Tommy the Cockerel

'You promised there would be chicken for New Year's Eve dinner,' Dr Silva declared, with an aggrieved air.

Farmer Jack replied, solemnly: 'We've had to change the menu, owing to the fact that Saddam Hussein has poisoned all the chickens in the world with 'is deadly weapons of mass chicken destruction.'

'Why did he kill all the chickens?' Doctor Silva enquired, incredulously.

'It's part of 'is cunning plan to deprive us of chicken soup. Chicken soup, as is well known, is called "Jewish penicillin", because it cures all ailments – with the exception of dandruff,' Farmer Jack explained.

'What's amiss, lass?' Farmer Jack enquired kindly, as Countess Polly began to cry.

Between sobs, Countess Polly said. 'I had intended to serve Bridport Poulet tonight. Now we'll have to have pilchards. And I hate pilchards.'

Irish John, the former grocer par excellence, meanwhile had a preoccupied air. The great industrialist had recently pulled off the greatest coup of his long and distinguished business career. He had succeeded in persuading the European Commission to standardise all European Union toilet rolls on the basis that volume production of the E.B.R. – that is to say the European Bog Roll – would result in huge savings in costs. Parallel, intricate negotiations had been going on involving measurements of the size of the the Standard European Bottom – the S.E.B. A compromise had finally been reached by taking a mean between the slender Finnish bottom, the medium-sized Italian bottom and the gargantuan German bottom. However, the British government had perversely brought up the question of subsidiarity, and were insisting that each Euro Bog Roll should carry the national flag.

Dr Silva, too, was looking gloomy. Using his prodigious knowledge of polymers, he had recently invented a super-vulcanised squash ball that could travel faster than the speed of light. Some of his younger opponents had turned this to their advantage, with the result that each game of squash was now over before it had begun.

At that moment the sound of hooves was heard on the gravel outside. Jenny Burt and Edward Burt had just arrived in a phaeton.* They entered the room, under the mistaken impression that they had been invited to a fancy dress party. Edward was attired in the impressive robes of an eighteenth-century judge. Jenny as befitting her role as the judge's hoydenish mistress was somewhat scantily clad. Polite as always, Farmer Jack made no comment but handed them drinks.

At that moment Lady Lillian commented: 'That's funny. But I could swear I heard a cock crow. There must be some chickens left.'

Farmer Jack explained: 'That's only our cockerel, Tommy. He's as tough as Old Nick is Tommy. Got a pedigree as long as your arm.'

'Hang him,' Edward said curtly.

'What!' exclaimed Farmer Jack.

It should be explained that Edward was play-acting the role of Judge Jeffreys of Burton Bradstock assizes.

'Hang that little cockerel,' he roared, glaring round the room. 'He's a convicted rapist. He's raped more chickens that I've had hot dinners. Hang him by the neck until he's dead.'

'But–-but –' stuttered Farmer Jack

'Hang 'em all, I say cocks and hens, and every man and woman in Dorset, come to that– they're traitors to his gracious Majesty, each and every one of them ... '

It's all right,' Edward Burt added with a disarming smile, 'only joking. But why can't you kill him?'

'Because he's our family pet,' Farmer Jack explained.

Irish John trying hard to throw off his business worries concerning the Euro Bog Roll, murmured disconsolately: 'He'll be very unhappy being celibate. So we might as well eat him.'

'No, no,' Farmer Jack said firmly. 'E can still enjoy 'iself remembering all the lovely females 'e' s had in the past. Three-hundred and twenty-five thousand of them.'

'You sound a bit envious,' Dr. Silva declared with a grin,

'I've never had what you might call polygamous tendencies,' Farmer Jack protested. 'Leastways, not since I met my lovely Lady Polly. Mind you,' he added, 'It would be an interesting experience to be cock of the walk just for a day.'

'That remark definitely confirms that that we should eat Tommy for dinner,' Lady Polly declared. 'He sets a thoroughly bad example.'

'But we can't eat a family pet,' Farmer Jack protested.

A contentious argument ensued. Isabel, Duchess of Somerset and Several Surrounding Counties, begged for the bird's life on the grounds that if some hens had escaped from Saddam's weapon of mass chicken destruction, it might eventually enable Tommy to restore the chicken population. Irish John thought that Tommy should be eaten because he was lucky to have escaped being slaughtered for Xmas dinner. Lady Jenny Burt, who because of her flimsy attire was feeling hungry and cold, reluctantly voted for the bird's destruction. It looked as though Tommy would die simply because a guest had forgotten to wear her thermal underwear.

However, Doctor Silva disagreed, He said: 'fter giving the matter some thought my vote goes with Farmer Jack. Let's give Tommy a reprieve.' As it happened, he was fond of pilchards, which had been his staple diet while he was studying for his doctorate.

Irish John's mobile phone suddenly rang, He answered it and looked alarmed.

'What's up?' Farmer Jack enquired.

'A double whiskey, quick.'

Farmer Jack poured him out a large Glenlevit. Irish John swallowed it in an instant and then said hoarsely. 'Something terrible has happened.'

'Has Sadam Hussein loosed his weapons of mass destruction?' Dr Silva asked.

'No, no. Much worse than that. Due to problems in the distribution of European Bog Rolls, it has just been announced that the Germans have been wiping their bottoms on toilet paper printed with the French flag. President Chirac is highly insulted. World War Three is about to start at any moment.'

'Tell 'em to wait until tomorrow before declaring war,' Farmer Jack said calmly. 'That'll give us time to think of something.'

An animated discussion took place at St. Luke's farm that afternoon. Soon after Happy Hour, following a brilliant suggestion from Lady Lillian, Irish John rang the Quai D'Orsai and spoke in fluent Gaelic to the French foreign Minister. As a result World War Three was narrowly averted.

'What was your suggestion, Lady Lillian?' Isabel, the Duchess of Somerset and Several Surrounding Counties enquired.

Lady Lillian coughed modestly and said: 'I suggested that the flags of all the nations on the European Bog Rolls should be rotated like the Presidency. That way every nation is insulted in turn, which after all is only fair. All except Ireland, of course, which once suffered a complete shortage of toilet rolls and has therefore been granted a permanent exemption.'

Irish John murmured his approval.

Later at dinner, Farmer Jack announced: 'It's just as well we spared Tommy. The writing is now on the wall for Saddam Hussein.'

'What do you mean?' Lady Lillian enquired.

The famous words from the Bible: Mene, mene, tickle a pharsin, 'as appeared on the walls of his presidential palaces. With a bit of luck some hens in outlying locations might have escaped his dreaded weapons of mass chicken destruction, so Tommy may yet get to tickle a few more parsons' noses.

'In that case,' Doctor Silva said approvingly, 'I think he should be reprieved.

Everyone agreed.

They were eating their pilchards in silence, when Farmer Jack lifted his glass and said 'I heard as 'ow Irish Jack hates pilchards, so it's as well he and Lady Betty aren't here. Let's drink a New Year's toast to absent friends.'

A fervent and approving cock-a-doodle-doo came from Tommy, the cockerel on the roof.