It is a dead chicken factory, in Portadown's dull industrial estate. I went here twice, in the very first days of january 2002, on nightshifts. The factory relies heavily on agency staff. we work wrapped in food safety-approved suits, in the chill, paid minimum wages, which is understandable: the task doesn't require neither skills nor talent. When the 12 hours henocide ends, one leaves the place numb and smelling dead chicken. So the trip back - Belfast in the minibus is ... particular. While not being an exhilarating experience, a shift at Moy Park remains an initiating ritual of an immigrant agency worker.