Well, I had a few more bevvies and staggered out
with this turkey in the bag leading me down the street. And I was Christmas crackered by then, so I rode home on it all the way up the flight of stairs-and into the flat.
Now, you won't believe the trouble I had getting it in the cage. It did not want to know. I tried everything. I put down a row of dried peas, tried pecking them myself up to the door of the cage, showing it. But it did not want to know. In the end, it was down to the vaseline and the brick hammer. I vaselined it all over, gave it one clout with the brick hammer and bang!... it was in. But it did not like it. It jammed its head out of the cage and looked round saying, `What's happening, what's happening?' Well, I threw a cover over it and left it there. Forgot all about it.
The next morning I woke up with a head like a burglar's dog. There was a knock on the door. It was Pog Mahone. She was back. So I flung open the door and said, `Happy Christmas,' because of course it was Christmas Day.
'Where's Attila? I bet he's missed his mummy, hasn't he?' she said.
Without thinking, I just pointed over to the corner of the flat. She went over, took the cover off the cage and nearly dropped cork-legged.
`You've been overfeeding him.'
  'No, I haven't. I've just been giving him what I had, egg and bacon.'
Then she saw something that I'd forgotten completely. That one I'd got in the cage had two legs! She said, `That's not my Attila, you've killed him, you. monster!' and flew out of my flat into her own, shut the door and left me on my own. Christmas Day, no Christmas dinner, no food, no party.
`Well, that's it,' I thought.
And the turkey is still looking round' the flat, saying, `What's happening? What's happening?' So I covered it with a cloth again and went off down the pub.
So I'm stood there with this daft party hat on and a meat pie with a piece of holly sticking our of the middle of it and a brandy; I've set fire to it and I'm watching the Queen on the telly when in comes the bloke who took my budgie by mistake the day before. He looks like he's just fought World War III on his own. He's got a black eye, a broken nose, all his teeth missing, half his hair's been torn out, his arm's in plaster of Paris, one of his legs is broken, his suit's flapping in the breeze and he's got one of these blowers with the feather on the end that unwraps and makes a squeaking noise, permanently lodged up his right nostril. Every time he says anything that begins with `f', this blower unravels itself and squeaks.
So he stands, at the bar and says, 'Give me a pint of
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