mr Blades heads for a showdown. The street clears. Faces appear at upstairs windows as he fetches the axe from the shed. Neighbours grit their teeth at the sound of whetstone on blade. Silence descends. Even the songbirds fall silent as he stalks the bu**er and corners it down by the shed. He goes for it axe raised. The chook, realising he isn't coming for a friendly tête á tête, cocks its head on one side and fixes him with one evil yellow eye and the flies for him in a flurry of wings, flying beak and hooked talons and the unexpected happens. Mr Blades backs off! The Cockerel seizes its' advantage and follows up in a blizzard of swearing and flying feathers and as Mr Blades lets go of his axe to fight the brute off and with a collective, practically audible gasp of awe from the watchers, it shoves him through the six foot hedge. As he lies there dazed and battered amongst the wreckage of his prized privet hedge, the chook wanders amiably away, clucking contentedly to himself, all conflict forgotten.
They shot it at the finish. Mr Blades picked himself up, moseyed out of town and came back later with the posse. Well a rather bemused Mr Rowson from the farm at the bottom of the street anyway, armed with an ill suppressed laugh, quaking sides and a shotgun. We didn't see the final act. It happened behind the shed. Just one sharp shriek of pain, a cry of “YOU BLUDDY BA$T@RD!!!” then the sharp crack of the gun and it was all over as Mr. Rowson reappeared, a bloody peck mark on his bald head and his flat cap askew. Life quickly got back to normal again. Mums chatted as they hung washing out. kids walked to friends alone and roller skated in peace. Dads enjoyed a fag whilst doing the digging. Mr Vessey got back to teaching the blackbirds how to whistle out of tune Tom Jones songs whilst mowing stripes into his immaculate lawn. And Mr Blades? Mr Blades was eating "bloody chicken!" until he was sick of it. He never did fatten any more. In fact he stopped keeping chickens. We never did understand why.
