I have just had the most depressing and miserable day
of my entire life.
It started with Brendan and an idea of how we could
both earn some extra cash today, no questions asked. "It's a sure
bloody thing, mate," he said.
The cash earning method was called Turkey Plucking,
and the location was a barn on a farm near Eastbourne.
And now, eight hours later, I'm back, having earnt
one whole quid for my efforts.
THE TEN STEP TURKEY PLUCK
STEP
ONE:
Get handed a just-slaughtered turkey which has its feet attatched
to a hook.
STEP
TWO:
Sling the hook over one of the many horizontal metal bars suspended
from the barn's ceiling. The bird is now upside-down in front of you,
at torso height. (Unless you're a dwarf, in which case you'd probably
need to stand on a stool or something).
STEP
THREE:
Watch the steam pouring from the still very warm bird into the freezing
cold surrounding air. Enjoy the stench.
STEP
FOUR:
Note with horror that your turkey is twitching. Is it still alive?
Even though its head has been cut off? Or is this an apres-death 'nerve'
effect?
STEP FIVE: Oh no, there's liquidy shit seeping out of its arse, all over
the feathers you're trying to pull out. It's an unstoppable flow.
STEP SIX:
Before long you realise that a turkey's feathers are no more easily
removed from its body than, say, Excalibur from the stone.
STEP SEVEN:
The day ends and you have plucked one wing and a small area on the
back of your turkey's neck-stump. You are cold, so so cold, and
cannot feel your feet or your hands. The farmer sneers at you as
he studies your 'handiwork' and you are overcome with shame to have
been involved in such a sordid and inhumane activity, yet you still
accept the pound coin.
STEP EIGHT:
Brendan (who made two quid) drops you back at your flat. Neither
of you speak. He drives away, equally broken.
STEP
NINE:
You decide to spend your filthy ill-gotten quid on a scratchcard.
If there is a God, he'll feel the depths of your despair and remorse
and will decide enough is enough. He will let you win!
