OWD Tom's ancient Fordson tractor screeched to a stop (or rather, groaned to a stop) as he passed me in The Lane the other day and Tom jumped off looking unusually excited.

"Nah then, lad," he said to me, for he was clearly in a flattering mood. "What can tha tell me abaht this new fangled wireless stuff?"

My mind went blank. I mean, how do you start on such a thing? And what gem of knowledge was Tom seeking anyway?

"Ah mean these new fangled gadgets, with them short wave stuff. AFN and all that."

Now I am just old enough to remember that AFN used to be the American Forces Network in Europe, which played jazz back in the Fifties when BBC radio announcers still wore dinner jackets and George Formby and Gracie Fields were considered rather risky.

"I doubt that's still on the air," I said hesitantly, wondering what dastardly plot was afoot. "You're probably thinking of FM."

"Tha's not at tha best today, I see," said Tom. "You'd better read this..."

He plucked from his grimy pocket a crumpled newspaper cutting which he unrolled and handed to me. And the light began to dawn.

The cutting, you see, reported an experiment by top experts funded by the National Farmers' Union which had proved that hens lay more eggs when they are played music. And, in particular, pop music.

The music, said 96 per cent of farmers, made their chicks more calm. They were less aggressive. And they layed more eggs.

"I wunna wireless that'll play that." Tom went on, putting a grubby finger on the bit that said that, in order of preference, happy hens liked Radio One, Radio Two, and Pirate FM (whatever that is).

Now I could see where we were going ... but not why. For Owd Tom's few hens live a fully free-range existence, scratching a living in the yard and wandering the lower slopes of Tup Fell. They do get the odd scrap of left-over food but, despite everything, have always seemed happy enough to me.

"Ah've tried to get the old radiogram out int'yard but t'flex inna long enough. Ah thought I'd get one of them new ones that play on batteries and the like."

I laughed. The vision of Owd Tom manhandling his ancient radiogram, about the size of a double decker bus, into his battle field of a farm yard was too much. "This is serious business, tha knows," he said curtly. "Farmin' bein' what it is these days, a few extra coppers from the eggs 'ud come in reet 'andy."

And here was the nub, for most of Tom's egg production is bartered for Ram's Blood Ale at the Beggars' Arms, a trading system very close to his heart.

"I think you'll find, Tom," I said, "that this experiment was about battery farm hens. And the way yours wander around, you'd need a pretty big radio. It would set you back £40 or £50, I should imagine. And the batteries don't last long."

"Tha's out of tha mind if tha think I'd spend that much for happier hens," he said, jumping onto the Fordson and groaning away. I think, happen, that I may have saved the Dale from a rural ghetto blaster!

l The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.