Off to Preston for Our Chicken

There are many things in this world that we tend to take for granted. For example, when we are at home in Malaysia – where halal food is everywhere – one would not even have to think where to go for a dinner outside. One just starts the car and off you go to get fed.

But once we step out of the country, then you’d really have to work hard for your meal. A fair bit of thought and planning would be required if only to ensure that what you consume were halal.

Back in 1980s Blackpool, not only was there no halal restaurant to be found anywhere, but there was also no outlet which retailed halal meat for us to even cook at home. This was because, unlike the bigger cities such as London, Birmingham or Manchester, tiny Blackpool had no local Muslim population of its own apart from us Malaysian students. At least not that we knew of.

Surviving just on fish alone was out of the question. For a week or two, maybe. But for the whole two years? Naah!

So, it was a matter of survival that we had to resort to some drastic measures to ensure the continuous supply of halal chicken and meat to feed ourselves.

The solution was to draw up a duty roster whereby every once in a fortnight the male students would take turns to religiously undertake the long and arduous journey to a chicken factory in a town called Preston thirty kilometers away from Blackpool.

 It was a task which required brute strength as well as loads of patience.

The ritual started with the drawing up of a list of items that all our Malaysian college mates would wish to purchase. Typically, the completed list would include a couple dozens of chickens, few kilograms of mutton, dozens of coconut cream cubes, and many packets of curry powder. Enough to last us for a week or two.

We guys would go to Preston in pairs. My partner would usually be Hussain, the former tough guy from Sekolah Menengah Teknik Cheras, or Farouk, his school mate.  But sometimes, if they couldn’t make it, I’d go with Abdul Ghani Shaaban, the curly haired chap from Negeri Sembilan.  

On the day of the trip, which would usually be a Saturday, armed with a large haversack each, we would first take the local bus or the tram to Blackpool town centre. Then we would take the “kampong” train from the Blackpool North Station to Preston Station. Occasionally, we would also go by bus which we boarded at Talbot Road.

The bus would have taken about an hour and a half to Preston. The train was much faster, but the tickets were slightly more expensive. And furthermore, I remember the walk from the Preston train station to the chicken factory was much longer.  That’s fine when the haversacks were empty. But coming home, when they were packed to the brim with chicken, mutton and coconut cream cubes, every step counts.

Whenever we took the coach, we would get off at Preston City Centre Bus Station. I still remember the building very clearly because it was very large and imposing. It must have had the capacity to hold scores of buses at any point in time. For another, it had a peculiar look to it in terms of architectural style. It looked very solid and had a strong character, architecturally speaking. And no wonder, because it was built in what is called the “brutalist” architectural style. I came to know this term much later having mixed with architectural students at the Planning and Architecture Building at the University of Manchester.

From the bus station, it was a fifteen to twenty minutes’ walk to the chicken factory passing by, among others, a well-built old Church called the St Mary’s Church. If memory serves me, the name of the factory was Khawaja Poultry Ltd. It was ran by Pakistanis.

Upon arrival at the factory, we would hand over our long list of items to be purchased to the Pakistani staffs at the factory for them to do their part. After all items were accounted for and payments duly made, it was time to get the haversacks onto our backs and start the long walk back to the bus station.

The journey back to Blackpool was always a much-welcomed respite. Tired, and by now very hungry, more often than not I would doze off once I got on the bus or the train.

Once we arrived back in Blackpool it was time to heave the haversacks onto our backs again. For now, we had to distribute all the goods to our so-called clients. First stop had to be the sisters’ houses, if only to get a whole big load off our aching backs. Yes, them sisters were big eaters, believe it or not!

At the sisters’ houses, many a times, there would unfold an amusing piece of comedic scene. And I say this almost endearingly towards our beloved sisters.

You have to understand that it was, after all, the early 1980s. Iran had just disposed of the Shah from their country, together with the Americans to boot. The fervour of Islamic revivalism was felt everywhere by Muslims those days. This was perhaps much more so amongst us young, idealistic students.

What usually happened was that once we got to the sisters houses we would off load their goods onto their door steps. And then we pressed the doorbell. After that we patiently waited. And we waited.

After quite some time, we would hear some faint noises from behind the door. We’d hear footsteps of people coming down the stairs, hushed tones of voices. But then, silent.  So, we waited some more.

Finally, the door creaked open, but just barely. Not even enough to catch a glimpse of who was standing behind the door.  A small voice would suddenly jump out from inside inquiring as to the total cost of the goods.  After payments had been made and the balance money duly returned by slipping them under the door – right to the last penny – we would duly leave the house with the chicken and all still on the door steps. Whilst walking away we always used to have a guessing game, trying to speculate who it was that we had been talking to.

Luckily for us, all the guys collected their goods at a single drop off point. This would usually be at Middlesex House located at number 34, Hodgson Road where – thank God for it – we would be welcomed with open arms. In fact, if we were in luck, Khalid Hamzah, the unanimously-acclaimed chief cook of the house, might even have prepared some nice hot meal that we would tuck into even without being invited.

By the time we had finished our chores, it would have been late afternoon. Another “chicken mission” accomplished, by the time we could slump our tired bodies into the sofa we would have smelt like chicken ourselves. It was a thankless chore alright. However, there was no question of us shirking our roles. We still did it week in week out for the two years that we were in Blackpool out of sheer sense of responsibility and spirit of togetherness.

In hindsight, it was also about character building and preparing us for the tougher and perhaps more challenging life ahead in formal university education, as well as working life.