When I go sneaking up to the beach house with my good friend, we buy a cooked chicken in Warkworth, stuffed if possible, with fresh crunchy bread, some coleslaw, a red onion, and half a dozen on the vine tomatoes and a can of beetroot. Or so. Dinner. And we have it when we want it. I think one would have to be very unlucky to get a chicken tumbling with meanies. I really do. I never worry about it. And have never been subjected to revolting response.