McCalliog and His Hens

“This is a marvelous chicken,” said the King.  “The detail is amazing, the brushwork really brings it to life. It almost feels as if the chicken is in the room with us."

The King’s aid, Metcalfe, laughed unconvincingly. 

“It’s a Rhode Island Red,” he said, reading from a booklet.  “Apparently the artist breeds them.” 

“Are there any more works from this artist on display?” said the king. 

“Let me check,” said Metcalfe. “Ah yes, three in total.  A Green Legged Patridge Hen, a Padovana Chicken, and a Booted Bantam.” 

“Take me to them,” said the King. “I’ve never seen a chicken captured with such detail. I can only wonder how he tackles the other breeds.” 

Metcalfe led the King to the lower gallery, where the other pictures were on display. 

“The artist is Wayne McCalliog,” Metcalfe read. “He’s the pre-eminent painter of poultry, he’s painted over 400 different breeds of chickens.” 

“I’m not surprised, he’s amazing, there is seeminlgy nothing he can't do with a hen. Look at the plumage on this Green Legged Partridge Hen.” 

“Yes, you’re majesty. He’s painted the bird’s feathers.” 

“The colour scheme is amazing, look at those yellows, reds, and oranges, it’s as if the canvas is on fire.” 

“The Green Legged Partridge Hen Is an amazing breed. If you recall, you had a small flock of these on your farm, you flew them in from Poland to save the environment impact of importing the eggs.” 

“I remember,” the King said absent-mindedly.   

There was a long silence while the king studied the paintings as if in a trance. 

“We should get him,” the king said eventually. 

“You mean we should get more of the Green Legged Patridge Hens?” Metcalfe said. 

“No, not the chickens.” The king's face scowled, the way it always did when he faced even the slightest disagreement. “The artist.” 

“You want to hire McCalliog to paint your chickens?”  

“No, I want him to paint me.” 

“But he specialises in poultry.  He’s not a portrait artist.” 

“This man could paint anything. And I want him to paint me. I’m due a new portrait, it’s been months.” 

However, when Metcalfe contacted McCalliog he was met with unexpected resistance. 

“I paint chickens,” he said, “Not poncy kings prancing around on ponies playing polo.” 

“He won’t be prancing,” Metcalfe assured.  “His polo days are far behind him. Besides, the king pays considerable more than a chicken can.”  He cited the fee. 

“Hmm.”  

“Well, Mr McCalliog, what do you think?” Metcalfe pressed for an answer. 

“Actually it’s Sir Wayne, not plain Mr.” 

“Is it?” Metcalfe said. “But when we researched you ...” 

“I’m negotiating,” McCalliog said. 

“Ah.” 

“Well?” 

“The King is due a small number of nominations. I’m sure he could put in a word. After all, your services to art are renowned."

“And my service to chickens.” 

“Yes, your service to art, and to chickens. I'm sure the Prime Minister can be persuaded. He usually is."

And so it was that Sir Wayne arrived in the King’s private rooms.  He seemed surprising lacking in awe at the occasion, as if the state rooms were no more grand and inspiring than a common henhouse.

“Well,” he said upon introduction to the head of state. “Get your kit off.” 

“I beg your pardon,” the king said. 

“You’ll need to get undressed. I don’t paint clothing.  Look at my work: Rooster au natural, the Naked Naked Neck, Unadorned Silkie, Bare Buff Brahma. I’ve never once painted a chicken in chukker boots, waistcoat or a silly hat, let alone a breast full of unearned medals. I paint nudes." 

“Yes, you paint nudes," agreed Metcalfe. "Nude chickens.  But surely you can see the difference, this is our monarch, the head of state, he commands dignity, gravitas.” 

“It’s clothes off or no painting.” 

“Let’s discuss this outside,” the king said to Metcalfe. 

“You can’t seriously be considering this,” Metcalfe said once they were through the door.  “A nude portrait of the king! It’s unheard of.” 

“We would have final say as to whether the portrait was ever shown to the public,” the king reminded him. “If we feel it’s not dignified we can simply ensure that it never existed. In a sense we have nothing to lose.” 

“But even so...” 

“So, I think we’re agreed then.” 

And so, they agreed. Courtiers were called to help the king undress, a skill he had long since delegated to his minions. After many days of posing, interspersed with bouts of unconstrained moaning about the cold, the heat, the breeze, the lack of a breeze, the strain of sitting, the strain of standing, the portrait was finally completed.  

In spite of his concerns, Metcalfe had to confess that the finished product was a masterpiece.  It was the work of a craftsman at the peak of his powers, and the king benefited from this genius, coming across as more colourful, more alive and with more depth of character than he had ever achieved in person. 

The media agreed wholeheartedly. “A powerful image, where the simple, pale outline of King Charles rides dominions over his surroundings, conveying the power and dominance of our monarch through the power of art alone,” said the Guardian.  

The Telegraph agreed: “A batty, arbitrary image which, nevertheless, perfectly captures the king, his power, his magnificence and his dominance.  Perfect art.”  Even the Sun agreed, “Naked, Naughty but remarkable,” it proclaimed.  

And that would have been the end of the matter. Except, of course, we live in a social media world now, hardly anybody reads the printed press. And the reaction online was completely contrary, and this in an age when one popular podcast has more influence than the entire swathe of broadsheets. 

And so, we leave the final word to Mandy in Welwyn Garden City, or Mouthy Mandy as she is known to her followers. 

“My god, the king has a small cock,” she said. “It’s an absolute diddler. I've never seen one that small. It's the Queen I feel sorry for.”