Saturday, June 27, 2009

Southern Fried Chicken

Given that it's bloody hot today, it seemed like a really good idea to drive around with chickens in the car, up and down the M27. After all, why wouldn't you?

We were being very righteous, and collecting 3 rescued battery hens from a garage on the outskirts of Southampton, not for us but for a friend who has prepared a luxurious new home for them, but was unable to receive them as he was attending a wedding. A long wedding as it turned out, complete with Mass and then serious photography which was apparently getting on the tits of the guests who were wilting in the sunshine and had been refreshed only by a sip of communion wine.

The hens were with a large number of their chums in a wire enclosure in a garage, attached to a large house, where they were being distributed to their saviours by two jolly young ladies in jeans and polo shirts. There were plenty of new-age stockbrokers rocking up to rescue, and a couple of dead-beats. And the mother of one of the jolly young ladies, who turned out to be the owner of the garage and not actually very keen on it being used as the Schindlers Ark of the poultry industry, a point she made strongly when leaning out of a bedroom window to scream at a guy who reversed his pick-up to the garage, and spun the wheels hence spraying the gravel everywhere and leaving a dark rut on the drive. She really didn't like him.

So we put the hens in to some old wine cases, with some straw, and drove them to their new home, where they were installed with water, mash and plenty of shade, as apparently they are not experienced in matters meteorological and will therefore stand in the beating sun until they fall over. Poor mites.

I look forward to egg mayonnaise, shortly.

Then we went to the newsagent and bought an ice lolly called a Mr. Bobbles. Tabatha binned hers, I ate mine because I needed some cold, but it was really disgusting, a bad show. I've tried to find a picture to show you, but even the vastness of the interweb has conspired to conceal the aforementioned abhorrence. It was grim, and you'll just have to imagine the disappointment.

Still, steak for dinner, then out to the pub with various chums. Can't be too bad, really. (We didn't think chicken would be appropriate this evening...)


tom909 said...

I'm gonna get myself some of those rescue hens. Apparently they settle in really well.
Re the ice lollies - stick with what you know Crusty - raspberry splits are nice.

krusty the baker said...

Sounds like a record; 'I'm Gonna Get Mah-self somma those Rescue Hens', by Cocky Comb and the HotSpurs.

I agree on the raspberry split issue - but the newsagent, which is also where I keep my peppermint account, does not deal in such fripperies as raspberry splits, only Mr. Bobbles and his accursed ice.