Two farmers are drinking in their pub one night.  One is complaining about the
state of the cockerel on his farm.  "I've got fifty bloody chickens but my
pathetic cockerel will never be able to fertilise every hen in my hutch", he
announces unhappily.  "Well," says the next farmer, "I have a prize cockerel
who will easily shag every one of your chickens in the time it takes to drink
a pint."  The first farmer agrees to the fee of £50 and the next day the prize
cockerel is popped through the door of the chicken hutch.  When the owner and
the farmer return from the pub to the hutch, all that can be seen inside is a
cloud of feathers.  Closer inspection reveals every chicken laid out in a
state of post-coital bliss with the cockerel in the middle of them all, pacing
up and down shouting, "Come on, who's next?  I'm ready for more."

The owner takes his payment from the bewildered farmer and leaves with the
cockerel.  Before long this cockerel becomes something of a local legend and
another farmer calls up its owner.  "I've got a coop of 500 chickens in my
farm.  I bet you £200 your supposedly virile cockerel can't see off every one
of them" he says.  "No problem, pal" replies the proud owner.  "I'll be over
in the morning."

The next day the cockerel is left to do his stuff and two hours later he is
again found pacing keenly around a hutch of shagged-out birds looking for his
next conquest.  The £200 is handed over.

The cockerel's fame goes international as a result of this and other yet more
impressive displays of sexual prowess.  One day the owner receives a phone
call from an Australian farmer with a terrifying wager.  "I bet you £4000 your
cockerel can't shag every one of my chickens, mate", says the caller.  With a
gulp, the owner accepts the bet and, cockerel in arm, takes the long flight
over to Australia.  After days of travelling he arrives at the most enormous
farm he has ever seen.  There are fences that stretch over the horizon and, as
far as the eye can see, there are chickens clucking away.  Wondering quite
what he has let himself in for, the owner places his cockerel among the
chickens and leaves for the nearest watering hole with the Australian farmer.

After a couple of days the two farmers roll back to the farm to check on
progress.  There is an eerie silence that greets them.  For as far as the eye
can see there are chickens laid out on their backs.  It is like a battlefield.
"Where's my cockerel?!" cries the frantic owner.  They search on through miles
of bodies until eventually they find a huge pile of unconscious birds.  The
owner piles in, throwing the chickens aside until he finds the cockerel at the
bottom staring upwards.  There is not a noise from any of the surrounding
chickens and, as the sun beats down on the small group, a couple of vultures
have already appeared, circling overhead.

"Oh my God!", cries the owner as he stares down at the limp body of his pet.
"What have I done?  I've sent you to your death?  My prize cockerel and loyal
friend!"

After an agonising silence the cockerel slowly lifts a feathery finger.
"Ssshh!", the bird whispers as he points to the vultures above, "Pussy!"

Index