Meanwhile on the planet Grauniad…

Which is ridiculous, of course. Despite the genuine reason for middle class angst about the chicken you’d just phone the farm. Too many carbon emissions involved in actually going to check it out.

Posted on June 1, 2012, in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. I wonder how much the chicken was going to cost????

    • About 80 bucks, which includes the mandatory compensation payment to its family as well as a small cost levied by the restaurant to help pay for PTSD counselling for the chef.

  2. Oh dear; I’d like to apologise in advance to staff and fellow-diners at our local restaurants.

    My grown-up sons find this clip hilarious – not least because I buy free-range chicken where possible and occasionally deplore their failure to do likewise. I just know that, the next time I ask a waiter anything about the food in their presence, there will be a sotto voce chorus of “Is this chicken local?”, followed by howls of laughter.

    And thus a family catchphrase is born!

    O/T, AE, remember your comment at Captain Ranty on the USHSD suspect word list? Bad form to self-promote, I know – sorry – but, if you haven’t done so, may I invite you to drop in at the Tavern and see my response?

    I was hoping that, having made the original suggestion, you might have something similar planned.

    • Oh dear, and I imagine talk of a nice roast Colin is probably inevitable as well. I feel your pain, and incidentally I respect your choice too. But there are always the dreary types who feel the need to make a competition and show everyone how they eat more ethically than thou.

      Will check your blog out shortly. Busy busy, and have a blog post on another matter stewing.

  3. Oh, nice roast chicken is fine; when I was a child, we kept chicken (and geese) for eggs and, occasionally, the pot.

    (There were occasional qualms: one Easter Sunday, we didn’t have a chicken due for slaughter so my father improvised with a wild rabbit casserole. I can still remember my sister’s anguished howl: “Oh Daddy – NOT the Easter Bunny!”)

  4. I loved the chicken sandwich just now, strictly preloved chicken of course.

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