I did a (posh) chicken on Christmas Day. It hasn't been anywhere near a fridge, but it has been reheated every day as it gradually turns from meal to leftovers to soup ready for tomorrow. I have not died yet. It's possible there's enough bacterial toxin build up in the soup to render me corpse-like by Monday, or at least strapped to the loo to stop diarrhoea blasting me into orbit (or the loft), but it's a gamble I'm prepared to take, given how monumentally good the soup tastes tonight.
Nobody ever accused me of undercooking meat though. It gets sealed in a steamy water bath to keep it moist, and blasted at gas mark Saturn V until the bacteria stop screaming or the kitchen lino starts melting, whichever comes first.