One woman’s week, with Karen Fenessey

Do they know it’s Christmas time at all? That’s the question I like to ask of Great Britain’s turkey population at this time of year. Sadly, the answer is usually ‘yes’.

So I took it upon myself to rescue every single turkey from Christmas murder. Unfortunately, my good intentions were thwarted by the RSPCA who said my bedroom wasn‘t big enough for all the turkeys of Britain to lead happy lives. I was incredulous. “Better the turkeys waking up slightly unhappy in my bed than waking up dead and in hell.” But they were unmoved, so eventually I followed Noah’s lead and took two turkeys – a male and a female, so we could repopulate the earth. I named them Mary and Joseph, so they will always remember that I am the Saviour.

Initially, I was delighted to get home with Mary and Joseph and relax with them in my sauna. Joseph is a fine creature with glossy black feathers and jaunty gait – reminiscent of a young John Travolta. But it soon became apparent that Mary is a comparatively ugly beast and jealous of the attention I get from Joseph. She can’t bear to see us happy together. But I’ve got no sympathy for her – if she’d wanted to keep her man, she should’ve thought twice before stuffing her face with all those high-carb snacks they kept offering her at the farm. I made Joseph some ultra skinny fit jeans so he can look stylish as well as keep warm this winter but Mary will just have to look stupid.

I’m starting to understand why the farmer wanted to kick her head in – she is everything that’s wrong with Britain today. Ask her about what she thought of Black Swan and all you get is ‘gobble, gobble’. She is constantly rubbing herself and pecking at her own droppings like some kind of retard. There’s a reason I stopped watching Trinny and Susannah and I don’t need these complications back in my life. I deserve better. Thank God for Joseph – he’s a class act, a sensitive type, always eager to make sure my satisfaction comes first.

Ultimately, he made his feelings clear by scratching out Mary’s eyes with his tiny pointy toenails. I couldn’t agree more. Contrary to what she might think, I am not some kind of charity so I showed her the door. With any luck, she’ll not get far before she’s bagged by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, ending her days embedded in one of his fancy three bird roasts. In order to accommodate her plus size, Hugh will need to use some seriously massive birds on top, probably an emperor penguin and a sea eagle.

A tedious nuisance in life, a glorious chimera in death – some people choose this time of year to remember the life of Jesus. But from this day, I’ll always use it to remember the life of Mary, the shit turkey. And the Princess of Wales.