Wright's Farm Restaurant, Harrisville, RI,

I try to include a picture of the event with each blog but even though I don't have any photos I just have to share this experience with you lucky people. If bizarreness was measured in Gaddafi units this would probably notch 6 Gaddafi units. Or maybe a 7 depending on the rebel forces organisation index and oil price coefficient on a given day.

Chicken at Wright's Farm Restaurant - the order of a very wet Sunday.

So how does this place earn 6 Gaddafi units? Imagine leaving a full moon party and getting lost in the wormhole on the way to Original New York Systems (see previous blog) without any battery in your iPhone, and ending up at a tailgating party in a Church car park. G-Force made a well educated guess that the patrons here were probably hungry Sunday church goers looking for something a bit more substantial than a wafer and a swig of wine. I think he might have been correct.

Inside, this place reminded me of a very old cruise liner. I could not quite fathom the dimensions. Was it a square or was it a rectangular building? Everything about it looked old. The staff were old, the carpets were old, even the young waiter who served us looked old. Whilst waiting at the bar, bingo numbers were being called out on the tannoy.

On to the food. This place is a vegetarian's nightmare. It was all about the chicken buffet. Walking through the dining hall, I could not believe the volume of chicken being consumed. Good thing Noah allowed a couple of chickens onto his ark otherwise the Sunday church crowd would be eating tofu. The concept at Wright's is to thank the Lord for chickens getting on Noah's guest list and to smash down as much chicken as you like. Sides included chips (French fries to the yanks) and mac and cheese blah blah blah. It was all about the chicken. It must have been standing room only in the oven. There was something odd about the taste. I couldn't tell if it had been seasoned but it tasted salty so it must have. The meat was succulent. No, actually it might have been greasy. It was greasier than how my mum roasts chicken, but it wasn't greasy enough to stop me from putting away a couple of breasts and thighs. I am a breast man myself. The Force looked like a leg man and Jose, our resident Latino, went straight for the thighs as it is closer than the breasts to the butt.

The verdict of The Ho Down: All I will say is that in the following week I got the two bob bits and The Force was reduced to nothing but a fart on a windy day...