I was brought up in poverty.
Sad but true.

And when I got to my late teens all of my mates got cars, when I could barely afford shoes.

Can you imagine my yearning for a real, splendid car?

Anyway, one day I was wandering past the market, yearning quite a lot, and I spotted some guys breaking up old market barrows - you know the sort - big wooden handles, flat wooden bed, two wooden wheels.

I was sick with yearning so I asked them how much for a redundant barrow.

"£1."

I could stretch to that so I bought one.

Waahey! Admittedly not a Fiesta 950 with an XR2 sticker on to make it go faster but my own set of wheels nontheless.

So for weeks to come I could be seen, going "vroom vroom" and dragging my market barrow around all the fashionable events of my small time home.

I had a nagging feeling, however, that my combo lacked a certain zest and that was playing on my mind one sunny spring Sunday whilst negotiating idyllic country lanes towing along my trusty barrow.

With a mighty clang, fate intervened.

I came upon a farm with a sign outside saying "Mutant Chickens £1 each."

My curiosity was truly pricked so I enquired of the rustic rube about these mutant chickens.

"'Ere they be" - he said.

"Oi been muckin' about wi' this 'ere genetic engineerin' an' ina'verta'nly prodooced a strain o' chicken 9 foot tall."

And by hell they were big buggers. Legs five foot long. Feet the size of your dinner table.

Gingerly I backed the prime of the mutant litter between the handles of my market barrow. A perfect fit!

"Bok" - said the chicken.

Rustic rube was so impressed that he gave me a set of harnesses that had previously belonged to his faithful carthorse, Old Shep. (I think I heard him right but it's a long time ago.)

I handed over my quid, harnessed up the chicken, and prepared to take flight.

"Bok" - said the 9 foot mutant chicken. "Bok bok bok." And off we went.

Like I said, it's a lovely Sunday in spring and what could be finer than riding about on the back of a wooden two wheeled market barrow pulled by a 9 foot mutant chicken. Oh the bliss of that afternoon.

All good things must come to an end, and everything which rises must converge. We headed back into my small home town and came upon a set of traffic lights.

There, alongside us, was Popular Darren - my arch nemesis. He was in his Fiat Panda with several girls in the back, playing a Duran Duran tape quite loudly.

The girls were laughing, and pointing at my mutant chicken.

"I'm going to show these fuckers." I thought.

The lights changed and the race was on.

"BOK! BOK! Bokbokbokbokbokbok" went the mutant chicken as it powered away.

"Vrimm" went the Fiat Panda.

Faster and faster we went, sometimes loosing, sometimes gaining ground.

But then I heard a creak - then a groan.

Market barrows aren't meant to go at 60.

With a gut wrenching shriek one of the wheels fell off the barrow.

The last thing I remember was seeing my cherised 9 foot mutant chicken disappearing over the horizon pacing Popular Darren's Fiat Panda.

Then it all went black.

When I came around an orange light was pulsing in my face.

An AA patrol had kindly stopped to offer assistance.

"Wha..wha..what's happened here?" I asked, from the shattered remains of my beloved market barrow.

The AA man stroked his chin and sagely opined

"Your big 'ens gone."


(I will be available for target practice at any hour suitable to those inconvenienced by this post.)
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 18:49, Reply)