The Chicken Dance

Once upon a time, when I was a young teenage bogan (just before I became a vegetarian interestingly...), a very exciting event occured in our rather isolated country area. Circa 1985, Kentucky Fried Chicken came to town.

This was SERIOUSLY exciting. We’d never seen anything as posh. This chicken shop had inside toilets, little red plastic spoons, moist towelettes and … eleven secret herbs and spices. Up until then, I didn't even know what herbs and spices were. We all lined up for a two-piece feed and marvelled at the creative spirit behind this wondrous tasty poultry. Before long the townsfolk shortened the rather long title of Kentucky Fried Chicken to ‘Tucky Chuck’ and alternated the fortnightly fish ‘n’ chips night or a hamburger with the lot from the Greek café with the boxed and bucketed offerings of Colonel Sanders (no one knew where Kentucky was or who this Colonel might be, but it was VERY exotic…)

One of my school friends landed the holy grail of part-time work at Tucky Chuck (I know! Score! I ended up at Woolies on a checkout for my 14 hours a week). Elevated in social status, Craig used to bring cold chicken to school and our group would all have a little picnic. Sometimes we wondered why the chicken pieces were so … solid… and so… white and funny looking when cold, but then the group’s Science nerd suggested we put the pieces in the sun to warm up, so that was that.

We didn’t know what was really in Tucky Chuck. We didn’t particularly care. We were sixteen and HUNGRY. Nutrition consisted of not being hungry. None of us were fat, possibly because we all walked to and from school and played a dozen different sports and climbed trees or went bushwalking for fun.

I think the year that Tucky Chuck came to town heralded a change in our little bogan microcosm. Not that I overtly noticed at the time, but I was told years later that in some families people used to go get fried chicken more than once a fortnight. Some went every week. SOME went SEVERAL times a week. Apparently townsfolk developed an addiction to the stuff. And suddenly… people got … FAT.Out of the blue, locals even took the liberty of having Chinese food, usually reserved for a birthday or anniversary, for no apparent reason at all. The Chinese restaurant started doing takeaway, in little plastic boxes. Then a pizza shop opened and eventually…. Yep. The Golden Arches. All over Red Rover (or Rooster…) Fast Food Anarchy had begun.

I counted the fast food ‘restaurants’ at our new local shops in Beachville yesterday.

Nine chain stores, two fish ‘n’ chips, something to do with Fasta Pasta and a Chinese Restaurant. Not including cafes. Or the greasy spoon. I mean… really. Does Subway need DRIVE-THROUGH? If you want a sambo, can you not take leave of the car to collect it?

Brad the Tradie has the metabolism of a sixteen year old, so he can actually eat KFC (when did it stop being Tucky Chuck?) and not wobble too badly. He likes the skin the best. He rips that crispy, greasy skin off and eats a handful of it (try to not vomit as you read this…). As a result, we, in our Bogan family call this delightful meal ‘Bucket of Skin’. We usually try to limit it to once in a blue moon. Because these days of course, we know about nutrition and … SHOCK HORROR, fried chicken isn’t terribly good for you.

Living in a Trailer Park for a couple of weeks, I’ve had some hands-on observation time of this Phast Phood Phenomenon.

Call it an ethnographic study if you will (see? Master's degree came in handy after all!). I’ve been partaking of the free wi-fi at Macca’s. Sometimes I just stop and observe the bogans as they order their ‘fix’. Watch those teenage servers churn out the paper-wrapped Value Meals. Watch the mummies as they come in to have a cheap coffee and feed their kids a ‘Healthy Happy Meal’ (yeah, those apple slices and water bottles are SO popular with the kids!)then eventually succumb to a packet of fries. Watch the little group of nuns as they come in every couple of days for a soft serve cone (and a serviette). Watch the tradies order Upsized Everything as they drive-through in their work utes.

Of course, there are other places to eat, like cafes and restaurants with actual menus rather than backlit screens. Of particular interest is one called The Jolly Frog. Not sure if it serves deep-fried frog pieces, or a McFrog burger value meal though because I haven't actually found the entrance yet. One gets to ‘the Frog’ via one’s speedboat. We, living in the slums of Beachville rather than the luxury canal areas (where a speedboat is included with purchase of your block) or one of the moated communities (yes, seriously, moated communities with a MOAT and a gate to keep out riffraff), don’t actually have a speedboat to transport us to get a snack. We, as yet, are unable to throw our left-overs over the side to the dolphins. Naturally, BtT has been told to pull his finger out and get to work pronto. And get his Skipper's License. In case I want to go to the Frog.

Whilst visiting Beachville, my Dad and Patient Partner decided to fly to Broome for a coupla days to see my Uncle Mick, the sometimes-reformed-but-not-really Druggie and his lovely stable family.

All good. I went to Macca’s with the laptop to use the free wi-fi where I booked the tickets, wrote down the confirmation number and… job done. Until… Dad mentioned that he’d promised Uncle Mick a bucket of skin. Apparently, there’s no Tucky Chuck in Broome. Poor Uncle Mick the Druggie. What’s a man to do when he has the munchies? So here’s my dad, going through security at the airport when his chilled bucket of chicken. All twenty one pieces. Bless him. God I hope Uncle Mick doesn’t feed it to the dog.

Still, it shows how entrenched chain store Fast Food has become in just one generation. Gen Y can’t remember a time without it. People my age (Gen X) can only just remember when it first arrived. Now, within thirty years, we somehow couldn’t imagine life without it.

I read Fast Food Nation and watched Supersize Me and I was suitably appalled.

Oh, the horror of all that trans-fat, cheap meat and fillers. And then the next Friday evening, I probably ordered Home Delivery or brought home takeaway or something. You see, I can be appalled and still eat Fast Food. I’m what we call an ‘informed hypocrite’. I know the risks and I partake anyway. I used to work with people who’d eat tuna on Ryvita for lunch and then get a drive-through Big Mac on the way home. It’s the convenience you see. And did you notice the nutritional information on all this Fast Food crap now? Even on the KFC box. Out of interest I read it the other day. Kind of. Not really. Best not to know. But that lunch tuna is VERY good for you, so no harm, no foul.

If only these damn places did a pomegranate and watermelon slushie with a box of cucumber sticks and hommus. We could call it Healthies (instead of Hungries). We could mandate grilled fish and salad on the menu and call it McVegequarian. Yes, a happy meal for your heart.

It just doesn’t have the same ring to it though, does it? Probably needs a speedboat to get to as well. Speed-through? Splash-through? Nah. And who wants to buy a bottle of water anyway? Or a sliced apple? I can get that at home.

Best stick to chicken. Once a bogan, always a bogan. Bwark!!!

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The Chicken Dance, composed by Werner Thomas, a Swiss accordion player, 1950.