by Mighty Mouse
Here's a tale about us tough rockers from the 60's. We were always up for racing about on our motorbikes, visiting the roadside cafes, having fun with the girlies and of course travelling to the seaside for the bank holiday punch-ups. In 1965 though, a group of us took it into our heads to visit a less "mod infested" area during that particular May bank holiday, Minehead in jolly old Somerset. A group of us (my memory fails me but i suppose there were about ten of us) had a great ride to our destination with no breakdowns, and spent a very enjoyable first afternoon with no problems. It was a lovely evening too, spent horsing about on the now deserted beach. We gave up on the idea of pitching our tents on the beach as the pegs wouldn't stay in, so we managed to obtain a heap of deck chairs from a nearby council shed, (it wasn`t locked, honest) and build a wonderful little house on the beach. We got the fire going and had our fill of beans, bread and tea, all was going well until our ears fell on that familiar sound..Hello, hello, hello what have we got here then! Twas our friend, Mr. Plod who in no uncertain terms made it quite clear that we were to be evicted, to be given our marching orders, to dismantle our "house", douse our roaring fire and move along quietly.
We awoke the following morning to find ourselves in a farmers field just outside of Minehead, the sun was shining and although we had a scrape with the law all was well, the water was boiling and the first cuppa of the day would go down well. From this point on our weekend would change and this is the crux of this story....the story of some pretty tough rockers. Just as I was to take a sip of my tea I heard a noise, "cheep, cheep, cheep", I looked around and there in the longest of grass was the smallest, yellowist of baby chicks that I'd ever seen, I picked him up, he was so sweet with his "cheep, cheep, cheep". We had no idea as to how he was there all on his own, unless his mummy had decided to leave the main chicken house and set up nest in the long grass somewhere near us. We had a major dilema on our hands now, go fight the mods or look after the baby chick....I put the chick down hoping it would run away, "cheep, cheep, cheep", I picked him up again, he stopped cheeping, he was content cupped in my hands. I have heard that as soon as a bird opens it's eyes after birth, the first thing it focuses on becomes it's mummy, it's life support..ain't I the lucky one! I spent all day caring for that little chap, little pieces of bread soaked in water, keeping him warm as we lazed about in the sunshine. I couldn`t put him down, he would cheep frantically for his "mummy". Come the evening, the only way I would get some sleep would be to sit upright, cupping the chick in my mates sidecar. The night passed uneventfully, the chick full of the joys of spring and waiting to be fed in the morning.
Saturday came and went, the group of us caring for the new addition to our gang. The time and love we put into that little chap was fantastic, we all learned a lot about each other that weekend. On the saturday night I couldn`t face another period of sleep sitting bolt upright, so we all agreed that I should sleep in the tent, with the little chap sitting in my hand, keeping in mind that if I put him down he would go out of his mind cheeping for me,,,,, his mummy.
The morning came, the usual groans, "get the tea going", etc.etc. I sat up, I looked around, no little chick! Then I hear shouts of horror from the others," your back! the chicks stuck to your back" they shout....To save you, the reader any more anguish, little chick had decided to go for walkies in the night,,,, and then I turned over in my sleep, squashing the poor little chap flat, he was stuck to my jacket as if with glue. After so much love, time, care and attention, our weekend (and the little chicks) was ruined. We dug a little hole, fashioned a little holy cross out of sticks, buried our little friend, packed our tents and rode home a very glum bunch of tough rockers that weekend back in '65.
P.S. I suppose that if there was a moral to this story it would be that if you're gonna get a bird in your tent, make sure she's on top.
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