Tim’s blog, Thursday 9th October 2008

The Strange Case of the Open Grave and the Chicken Whisperer

The Stones Cross Inn in Midsomer Norton is a wonderful place deep in the heart of the fourth dimension.

It boasts a wonderful bar in which the bands play. It’s a great shape and full of wood. Quite the best acoustics of any bar we’ve played in.

But on the strange late autumn night when we arrived, there was more waiting for us than we could dare to believe.

Mysterious excavations had been made in the adjacent garden – just large enough it seemed to welcome a band, their vehicles and instruments, with enough handy topsoil to bury the evidence completely.

To the left of this (thankfully fenced off) area was a home for wayward chickens.

Quite the most marvellous, exotic chickens anyone could dare to meet.

These chickens were so unique, so special, that they were guarded by three, or was it four, jet black Highland terriers.

They barked at anyone who came near but looked as though they could be placated with a double whiskey each.

Just as the night was settling down and the band awaited their cue to set up (we had to wait for the pool games to finish, of course), an amazing thing happened.

One of the chickens escaped.

This chicken seemed wise beyond its years.

It walked with a limp, as if a veteran of some ancient poultrific battle which mere mortals could barely understand.

It started to follow Bev, our lead singer, around.

And then she was unmasked.

Bev and the chicken were on the same cosmic wavelength.

Communication between them was almost telepathic.

I say ‘almost’ because I swear I heard Bev cluck at one point.

And the legend of the Chicken Whisperer was born.

From that moment, we were accepted into the Stones Cross family.

A wonderful gig ensued, with some unforgettable moments which will live in our hearts and in the notebooks of our therapists for a very long time.

It was as though the chicken, charmed by the Whisperer, was watching over us.

And the chicken has acolytes.

On the way to the gig at the Cheese and Grain in Frome the other night, Russ and I witnessed a rare sighting of the legendary pavement starer of Chapmanslade – a distant cousin of the Green Man.

And finally, there was, at the witching hour, the ghostly endless jogger of Selwood, who can be seen jogging endlessly in Selwood, at all times of the day or night.

Something is going on.

We can only dare to hope that it will lead to great things… or the mental ward.

Until the next time dear friends…