Every year they came (no pun intended). Soon as the card went up on the board. ‘Fertility Technicians Wanted – Usual Rates, Experience Much Preferred’. Every year I wondered how the interviews went.
“Well, Marjorie. You’ve applied for the post of ‘Fertility Technician. What do you understand about the role?”
“Well, Mt Clunge, it’s wanking off chickens, innit?”
And indeed that is exactly what it was. For two months every summer, there’d be about 50 folk on the farmlands surrounding Southport manually extracting semen from chickens to further the objective of artificial insemination. Never have so few done so much for so many. Because of the chicken wankers of Britain, those unknown heroes, there’d be chicken on every table.
But, they couldn’t look you in the eye these fowl molesters.
I didn’t have a lot to do with them but I knew someone who did. He’d be their first point of contact in the job centre and he said liked to ask the females what aptitude they had for the job; had they the experience required? Did they think they’d be ‘handy’ at it, etc? They’d look at him and know exactly what he was talking about.
And the chickens? Well, if you’re gonna end up butchered on someone’s plate, might as well go out with a smile.
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