Smoked chicken


A tired looking man wearing stripy pyjamas sits in his kitchen. By the light of the open-door on the microwave, he checks his watch. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. It’s Easter Sunday

Praise be to……

……God, it’s early. Our man takes a sip from a Superman mug containing 1 part hot milk and 3 parts whisky. He sighs heavily and bemoans his lot. He and the cat stare at the box by the kitchen door. Intermittently it rustles.

With half a chocolate egg in his mouth, the man stands up and walks cautiously over to the cardboard box. He lifts off the cookbooks balanced on top; cookbooks placed there to keep the lid down and the contents in. Carefully he folds back the cardboard flaps – 1,2,3,4 – and peers in. Four bemused chickens stare up at him in silence. One chicken refuses to acknowledge him though. She stares resolutely in the opposite direction, denying him. They have ‘history’. He stares at her feathery bottom, rolls his eyes and extends his middle finger.


We’d literally just sat down for the evening. One of the kids was asleep, the other was flirting with adoption. In the short amount of time my skinny-white had been on the couch, I’d managed to consume a small vineyard and thus was in no mood for shenanigans. To be honest, I am rarely in the mood for shenanigans nowadays. Just leave me be….

Wifey was feeling bluergh and t’boot had an insomniac baby attached to her left breast. So it is fair to say that she was in no mood either. Weary were her eyes and forlorn were her nipples.

The TV was on. There was no talking, just slurping noises.

Is that smoke?

Our very nice neighbour, of usual sound mind and body, took it upon himself to start a late night bonfire. As you do, if you are Pagan? I do not think he worships the devil, but I’ll double check next time I see him? I’ll offer him the sign of the Beelzebub and see if he recoils or embraces me.

As grey smoke began to billow over the garden fence, the wife and I commented on the late hour for a barbecue and chuckled. Sausages at 8.30 – preposterous! But then, as the thick smoke seemed to permeate the double glazing and rendered the back garden a recreation of Victorian London, we became alarmed.  There is only SO much smoke a few porkers can make….

I ran upstairs, convinced that a house was on fire or, at the very least, a witch was being harangued. From the window of the loft conversion I peered out into the night and was slightly unnerved to see my neighbour, two gardens down, hurling a magnificent amount of trimmed privet on to a raging fire. In the dark. I have never seen SO MUCH trimmed privet. And I’ve looked trust me.  He must have been collecting it since he was a small boy? He may have a fetish?  For devils and hedges?

I could have sworn I could see his wife and children dancing in the corner of he garden down by the shed. Like the cast of the Wickerman. (This may or may not be true). I wouldn’t lie to you but Edward Woodward would. (BOOM)

Smoked chicken – NO!

And then my night got REALLY annoying

Whilst I had been upstairs in the attic quietly judging my sacrificial neighbours, my wife had been on Google looking up the repercussions of smoke on chickens.  As you do. As I returned to the living room to recommence operation ‘imbue booze’, my wife uttered those immortal words that every husband fears….

” I think we need to bring the chickens in”.

By we she meant me. By she I mean COWBAG

F.Y.I apparently smoke can make the eyes of chickens a bit sore and might, MIGHT cause them to cough, a bit. Wifey was informed of all these indisputable facts by a guy offering his pearls on a chicken forum on Saturday night. A CHICKEN FORUM.  ON SATURDAY NIGHT? Presumably he has murdered his mother and shares his house with 25 cats and her vital organs?  I suspect he gives advice on chickens in the nude whilst throttling his turkey? I hate this man. Let’s call him Dick the psycho.

So, thanks to Dick the psycho, my wife was now utterly convinced our bok-boks were but moments away from being slightly irritated. Poor chickens. This was wholly unacceptable to her, and thus, what was much more acceptable to her, was that I would be irritated in their place.  BOOTIFUL. I can only assume the woman wants me to have a stress heart attack and relinquish my in-death benefits, so she can marry Dick the psycho and talk chicken.

Smoked chicken rescue!

At 10pm on a Saturday night, whilst you were most probably snuggled up to the ones you love and engaged in heavy petting, I was outside in my garden  trying to wrestle 5 terrified chickens in to a cardboard box. And swearing. A lot. It would seem that no amount of swearing can encourage nervous poultry to exit a building. No amount. I felt like a specialist magic act. I felt like renouncing vegetarianism that’s for sure. I would have murdered those little ****** there and then if I could have JUST GOT MY HANDS ON THEM. But I couldn’t. Jittery hens are slippery little bitches trust me. And with bad knees I could not muster the appropriate purchase. GOD I WAS FURIOUS.

My wife was watching me from the window whilst being adamantly suckled. She informs me that I looked like a Victorian Drama, what with the smog and watnot. I looked ‘mysterious’ and ‘manly’ apparently. She could not hear my blue-fury due the double glazing.  The Satanists probably could. And God.

SO there I was, furious and in my pyjamas, uttering poultry themed swear words as I dismantled a ****** chicken coop with a cordless drill. 4 screws, later and a higher percentage closer to emphysema and the lid was off.  Feathers flew. Scared chickens are flighty mo fo’s yo.

Each chicken, in a desperate bid to avoid my box, attempted to flap the very skin off my face with their angry wings. I had wing up my nose, in my eyes and ears, smacking me on the forehead.  In one particularly well timed flap, I ended up with a wing inserted into my open mouth and flapped about for all it was worth.  It tasted smoky.

They squawked, they fought, they flapped, but not ONE was coughing. Not one had red-eye. Stupid Psycho dick and his faux chicken advice.

Smoked chicken bottom hole

At 3 ‘clock in the morning, after a large whisky and milk, the VERY LAST THING you want to do, is stick your middle finger up a chicken’s bottom. But there I was in the kitchen, with five chickens, four in good health and one with it’s anus hanging out. Wifey was asleep. It was down to me….

We’d been here before.  Several times. We had history. The vet had told my wife that a chicken’s bottom prolapsing is a surprisingly common occurrence. Not in my life I remember musing to myself as Wifey informed me. I remember chuckling that at least I would never be involved in the penetrating of a chicken with my middle finger.

*insert a swear word here*

It would come to pass that this particular ****** chicken, would only allow her anus to explode out and say hello when I was on chicken sitting duty. I am a good man, why do these things happen to me? I’ve got some bad Karma for shizzle.

Each time my wife left the house she’d call out,

“Don’t forget to keep on eye on her bottom. If it pops out it has to be pushed straight back in or it’ll get infected. Don’t leave it for me”.

God knows what the neighbours thought? I await social services.

Regardless, no sooner had my wife left the building, on this and many instances, this particular ****** chicken would sense her immediate departure and in what can only be described as a blatant act of defiance, would shit-out her own backside.

Better out than in

It’s 3.10am a tired and frustrated looking man wearing stripy pyjamas holds his breath. In one swift finger (NOT licking) movement, he pushes a chicken’s prolapsed bottom back up in to it’s bottom space. The chicken doesn’t even say thank you. The man quietly curses his wife. He keeps the palm of his hand pressed firmly against that chicken’s bottom for 20 MINS, because that’s what the ********** vet told his WIFE to do.Four other chicken’s watch carefully from a cardboard box, presumably thanking Christ it isn’t them.

20 minutes later, the man in his pyjamas places the chicken back in the box, closes the flaps – 1,2,3,4 – places the cookbooks back on top to keep the lid down and the contents in and switches off the kitchen light. He shuts the door and makes his way to bed. He passes the cat sleeping on the stairs. The cat stirs and gives him a knowing look before settling back to sleep.

The man’s wife enquires as to his activities at such an hour. It’s Easter Sunday for God’s sake. He explains, in the hope of receiving some comfort, some love, some thankfulness. His wife coldly retorts that at least he’ll have something to blog about now.

The man in the stripy pyjamas goes to sleep furious and forgetting to wash his hands. He remembers he didn’t was his hands a few hours later whilst eating toast. He sighs and plots murder…..

©2012-2014 Man in his pyjamas. All rights reserved.



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *