The ASBO Chorus

Lying awake at 6am, having been wrenched from happy dreams by the dawn chorus, I decided – No, I'll be precise here. Staggering around in a sleep-deprived daze the next day, mind wandering at random, I decided the following. The dawn chorus is the equivalent of a night club. The attendees kick up a hell of a racket at anti-social hours in the hope of copulating.

I know what people say about bird song. I agree with them too. Bird song can be sublime, heavenly, enchanting. Nonetheless, it is all about bonking. Human tunes can be sublime, heavenly and enchanting too, and most of them are also to do with bonking. I've often wondered why a great majority of our songs are obsessed with love and the attending actions. Perhaps we are unconsciously just mimicking the birds.

We do so in very few other fields. It is frequently said that today's society is highly sexualised. Perhaps compared to the Victorian era; but next to the animal kingdom it is a wet Sunday in Grimsby. And the most debauched, libidinous societies in history cannot match up to, say, the average duck pond. Animals are motivated by two things only: food and sex. That's pretty much it. When they have eaten they want to breed. When they're not eating or breeding they're stopping others humping 'their' partners. They devise elaborate territorial patterns, intricate feathers or furs and, of course, beautiful songs – and it's all about sex. Whereas we have denigrated and marginalised it. A raft of new desires have been created. Sex is either shut into private compartments or defined as perverse.

I quite like the dawn chorus, when the damn thing isn't waking me at some ungodly time. (Dawn, I suppose). But it's amusing how a breed so prudish about sex has treated this shameless display of libido. It's seen as heavenly and put in the same twee category as a sunset or a teardrop. In fact it's a bunch of blokes sat in a hedge bellowing “Shag me! I'm great!” If humans tried it, the police would scoop them up quicker than you can say “Anti-social behaviour order.”

Name, Rank and Serial Number

I learned one interesting thing from the trial of Keith Owen, phoney egg retailer. Owen has just been convicted for what must be a very tempting crime. He sold eggs to supermarkets claiming they came from free range hens eating proper grain. In fact, of course, they were from battery creatures gorging chemicals. Owen was given three years in prison and forced to return his £3m profits. What I didn't learn, incidentally, was to whom he gave the money. The government, most likely. the supermarkets possibly. Almost certainly not the customers who paid mark-up prices for his eggs believing the originators bore the fripperies, like feathers and beaks, denied to caged hens.

But what I did learn was how the authorities try to prevent scams like Owen's. Every single egg in Britain is apparently stamped with a unique serial number. Every single egg. And if you have the right databases you can track down the farm where each was laid, the conditions, possibly even the actual mother. Looking at the three eggs left in my fridge, the numbers on two are too smudged to be legible. But here we are on the third: 1UK13714-B/B 18Mar. So with a few phone calls I might be able to find out which chicken squeezed this out of her nether regions.

I'm almost tempted to try. To write a letter of thanks, perhaps, if the egg is particularly good. Or one of complaint if it has annoying features like a thick inner skin, pointing out that the art of cooking eggs is a precise one and the slightest deviation can be disastrous. Maybe, though, I should be apologising to the poor hen, free range though she is. After all, when she laid this egg she must have thought she was giving birth to a son or daughter, the next in the new generation of her proud family. When in fact she was just supplying me with lunch. Not even that: part of a lunch. Together with another thwarted attempt at chicken procreation and some noodles, whose own hopes and dreams are unknown.