The Jury Is Out...So is The Chicken

Our local newspaper is very excited about a court case that is currently running in the town's Crown Court. So much so that it devotes many pages each week to the progress of the case, and I am following with goggled amazement as the tale unfolds because it involves a murder that happened about a mile away from MMM, and it's like The Jeremy Kyle Show only without the moving pictures.

It involves a family, whom I shall call Smith, and a crime committed two days after Christmas last year. I know Christmas can be a stressy and tricky time for families, but this one takes the biscuit. Apparently, allegedly, a man was murdered a la being run over by a Land Rover, driven by one of his two younger brothers, possibly an older brother. There are about 6 brothers involved altogether, plus 3 sisters, and their assorted wives, husbands and children. To make matters more confusing, they are all called 'Smith' and share various forms of a central name or two, for example William, Bill, Billy. Billy-Boy, Johnny, Jack, Jackie, Jack Junior and Gary etc. etc, you get my drift. The newspaper, to simplify matters, periodically prints a fact-file style family tree thing so we can keep up.

There was definitely a Land Rover involved. And a Ford Mondeo. Possibly a gun of the rifle variety. Some of the family have committed gun-related criminal offences already - they all deny the gun, if it existed, was theirs.

There was much shouting on the day in question. Various witness disagree about the name being shouted as the various accused bore down on the victim with their various vehicles and possible gun. Other things were shouted like 'Get 'im!' 'Get 'er!' 'You've got it comin' you 'ave!' 'Sort it aht, bruv!' 'You're next, you are!' etc. Apparently, allegedly, it was all about one of the brothers inheriting the mother's farm after she died and other members of the family were mad with jealousy and didn't think it was right, him being younger etc etc.

There was a pub involved, too. That's where it all started in a 'he said that she said that he said his dad/brother/ nephew/ son said that the brother-in-law/ sister said the mother said that Billy and Jack should 'get it sortid,' before she died, God rest 'er soul.' Various texts were sent between various mobiles about Billy looking for Bill, who was after Jack because Verity said they should get it 'sortid', but William answered Billy's phone and got the wrong message and thought Jack was after Billy and he told Billy who said, 'Wotsit gotta do wiv me, bruv?' and he went after Jack Junior, who's a kid and should have stayed out of it, but 'e didn't and now the barrister is saying he is lying and he ain't.

This is where it starts turning into an episode of Eastenders.

Today's best evidence goes to witness Alice, one of the sister. She told her brother, in the pub, to 'Sort it aht, and he said, 'I am not sorting it out, because it's two cartridges for big boy, two cartridges for Jack and the same for Johnny.' '

Big boy? Who the heck is big boy?? The family Staffie?? And now it seems there WAS gun, because the only other things I can think you need a cartridge for are ink pens and printers. Unless the bruvs were going to 'get it sortid' with a mass photocopy session, of course. Or exercise their copperplate technique across each other's foreheads. I can't wait to see if that's brought up in the defence case later on. 'I was just practising me italic form, m'lud, and I needed two cartridges in case one run out.'

Meanwhile, Jack Junior was on Facebook, updating his status - 'Effing barrister accused me of lying. Swear down I was tellin' the truth.'

It's all very sad, tragic, and stupid. Some Christmas that family is going to have.

On a lighter note, Mrs Pumphrey is awarded the 'Cunning Chicken 2010' award, for her magic Houdini performance yesterday. I happened to be at the kitchen window washing up and from my vantage point I could see Misses Miggins and Slocombe racing up and down the inner fence of Cluckinghen Palace like chickens demented. I thought, what's up with them? and scanned the garden for cats/ foxes/ flocks of pigeons/ Tango Pete in his Tom Jones posing pouch.

Then all of a sudden, Mrs Pumphrey hove into view, strutting with purpose across the lawn towards the asparagus bed.
'Look at me!' she called. 'I'm strutting!'

Well, she'd somehow managed to escape the run, and given that she is one big chicken and the escape hole, when located, was teeny tiny, we counted ourselves lucky we didn't have a lacerated and strangulated chicken on our hands.

Carpenter Andy set about making the run safe. He also made them a winter bivouac, which they are regarding with suspicion at the moment, but I'm sure they'll appreciate come the next rainstorm. Mrs Pumphrey continued to climb in and out of the escape hole going 'Look at me! Look at me!'

But by the end of the day, they were all safely ensconsed in Cluckinghen Palace aka 'Henditz.'

And now I must go to complete the final, final, FINAL edit of Nearly King Jimbo, my mission to flush out the tiny errors that keep slipping past mine eagle eye. In two weeks, Andy has a week of holiday and we are going into NKJ production mode. Andy the Pen is churning out magnificent illustration after magnificent illustration, I am gearing myself up to write some entertaining blurb and author/ illustrator profiles to go inside the cover.

'Shall we include a picture of us strangling each other?' I said, for 't has been a project of high stress and occasional artistic difference.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'Now, have you seen my box of cartridges?'