Just call me Heracles

I have always assumed that readers of this blog are the sort of people who have a good knowledge of the ancient world while at the same time feeling at ease with mention of quantum physics and those hard sums with brackets in them.

Just in case there are a few gaps in your knowledge, can I remind you that Heracles (or Ηρακλης in the Greek alphabet) is the Greek name for Hercules, the greatest of the Greek heroes.

One of the things which made Heracles - let's stick to his original name - such a hero was that he had to complete 12 labours, all of which were horrendous tasks that would defeat mere mortals.

One of these 12 labours was to clean the Augean stables in one day. These stables housed more than 1,000 fully-functioning cattle and had not been cleaned in 30 years. That's a lot of mucking out to do.

A mosaic depicting the 12 labours of Heracles. I'm not sure
which one is him cleaning the Augean stables.

However, Heracles' labour is as nothing to the task we face here dealing with the mountains of droppings produced by the two deranged cockerels - Big Whitey and Eileen the Third.

You may recall these two are the only survivors of the New Year's Eve massacre in which our landlord's flock of chickens was attacked by a dog. Ever since that day they have decided that the safest policy is to stick close to the house and keep crowing, no doubt to make us aware of their continued existence.

The other way they remind us that they are still alive is by defecating copiously. This would not be so bad if they did it hither and yon, after all, nature must take its course. Instead, the cockerels have decided that one of the best places to void their bowels - see how delicately I refer to all this - is on our doorstep. Consequently any trip out on to the terrace must be conducted with great caution if you do not wish to end up knee deep in guano.

Big Whitey and Eileen the Third looking absolutely shameless.

Every day, and often several times a day, we sweep up what the cockerels deposit and every day, and definitely several times a day, the cockerels replace it. Heracles would have broken down and wept like a baby at the magnitude of the task.

Cleaning the Augean stables was the fifth task of Heracles. I'm not sure if it's significant or not, but his sixth task was slaying the Stymphalian Birds. They had to be done away with because they swarmed all over the countryside eating crops and generally making a nuisance of themselves. If that's not a great example of how the classical world still has much to teach us, I don't know what is. Bring me my bow and arrows.

Incidentally, if you're wondering how Heracles cleaned those dung-filled stables, the answer is quite simple - if you're a hero - he diverted the rivers Alpheus and Peneus and all his troubles were over. Heroes, they get it easy.

As we can't rely on Heracles to get us out of this mess, I decided the ideal piece of music to go with this was No More Heroes by The Stranglers. This version has a nifty bit of animation with it and is followed by a brief film, a filmette, in fact.

* Picture of mosaic by Sgiralt (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Cock-an-effing-doodle-doo!

BIRDBRAINS: The roosters looking through out kitchen door.

,A little while ago I wrote about how a dog had killed all but two of our landlord's chickens, the two survivors being the cockerels pictured above.

At the time it seemed like a piece of good fortune that the two birds, initially quite shell-shocked, had survived. Lately, though, I've been having murderous thoughts and almost found myself wishing that the dog would pay a return visit.

The trouble is that the cockerels have abandoned their former accommodation, a chicken coop some distance from our house, in favour of anywhere they can roost right next to our house.

Their latest spot is a window ledge probably less than six feet from our bedroom window. Praise be that our bedroom window doesn't have a ledge big enough for two demented cockerels to roost on.

Even so, the ledge they have chosen is so close that at around 5am - yes, that's the 5 o'clock when most of you are still fast asleep - the two feathered maniacs start their moronic chorus. It is odd, because they do this for a while and then they shut up and I will admit that I can usually get back to sleep, but even so...

In a bid to head them off - as opposed to take off their heads, which is what increasingly I'd like to do - I put up a barrier which I hoped would stop the birds roosting in their chosen window. Sadly, it was not to be the case. Eileen the Third, the bird on the right in the picture, conceded defeat and found a spot at the opposite end of the house to our bedroom. However, his partner in crime, Big Whitey (possibly the Third or Fourth) just clung on to the barrier.

Like a mountaineer who has to bivouac on a cliff face halfway up a mountain, Big Whitey spent last night hanging on, having to make occasional noisy adjustments to his position. While I admire his tenacity, I cannot put up with much more of his crowing only a few feet from where I'm trying to get my much-needed beauty sleep.

Today I come up with Plan B to keep the roosters at bay. I have no idea what it is, but it had better work.

The music to go with this post comes from Wynonie Harris and is called, appropriately enough, Cock A Doodle Doo. He sounds quite cheerful about early morning crowing, but I think in his case it might mean something else. Such energy, how admirable, how unbelievable. Can I go back to sleep now?

Birds of a feather

On New Year's Eve we had something of a disaster here in the olive grove when a dog killed almost all our landlord's chickens.

Initially we thought the dog had killed the entire flock, but the next day - not such a happy new year - we discovered that two of the cockerels had survived.

Quite how they managed this we don't know. They were very shell-shocked and extraordinarily quiet, so it seems that they realised they had come close to meeting their maker.

Anyway, that was just over a fortnight ago and now the unlikely pair spend a lot of time together. The two survivors were the lead cockerel, undoubtedly the big boss, and his deputy. So far as we know that deputy is the grandson of Eileen.

Readers of this blog with a long memory may well recall that Eileen was a cockerel from the first cohort of chickens here who went on the run from the chicken house and became my wife's firm favourite. Sadly, he was attacked by a dog and I had to put him out of his misery. Eileen, so called because at first we thought he was a hen, did at least get the chance to procreate and we are fairly confident that one of the two survivor cockerels is one of his grandsons, hereafter known as Eileen the Third.

Two cockerels on their own are not a lot of use. Our landlord hopes to replace the flock so maybe one day soon the cockerels can get back to doing what they do best, which is jumping on unsuspecting hens for a bit of "Wham! Bam! Thank you, Ma'am".

Until then, they are intent on staying pretty close to our house, peering in through the windows. We suspect they would like nothing more than to be allowed in, but their main tactic to gain our attention is episodes of manic crowing and carpet bombing our kitchen doorstep with their droppings. Believe me they are not making any friends this way, but for the time being we admire their powers of survival.

Eileen III at the front with Big Boss at the rear.

The picture shows the two cockerels on the terrace outside our kitchen. The pole running in front of Eileen III is the handle of the broom which is in constant use to sweep away the massive amounts of ordure the birds present us with.

Not difficult to choose a piece of music to go with this post, although neither of our roosters are particularly red or little.

Death in the afternoon

The phone went, it was the landlord. "Mark," he said, "John will be coming to our land soon to kill Big Whitey."

I'd been expecting this. Big Whitey was the last of the cockerels introduced to the olive grove more than a year ago. The unfortunate Eileen (about whom I have written before) was another of the cockerels. Others rejoiced under the names of Chuck Norris and Christmas Dinner. Slowly their numbers have dwindled as they met the fate which seems to await all cockerels. Surely a warning for males of the species everywhere?

Anyway, Big Whitey, so called because he was big and white, had an appointment with a soup pot courtesy of "John" who is in fact Ιωάννης. Usually, the landlord is on hand to help Ιωάννης  when it comes to killing cockerels, but this being summer the landlord is busy doing other things. I also suspect he is slightly squeamish when it comes to the moment of truth for the cockerels. I have a feeling this means I may be called on to be the slaughterer's apprentice. My intended appointment with a cold beer in town will have to wait.

Sure enough in a couple of minutes I see John ride his motorbike on to the land. I've known him a while now and met him last year before I found out he knew the landlord, but then on this island almost everybody knows everybody else. Ιωάννης has a small café in town and his father was a butcher which is where his knowledge about despatching cockerels comes from. As usual he has the stump of a cigar clamped in his mouth. "Ah, Mark, you are here. Good." That pretty well confirms for me that I'm likely to be called on at certain points in Big Whitey's demise.

We shake hands and I see that in his other hand Ιωάννης/John is carrying a bag containing a butcher's steel and a knife of which he takes great care. I know from previous occasions this knife is very sharp. I confirm for John that I know which bird faces the chop - not difficult, he is the only remaining cockerel. John gets a small fire going under an old feta cheese can full of water. This will come into play later on when the time comes for Big Whitey to be plucked. As we wait for the water to get hot, John inquires if I have any tsipouro (a strong Greek spirit). I do not. He then asks if I have any ouzo (another spirit). I sense a certain disappointment when I say no again. I tell him I have wine. "Some wine, then." Clearly the executioner has to be refreshed. We both have a glass. I, too, feel the need of a little alcoholic fortification.

I have a vague feeling of treachery as I accompany Ιωάννης to the chicken coop to identify Big Whitey, but we don't want any mistakes and, to be frank, Big Whitey's seemingly non-stop sexual demands on his flock of hens have become burdensome for them. With a surprisingly swift move, John gets Big Whitey by the feet and he is swept out of the coop. Very sharp knife in hand, John carries the ill-fated Big Whitey to a tree where his throat is cut and his blood spilled on the roots of the tree. According to John it is good for the tree. This sounds a little pagan to me, but then why not? There is something of the cycle of life in all of this.

The very dead, and headless, Big Whitey is then plunged into the hot water which makes it easier to pluck the feathers. It is at this point that I am called on to assist by holding various carrier bags. One holds feathers and bits of Big Whitey's insides judged to be of no use, another holds body parts that I think - although this is only through the filter of John's slightly eccentric English - will be used for stock, and the last one contains the body and a small plastic bag of golden fat from the late cockerel which John assures me is absolutely wonderful when used for frying eggs.

Job done, Ιωάννης settles down for a couple more glasses of wine. He then reveals that some turkeys he has on his land have been ill (or are dead), as I have said his English is slightly wonky, although much better than my Greek. John then moves on to what seems to be one of his favourite themes, which is food. No visit to our house by him seems to be complete without long and involved instructions on good ways to cook things. The instructions usually involve miming and sound effects, which may go against the spirit of mime, but adds immeasurably to the overall performance.

With a flourish, John then finishes his wine and bids us farewell, pausing only to inquire what are the various words in English used for prison. Why? Who knows? I tell him that prison is probably the best word and there is also jail. We didn't get in to the spelling otherwise we might have tackled the mystery of gaol. This seems to satisfy Ιωάννης and he wends his way in to the evening, leaving our land a lot quieter without Big Whitey.

Mornings won't be the same without Big Whitey around, but he and the late-lamented Eileen both managed to do the deed with numerous hens whose eggs were hatched out and whose offspring, still youngsters, will soon be free to roam on the land. The quiet of our Big Whitey-less mornings will not last for long. The cycle of life rolls on.