Do the Funky Chicken
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Please don't try this at home.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Please don't try this at home.
The stranger was decidedly unimpressed when he walked into the back street bar. Nine thirty on a freezing cold Friday evening and only four pairs of eyes looked towards the open door as he entered. Four people, a barman and three customers, neither of whom appeared to be acquainted since they were spaced so far apart. The barman was first to react, sensing a sale and approaching the bar.
“Pint of lager, please,” said the stranger, “not much going on tonight. No entertainment?”
“Take a look around you,” shrugged the barman, “we can barely afford to stay open, let alone provide entertainment.”
“Shame. Big pub like this should be packed to the rafters on a weekend night.”
“I hear you, but what can I do when all the attractions are on the high street?”
“What if I told you I could fill the place?”
“What are you? Comedian? One man band, or what?”
“Haha, no, nothing like that.”
“Whatever it is, we can't afford it, mister.”
“Just hear me out. I own a form of portable entertainment that's guaranteed to pull in the punters but I have to leave the country tonight on business. I've no one else to look after it, so I'm prepared to let it go for a song. Interested? No harm in looking, huh?”
“Go on then, but no promises, mind.”
“Sure. Just give me a minute.”
Five minutes later the stranger returned carrying a large biscuit tin. Aware that all eyes were on him once again, he placed the tin on the bar and addressed the barman. “Juke box? I'm sure you have a juke box at least?”
“In the corner yonder, why?”
“If you wouldn't mind?”
The barman shuffled towards the till and opened it. Tossing a pound coin to the customer nearest to the juke box he turned to the stranger and asked, “What d'you want him to play?”
“Anything. Anything at all,” replied the stranger, once again picking up the tin and indicating for the barman to open the hatch. “If I could just sit this down where everybody can see it.”
“No worries. Go ahead,” said the barman, now keenly curious.
With the Spice Girls trying their best with some forgettable song, the stranger reached deep inside his greatcoat and produced a live chicken from the poacher pocket. Placing the chicken on the biscuit tin, he stepped back and admired as the bird got down with the crazy beats.
The barman was transfixed, much the same as the customers were, as the stranger took up his stool on the other side of the bar. Almost simultaneously, the phones appeared and less than half an hour later the barman was ringing round for extra staff since he couldn't cope on his own; the place was full and standing.
“TWO HUNDRED!” shouted the stranger above the clamour.
“ONE SEVEN FIVE?” offered the barman.
“DONE DEAL,” said the stranger, offering his hand to seal it. “A HANDFUL OF CORN EVERY DAY AND SHE'S GOOD TO GO. HERE'S MY CARD. I DON'T FORESEE ANY PROBLEMS BUT YOU CAN GET ME ON THIS NUMBER UNTIL I CATCH MY PLANE.”
The chicken was grooving to Bob Marley and the Wailers as the stranger finished his beer, gave the barman a nod and took his leave.
The stranger was dozing in the departure lounge when his mobile rang. The big clock on the screen said 01.14. “Hello?”
“Ah, yes. I caught you.”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, I'm calling from The Sandpit.”
“Sandpit?”
“The pub. You sold me the dancing chicken earlier.”
“Oh, yes, is there a problem?”
“Well, all the punters have gone home, the chairs are up on the tables, I've just switched the juke box off and this chicken's still dancing. How do I stop it?”
“Ah, sorry, I should have explained. Just take the lid off the biscuit tin and blow out the candle.”
“Pint of lager, please,” said the stranger, “not much going on tonight. No entertainment?”
“Take a look around you,” shrugged the barman, “we can barely afford to stay open, let alone provide entertainment.”
“Shame. Big pub like this should be packed to the rafters on a weekend night.”
“I hear you, but what can I do when all the attractions are on the high street?”
“What if I told you I could fill the place?”
“What are you? Comedian? One man band, or what?”
“Haha, no, nothing like that.”
“Whatever it is, we can't afford it, mister.”
“Just hear me out. I own a form of portable entertainment that's guaranteed to pull in the punters but I have to leave the country tonight on business. I've no one else to look after it, so I'm prepared to let it go for a song. Interested? No harm in looking, huh?”
“Go on then, but no promises, mind.”
“Sure. Just give me a minute.”
Five minutes later the stranger returned carrying a large biscuit tin. Aware that all eyes were on him once again, he placed the tin on the bar and addressed the barman. “Juke box? I'm sure you have a juke box at least?”
“In the corner yonder, why?”
“If you wouldn't mind?”
The barman shuffled towards the till and opened it. Tossing a pound coin to the customer nearest to the juke box he turned to the stranger and asked, “What d'you want him to play?”
“Anything. Anything at all,” replied the stranger, once again picking up the tin and indicating for the barman to open the hatch. “If I could just sit this down where everybody can see it.”
“No worries. Go ahead,” said the barman, now keenly curious.
With the Spice Girls trying their best with some forgettable song, the stranger reached deep inside his greatcoat and produced a live chicken from the poacher pocket. Placing the chicken on the biscuit tin, he stepped back and admired as the bird got down with the crazy beats.
The barman was transfixed, much the same as the customers were, as the stranger took up his stool on the other side of the bar. Almost simultaneously, the phones appeared and less than half an hour later the barman was ringing round for extra staff since he couldn't cope on his own; the place was full and standing.
“TWO HUNDRED!” shouted the stranger above the clamour.
“ONE SEVEN FIVE?” offered the barman.
“DONE DEAL,” said the stranger, offering his hand to seal it. “A HANDFUL OF CORN EVERY DAY AND SHE'S GOOD TO GO. HERE'S MY CARD. I DON'T FORESEE ANY PROBLEMS BUT YOU CAN GET ME ON THIS NUMBER UNTIL I CATCH MY PLANE.”
The chicken was grooving to Bob Marley and the Wailers as the stranger finished his beer, gave the barman a nod and took his leave.
The stranger was dozing in the departure lounge when his mobile rang. The big clock on the screen said 01.14. “Hello?”
“Ah, yes. I caught you.”
“Who is this?”
“Sorry, I'm calling from The Sandpit.”
“Sandpit?”
“The pub. You sold me the dancing chicken earlier.”
“Oh, yes, is there a problem?”
“Well, all the punters have gone home, the chairs are up on the tables, I've just switched the juke box off and this chicken's still dancing. How do I stop it?”
“Ah, sorry, I should have explained. Just take the lid off the biscuit tin and blow out the candle.”
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and nine collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and nine collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.