Food consumers play chicken

I felt a little like Mr Benn as I opened the door to the fancy dress shop, writes Rural Affairs Editor Nathan Rous.

The bell attached to the door prompted the arrival of the shopkeeper who appeared, as if by magic, to show no interest in my business whatsoever.

It was an Aladdin's cave of costumes, although initially I spent more time wondering what metaphor Aladdin himself would have used on viewing such delights than what I should wear to the party.

I thumbed through the racks one by one, nodding, shaking my head or staring blankly as I tried to picture myself dressed up to the nines in yards of sequins, or velour, or faux fur.

But there, in the darkened corner, was a sight so awful it made me sick to the stomach. As I reeled amidst the hangers, I put my hand out to break my fall and grabbed a Storm Trooper, then Robin Hood, and then a Tweenie. I was a Friar Tuck away from a complete collapse.

There they were, chicken costumes, dozens of them, huddled together with no natural light and nothing to take away the boredom of 24 hours at the back of a shop.

They looked scared, unloved: and these were the ones who had 'made it'. Just think of all those costumes which weren't able to stand the conditions and were terminated by the dress-maker in their infancy.

Without a scrap of remorse flickering across his under-worked face, the shopkeeper allowed me to take a handful into the changing rooms. Here it got worse. The costumes showed all the signs of being intensively-worn. Patches of balding material were visible around the elbows and the knees, while in some instances the feathers had come away completely.

Fortunately I saw one on its own, sitting proudly in the shop window. I guess it was the free range version. Another couple of quid to hire a night no doubt.

But who would go to a fancy dress party as a chicken following Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's 'Chicken Out' exposé? You're more likely to get tarred and feathered (again). And Heaven forbid you should strut your stuff to 'The Birdie Song', or help yourself to the host's chicken satay sticks.

There is a serious message here. We have to be careful how far we go in alienating the public to 'all' chicken. Naturally the least us meat-eaters can do is ensure that the flesh we consume meets with the best of welfare standards, but it's worth pointing out that not every broiler producer is cramming the sheds to bursting point.

There are those who are going above and beyond the minimum standards to ensure their birds enjoy as healthy an existence as possible before the inevitable end is met. After all, it's not as if they are making millions by adopting a high-intensity approach. Many make as little as 3p per bird.

Unsurprisingly, the huge majority would be able to switch to a free range operation but thanks to the greed of Britain's shoppers and the might of supermarket buyers the market isn't there . . . yet.

We are supposedly a nation of animal lovers but let's not forget that the Koreans think they are too, yet their Christmas motto reads: "A dog's not just for Christmas . . . save some for Boxing Day too."