The Chicken Gave It To Me (7 page)

I turned to the cameras. I told them all the story of my life. I told them about the dreadful sheds, and who was in them now. I pointed out that it didn't even make
sense
.

‘Why not?' my host demanded. ‘After all, everyone has to eat.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But, you see, you're not just stuffed in the cages. While you're in the cages, you're stuffed! Stuffed with food.'

‘What's wrong with that?' he demanded.

‘What's wrong with that,' I told him and frillions of others, ‘is that if you're going to be eaten (and it doesn't matter what you are – pig, chicken, calf, it's all the same) you have to grow. And to grow, you have to eat. In fact, you have to eat loads and loads to grow big enough for anyone to want to bother to eat
you
. So whoever ends up with you on their plate could just have eaten
your
food in the first place.'

‘And what's your food?'

‘Cereal stuffs and vegetables.'

He made a face.

‘Boring old cereal stuffs and vegetables!'

I ignored him.

‘And then they could have invited a whole crowd of other hungry people to join
them. Because if you're going to be eaten you have to eat practically
ten whole fields
full of corn and stuff to make as much good food out of yourself as there was in just
one
of those fields to begin with.'

‘Really?' my little green host said, stifling a yawn. ‘I wonder how many of my viewers knew that.'

He turned to the camera.

‘Hello, out there!' he said. ‘Calling all hungry viewers! It looks as if the chicken's Message is as follows. Gang up with nine others. Pounce on one meat-eater. Force the meat-eater to eat fields instead. And all your problems will be over.'

And he fell off his green sofa, laughing.

I never thought my Mission would be easy. Indifference. Danger. Ridicule. Chickens of History must face them all. I could have sulked. I could have pushed the microphone aside with my wing and strutted off the set in disgust. I could have wept.

But no.

I kept my head and my dignity.

‘I see I'm not getting my Message over too well,' I told my little green host. ‘So allow me to offer your viewers something more on their wavelength. I'll show them
how I don't glow in the dark.'

The green glint in his eyes said:

‘Now that's a bit more like it, Chicken. That might just save this wash-out show.'

His soft honey voice said:

‘That would be
wonderful
, wouldn't it, Viewers?'

I fluttered down from the sofa and spread my wings.

The studio lights dimmed.

‘Now I need total darkness, please.'

Suddenly there was total darkness.

In it, I silently, sadly, crept away.

‘Poor, poor chicken.'

‘How awful!'

‘Oh, how she must have felt.'

‘On television, too.'

‘In front of frillions.'

‘Well, at least she tried.'

‘Poor, poor chicken.'

Chicken Celebrity

I woke up famous.

I didn't know it, of course. (I'd roosted quietly somewhere behind Broadcasting Orb.) But it seems all night the phones had been ringing. (‘Play it again!' ‘Action replay!') No one could work out how the trick had been done. No one could believe their eyes. A chicken who really didn't glow in the dark? Not one bit? (‘Oh, please show that one more time.' ‘Action replay!')

I lost count of my media appearances. I was on
The Late Show
. I was on
The News
. And
Your Planet Tonight
. And
Good Morning, Green People
! Since I was invited on to everything, I soon made it a rule that I had to be given five minutes for my Mission of Mercy, my Message to the planet, before I
wouldn't glow in the dark.

And I quickly learned what makes good television. After all, the last thing I wanted was for all the little green frillions to rush off to make tea, or visit the lavatory, while I was doing my chat bit.

So I invented lots of little rhymes, to keep the viewers' attention.

‘If you don't know how to treat 'em,

Then you shouldn't really eat 'em,'

I might tell my delighted audience. Or:

‘If they're cramped in a cage,

It should put you in a rage.'

You could always tell when the interviewer had a secret soft spot for a nice Sunday roast.

‘Surely they must be happy in the cages, or they wouldn't put on weight,' she would try to argue.

‘Nonsense!' I'd say, flapping my wings. ‘Look at me! I was
miserable
. And I got bigger. I even laid eggs! If you have nothing to do all day but eat, then you eat. And if you're forced to sit on your bum because no one wants you running around getting thinner, then you get nice and plump. Doesn't mean that you're
happy
.'

I'd wink at the camera.

‘If you can't see them playing,

Then you shouldn't be paying!'

I chanted.

‘It doesn't
hurt
them, though, does it?' she'd insist.

‘Cutting all your beautiful green hair off wouldn't hurt you,' I'd point out. ‘It would still make you very unhappy, if you wanted to keep it.'

Another wink at the camera, in case the audience was flagging.

‘My chat show hostess needs her hair.

Chickens and people need fresh air!'

You could tell that my little green interviewer was getting impatient with me now. She wanted to get on to the not-glowing-in-the-dark bit.

‘Can't be too bad, can it?' she'd say tartly. ‘Or it would have been stopped already.'

I'd wrap my wings round my chest, and lean urgently towards the camera.

‘That's a very interesting point,' I'd say. ‘Try and look at it this way. Suppose one of you frillions of viewers out there kept one of these poor pink people as a pet at home. Suppose you stuffed them in a tiny cage and never let them out. What would happen?'

I'd pause while they thought about it.

‘That's right!' I'd say, after a moment. ‘Everyone would say it was cruel. Your neighbours would be disgusted. Your family would quarrel with you. And if
you
did nothing about it, then
they
would. They'd unlock the cage door, or phone the RSPCPP.'

I'd flap my wings in my excitement.

‘But if lots of people do it, just to make sure you get bigger and cheaper helpings on your plate of something you don't even need to eat,
then
what happens?'

I'd turn to the little green interviewer.

‘Frillions as sensitive and intelligent as you just go along with it. Stick up for the whole idea, even! It's just amazing! And it's time things changed.'

She'd shift in her chair. She was getting quite irritable now.

‘Talking of time,' she'd say. ‘The minutes are ticking by. After the break,
we're going to meet the entire crew of the next space flight down to Chicken's home planet. But, right now, watch carefully, Viewers. Some of you may have seen this before, and not been able to believe your eyes. This chicken doesn't glow in the dark!'

Cue for the lights to dim, the drums to roll.

I'd slip off the sofa and spread my wings.

The cameras would focus carefully.
The lights would snap off.

And, for me, yet another show would be over.

Gemma was looking at Andrew. Well, looking wasn't exactly the right word. She was staring in his direction, but she was obviously miles away.

Finally, out it came.

‘Don't eat so many, don't eat so much,

Then they won't be kept as cramped as ten rabbits in a hutch.'

It didn't take him long to come back at her.

‘Unlock the cage and open up the door,

If you really want to eat it, you must pay a little more.'