THE IDIOT GARDENER

It's time to say farewell

2012-02-11T02:20:00.000-08:00

Time is a fickle mistress. One day she parades around in front of you, revealing glimpses of her voluptuous heaving bosom, her shapely thigh, her peachy buttocks. She lures you in with a warm whispered suggestion of what she can do for you, and then as you settle into her glowing embrace she is gone, off like a wanton wife away back to the cuckolded husband. All you are left with is a split second pause before you realise you are alone in a cold bed, sleeping in the wet patch!

Yes, for me, Time has left the boudoir, and I am bereft of her loving touch, that trace of a caring finger on my otherwise idiotic cheek. Still, at least the shed is tidy! On the subject of the shed, a few pointed out that I negated to post an 'after' picture, so before I slip into the murky depths of this post, here it is. By the way, the 'before' picture is in the previous post!

Time has also played me a cruel trick; she has given me something that is of little use. I previously mentioned the £200 seed order, which not only includes a hell of a lot of seeds for the field, but also extra seed potatoes and onion sets for the new plot. These all arrived in very quick order. A gift from Mother Time, perhaps, but a bloody useless one. Following hot on the heels of the seeds came an email from the organiser of the new allotment site. There is an issue, it seems, with access. No further details, but the proposed meeting of the Association is cancelled, as is the work party to mark out plots. Since then, nothing but silence. Still, there's nothing I can do about it, so I shan't waste the time I haven't got worrying!

Mrs IG has also been robbed by that whore and strumpet, Mother Time. The bathroom is so close; so close and yet so far. It still needs a bath surround, the pipes boxing in and some final painting. The bath and shower are in, and I've kept the square theme with a square toilet. I even managed to get in her good books by realising her desire for plantation shutters. Also, her doubts about a Bearwood floor have been eliminated, and we've even replaced all the towels with new black Eqyptian Cotton ones - but I won't let her use them until all of the work is done!

And so to today. Now, for someone with a very foul mouth, I try not to swear too much in this tissue of idiocy, but I have one thing to say: it's fucking freezing! I have a bit of organic matter to try and dig into the frozen solid soil, and I have rhubarb to plant (although as the ground is solid that will go into an old tin bath). Then I have to try and find my passport, pack a few things, eat the last rabbit in the fridge, drink the last half case of beer, and then, my ice-covered shivering gardening chums, I shall be off.

I am trading this...

for this...

Don't weep for me too long!

See you all in early March!

Reality Attack!

2012-02-06T02:39:00.000-08:00

I've just completed my seed order. I know it would be a big one, because I'm buying for two now - the garden and the field, of course; don't be silly, I haven't got a friend! There are some things I'm doubling up on at both sites, and other things that'll only be at one or the other. I figure anything that needs TLC or that I might want to pick on a whim will be in the garden, and stuff that likes space and can be picked more or less as staples will go the field.

So, the seed order, along with seed potatoes and onion sets, came to a less than small change amount. Indeed, it was over £200. Okay, I know that many of the seeds will also service next year's needs, and I also accept that I've been a right twat and bought too much stuff, but that's what life is like when you're an idiot!

I did have one slight wobble during the process, where I received inspiration from two other bloggers, in the form of John at Going Gently and Hippo at the Hippo blog thing (yes, too lazy to do two mouse clicks and find out the proper name). John has just seen two pigs transform into 85 kilos of sausages and a shed-load of meat. Hippo has just sold his every possession of value to set up a bar and restaurant in Angola. Now, some might think that John will get swinefever and Hippo will end his days in a muddy backwater intoxicated by misery, but I don't. Then I read Kyna's blog talking about her old old husband Chuck turning 50 - something I have no intention of doing until much later this year - and I thought "fuck it, should I buy a smallholding?"

Mrs IG looked at the devastation that I cheerily call our house, and then turned towards the bombsite that I cheerily call the garden, and then I swear, she denied it but I am eagle-eyed if nothing else, I did see the glint of a tear form in her eye. She was obviously deliriously happy at the thought, but as I searched the interweb I discovered most affordable plots are either in Wales or Lincolnshire. Oh well...

Anyway, I checked my job list and found a few things outstanding.

Finish the bathroom.

Dig out footings for new greenhouse.

Dig out footings for new driveway.

Clear beds and prepare for Spring.

Build deck for Mrs IG.

Build new raised herb bed.

Build new raised veg bed.

De-turf the field plot.

Tidy shed.

Sort out holiday shit.

I went outside, fork in hand, and jabbed it into the earth. She declined my penetration, like a rock shuns the impact of a breeze-borne feather. "Bollocks to this" I cried, and headed for the shed.

How in the name of perverted badger love did this happen? What kind of madness has led me to this state of crapness? The thought did enter my head that I had suffered an intrusion, during which the culprits had dumped a load of old shit in my shed. How was I going to clear this up? What would Barry Gibb do?

As the snow fell and Mrs IG sat inside in the warm with a Pina Colada and a re-run of Titanic, I toiled and shifted and reorganised. Then, at around 2am, I sat proudly in the middle of a tidy and organised shed, beer in hand, and realised that when all is said and done, I'm a right stupid bastard at times. I then vowed on a crumpled copy of Motorcycle News that I would never allow such devastation to enter my shed again.

I then arose, and leaving the light and the heater on, the chair in the middle of the floor, and the empty beer bottle balanced atop the propagator, I headed for my bed.

Mrs IG had, I am glad to report, stopped weeping!

I am weak

2012-01-31T14:15:00.000-08:00

I am weak. I admit it, I am weak.

It was over-priced. It was impractical. It was calling to me.

I bought it for Mrs IG. I did it for her. I was not lured in and hooked by aesthetics alone. I was not blinded by fashion. I was not...

Okay, I was lured in, just a bit.

How much? Well...

Yeah, I know.

A fool and his money!

2012-01-28T02:38:00.000-08:00

The few fools that have been reading this tissue of idiocy may recall that back when this gardening adventure started, way back exactly two years and two months ago, I hadn't got a clue. What I knew about gardening could have been written on the back of a standard postage stamp. A mere 26 months later, what I know about gardening could be written on the back of a slightly larger Christmas Edition postage stamp ... if you used big letters!

In my early searches for knowledge, I was seduced by celebrity gardening woman Sarah Raven. When I say seduced, I don't mean she touched my winkle or forced me to give her bum love, although had she been intent on such things I would have been powerless to resist. She's a big old bus; imagine a fair skinned Mr T with breasts, and you're getting close. No, indeed, I went to a lecture about gardening at Sissinghurst, and was mesmerised by the information she dolled out. Of course, looking back, it was one big advert for her seed collection!

Being at a NT property (owned, incidentally, by Raven's other half), there was an over-priced lunch chucked in. Over a very average stew, one Chinese lady remarked that Raven's books were good, but that her seeds had poor germination rates. For some reason, that nugget of info didn't resurface until it was too late.

I went through the Raven's seed catalogue in the following days. Yes, they were expensive, and yes, the seed counts were low, which made them doubly expensive, but I had been seduced, so I ordered them. The first cracks appeared with the delivery of the seed order. Most of it was right, but there was one error. I was sent a packet of oak leaf lettuce instead of wild rocket. I telephoned them, bit instead of a friendly chat I has some surly cow barking down the phone that I should return the oak leaf lettuce immediately, and once they had it back and were assured it hadn't been tampered with, then - and only then - would they send out the wild rocket.

I'm a mild mannered man, so a second conversation took place where the words "shit", "bollocks", "send", "fucking", "seeds", "now", "legal", "pestilence" and "vaginismus" may well have been used by myself. The surly bitch quickly changed her tone and reassured me that the missing rocket seeds were on their way, and would I pretty please be so kind as to return the oak leaf lettuce. I didn't.

The germination rates were terrible, truly terrible. In fact, of all the seeds I used (including some my friend found at the back of his shed which belonged to his mother who had died a decade earlier) the Raven's seeds had the lowest germination rate. The oak leaf lettuce only put up two plants, so I was glad I didn't pay for them. The result was that I publicly, on this very blog, swore off celebrity gardeners and trendy gimmicks, vowing to once more take an almost scholastic approach to idiocy.

Although the Raven's seeds didn't cost a huge amount more than standard seeds, afterwards even I was shocked that I had fallen into the trap. I'm not tight: if anything I am very generous. However, I am also very principled and usually refuse to pay over the going rate if someone is trying it on. An example of this is Deborah Yeates.

When I was a youth, I didn't have a clearly defined "type" when it came to women. Some were tall, some were short, they might be fat or thin, hairy or bald, loud or disturbingly quiet and withdrawn. I seemed to gravitate towards extremes. The fine details didn't matter either. They didn't need a full complement of limbs or organs. I once dated a girl with one eye because I liked the idea of having a girlfriend with an eye patch. I even once asked out a girl who wore calipers (whatever happened to calipers?) but she turned me down!

Deborah Yeates was different. She exuded class and sophistication. Her clothes were tailored and hugged her curves, and yes, she had curves. I'm not talking a big arse or a roll of fat around her belly from too many chip-shop suppers. I'm talking Monroe-esque curves. Her hair was perfect, her eyes both looked in the same direction, her teeth were straight and white, her skin was unblemished and smooth like fine bone china, and she had a cleavage the type of which you only ever saw in films.

She didn't have scuffed toes on her shoes or carpet burns on her knees, and I'd bet her perfect fingernails never scratched her peach-shaped arse. I knew three people who had gone out with her, and all of them had cried when she ditched them. These weren't wimps; these were hard-as-they-come blokes, but losing Deborah Yeates had reduced them to tears. She was a legend; if you dated her, you got mass kudos from your peers.

Deborah Yeates was most certainly not my "type".

Deborah Yeates worked on the Deli counter at Waitrose in Brent Cross Shopping Centre. In the 1970s, Brent Cross was the first ever mall-type shopping centre in the UK, and Waitrose had a flagship store there. At that time, Deli counters in supermarkets in the UK were home to corned beef, breaded boiled ham, chicken roll, pork pie with a hard boiled egg in it, liver sausage, brawn and haslet. Usually they'd have three or four of the above. That was it. Mention olives, and people thought you were talking about the ugly bird from "On the Buses".

You must remember that this was a time when people purchased the K-Tel Bottle Cutter, a tool designed to allow you to cut the bottoms off bottles to make handy tumblers! If you saw a girl with a wide smile, you knew her Mum had a K-Tel Bottle Cutter. Anyway, back the Deli. Waitrose's Deli counter had all of the above (the food, not the Bottle Cutter), plus salami, pastrami, roast pork and vine leaves stuffed with rice. Deborah Yeates had tasted them all. She was truly cosmopolitan.

Not available from Deli counters in the UK during the 1970s!

When Fat Barry, the hospital porter, told me that Deborah Yeates had been asking about me, I was - in all honesty - a little flattered. I wasn't interested, just flattered. Then Terry from the Crash Repair Centre told me his brother played football with Adam Yeates, who had been complaining that his sister could do a lot better than the bloke she had set her sights on, which was me. Then when Jim - who had been sacked from Waitrose a few weeks earlier for punching a manager - told me it was the first time she'd been after someone, instead of it being the other way around, I made my decision.

Deborah Yeates was pretty, of that there was no doubt. I could recognise that, but she wasn't my type. I also had never spoken to her. I didn't know anything about her. How could I contemplate going out with a girl who had a personality I knew nothing about? I was a scruffy spotty punk rocker, and she was ... well, she was Deborah Yeates. I also knew that if I went out with her, it couldn't be the usual date. She wasn't a "five pints of cider, bag of chips and a chance to slip her the finger in Mac Fisheries' car park" type of girl.

It was, looking back, mostly down to ego, but I asked Deborah Yeates out.

The waiter was going to refuse me entry to the Bistro, but then he saw Deborah and gave me a knowing wink. We had prawn cocktail to start. The prawns were tasteless and weren't properly defrosted. The sauce was from a jar. It was shit, but it was expensive shit. Deborah called it "luxurious". We didn't talk much. For the main course I had a Rustic Normandy Stew, which turned out to be tough pork in a tomato sauce. She had Tournedos Rossini, which wasn't Tournedos Rossini, but a bit of steak on toast with some basic pate on it. Chips cost extra. She chose the wine; she went for Piat D'Or, which back then was elegance for the uneducated masses. I can't remember what she had for afters, but it was some over-priced sugary shit. I had nothing. The bill was pretty much close to a week's worth of disposable income.

Afterwards she suggested we go to a wine bar. By this point, I had realised that I was wasting my money as well as my time. We had nothing in common, she irritated me, and I was paying through the nose for a date with someone who wasn't even going to let me feel her up. I took her to the White Bear. She wanted a Brandy and Babycham. I bought her a pint of bitter, and insisted that she drank it.

Deborah Yeates ended that evening as a different woman. Her shoe's toes were scuffed and her knees were dirty. Her perfect make-up was smeared and her eyes were filled with tears. Her dress had a splatter of vomit on it. She spent at least 15 minutes in the White Bear car park, kneeling over the drain, spewing. I felt sorry for her, and I felt bad for having ruined the evening, but I wasn't going to pay over the odds for a night out with a girl with no personality or humour. She was a pretty face on a vacant soul. Full stop.

As you can see, the Raven incident was an aberration. I'm not given to wasting money, although I'm not bothered about spending it if it's worthwhile.

While I was making the seed list for 2012, I used a very good book - Jekka's Complete Herb Book by Jekka McVicar - to help me finalise my herb requirements. Then I found something out. Jekka McVicar has her own seed supply business. I was on the web-site ordering away when suddenly the thought of Sarah Raven and Deborah Yeates popped into my head. I checked the seed cost total, and it was nearly £60. I logged into Nicky's Nursery and placed the exact same order, with only one packet of seeds that NN didn't stock. The order came to £20.

I had remembered, and I had learned.

Before you all congratulate me on a lesson well learned, think on. In my last post I alluded to a sink that looked pretty good. It's by a company called Duravit. I showed it Mrs IG. Things have changed. Duravit is Sarah Raven and Jekka McVicar pulling a chariot bearing Deborah Yeates. Duravit is everything I hate, but seemingly everything Mrs IG loves. Yes, it looks great, and the prices seem okay until you add up all the extras, but Duravit will rob me of more than the Raven, McVicar and Yeates put together.

Ladies, feel free to click below, and then show your husbands and watch them wilt. Gentlemen, only click below if your wife/other half has left town.

Please enjoy some BATHROOM PORN!

Two things of note

2012-01-27T10:05:00.000-08:00

This week I have done two things. Okay, I've obviously done more than two things, because 'go to sleep' and 'wake up' would be it all otherwise. No, I have done two things of note. Okay, I suppose the venison and black pudding stew was of note, as was the pear, rhubarb and chocolate tart. The visit to the doctor was also notable as he wasn't there, so I got a Locum. She was unimpressed when I turned down the prescription for pain killers, pointing out that I had better ones at home. She was interested how I'd got them, and when I told her I'd bought them over the counter in Cambodia she gave me that look that is reserved for a true idiot! Anyway, she's sending me for a scan.

What was I rambling on about? Oh yes, two things of note. Thing one was that I made a list of the seeds I require for this season. The list comprised two parts; the garden and the field. It covered four sheets of A4 paper. Considering that I have to build three beds and a greenhouse in the garden, and remove 250 square metres of sod at the field, the planting might be a tad ambitious. I am hoping that the world freezes over while I'm away in Thailand so I technically won't miss any planting time!

The other thing I have done, through gritted teeth and with great discomfort, is learn to tile. The bathroom walls are pretty uneven, so common sense says have a small tile to minimise lippage (or whatever tile people call it). Anyway, I figured that big tiles look better, so that called for a nice thick layer of adhesive. The first tile took around an hour, but I soon had the hang of it.

There is one wall which is very out of true (that's tiling talk, by the way), and because there's a window in it I can't build the wall out. The answer? Well, I figured if the tiles do have lippage, it's best for that lippage to be behind something. To this end, I have sourced a floor to ceiling radiator that is a solid stainless steel sheet. It will go nicely with my passion for all things stainless steel.

I have also found a very impractical but brilliant looking sink. It's 80cm wide, and like a solid piece of porcelain with a scoop taken out of the middle. It cost a bit extra, but I figured it might give the room a bit of impact. I also think I'll be using Bearwood for the floor. It's got a very old and distressed look to it; I wanted it in the kitchen a few years ago, but it was a bit too much as everything else was continual tone in there.

I also have a shape theme going on. Square. I don't know why, but curves are offensive to my eye in decor. Square is the future. Mrs IG agrees, because she just wants the bathroom done.

I asked her the other night if she believes it will ever get finished.

She said "No".

It's nice to be appreciated!

When the going gets tough...

2012-01-21T08:21:00.000-08:00

Those few fools that have read this utter toss over the last year may recall that my 2011 - like many other peoples' 2001s - started with doom, gloom and sorrow. In 2012 I was determined to not allow negativity to force its bony hand through my letterbox of happiness ... or something like that.

So, how has 2012 been so far?

Well, it started off okay. As highlighted in the last two posts, I managed to get my hands on the window to start my home-made greenhouse, and I seemingly have swung myself an allotment plot, albeit one covered with sod. So far, so good, eh? Then a package arrived, which was unexpected, and the Sister had sent me a little gift; something that I saw at her house and coveted (calm down, it's just a bloody huge bone china coffee cup featuring scientific drawings of the human body). Then I found out that the bastard scum neighbours were selling up. It just got better and better, and when Mrs IG wanted to have a serious word in my ear, I didn't care how serious her face was.

Mrs IG, it transpires, is not a happy woman. No, she's not. She's unhappy. Distinctly unhappy. Why? Well, like you, I can't see one single reason why she could be unhappy, but she is. Apparently, I have spent a year and a bit focusing upon gardening, I have made space for brewing and baking and sausage-making and indulged in each with a passion. I have cleaned and polished and showered love on the two Kawasakis. I have gently stroked my banjo (no, you dirty fuckers, I really have got a banjo). However, I have done sweet nothing to the bathroom.

Women and men see bathrooms differently. We see a place to rinse your ballsack and do a wee-wee. Women see a place to relax, luxuriate and pamper themselves by candlelight (despite the fact we do have lights in there). Now, I do accept that a few years ago I promised to do something with the bathroom. Maybe a coat of paint, a floor or even a door. However, other things just seemed so much more important. Like gardening, and beer, and bread, and motorcycles, and playing my very real banjo which is not an euphemism for my penis.

I figured the bathroom could wait, because it was okay. I'm not saying it's lovely, or pretty or beautiful. I'm saying it was okay. That's all. Mrs IG, however, does not agree.

I explained to her, very slowly, that bathrooms were for rinsing your ballsack and doing a wee-wee, and that aesthetics weren't that important in a world sinking beneath a tidal wave of sovereign debt, but before I could go on and tell her about the starving children in Africa she became somewhat agitated. Preferring my ballsack to contain my balls, I agreed that maybe I should get around to it sooner rather than later.

She told me about a man ... I stopped listening, and as soon as silence fell and I knew she had stopped talking I told her that I would do the work myself. She went on about the man, and I reiterated that I would do it myself. We reached something of an impasse when she was screaming, "You won't do it, you lazy bastard" while I screamed back at her, "I'll do it myself, all builders are thieves!"

I decided to show willing so I went upstairs with a stepladder and did some measuring. Then I stepped off the ladder without remembering to go down it first. I do have a shonky back from many years ago, but it now has a prolapsed disk. Even with the best that Cambodian morphine (slightly out of date, but still good to go) can offer, it still stings a bit! Sitting around doing nothing while off my face might have been great in the 1970s, but now I find it a bit dull.

So, Project Bathroom is on hold, and I can't get started on cutting the sod off the allotment (mind you, the paperwork is still being dealt with so I couldn't do that anyway). The garden itself looks like a bomb has gone off and I can't get out there until my spine calms down. No really, it does look like a bomb has gone off...

So many jobs to do, so little ability! I'm doing what I can. I've made a few lists. I've made a list of all the lists I've made, but if the truth be told I'm getting nowhere real fast. What's an idiot to do?

This morning I looked at myself in the mirror (one balanced on a couple of nails knocked into the wall above the toilet) and I realised that 2012 could slide into the sewer IF I LET IT HAPPEN! There had to be something I could do that would take away the stress of the situation, make me feel better about the pain, and make Mrs IG smile!

I made that telephone call. No, don't be silly, not to her 'man'; all builders really are thieves. No, I've booked her in for a three-course dinner, served out of a tin foil container! She might forgive me because the tin foil container will be delivered by a stewardess, on a hairyplane, and we'll be off to Thailand. If that doesn't make he shut up about the bathroom, I don't know what will!

When the going get's tough, the tough go on holiday!

Case closed!

Sod off!

2012-01-14T03:45:00.000-08:00

The Idiot empire is expanding. See all that land? That's mine. Well, okay, it's not mine, but 250 square metres of it is mine to rent! Now, those amongst you with cataracts might not have spotted that it's a bloody great big field with nothing in it except some overgrown grass. If you did spot that, well, go to the top of the class, because that's what it is.

Some people take on cultivated allotments and within days are sowing their seed. Some people take on overgrown allotments and spend a few weeks renovating before sowing their seed. Only an idiot takes on a field. Did someone call?

This is the new allotment site. It's a private site, so there's no big help from the Council. It's a bunch of like-minded people with no money turning a field into 26 allotment plots. It's what it is - an exciting opportunity. Around the edges of the plots there are plans for a community orchard and maybe a vineyard. It's not what I expected when I was told I could have an allotment plot, but in a way its a hell of a lot better.

There's no one to do anything for anyone. We've got a field, and that's the extent of it. We'll have to fund and fit deer fencing, run water pipes, mark the plots out, basically do everything ourselves. There also seems to be a collective interest in brewing and wine making too, which is worrying, in a good way. I've never had an allotment, but I've a feeling that even by allotment standards this project is coming in a bit off-centre!

Now, I accept that I'm a bloody idiot, but at times my idiocy is tempered by a basic understanding of what I'm trying to achieve. This time it's not so clear. This time I am at a loss, I am perplexed, I am stretched to a point that an idiot should never be stretched to ... by sod!

How in the name of Barry Gibb do I deal with this? Where do I even start? I googled 'sod', and my eyes bled for a few hours.

Now, as I see it, I have five options.

OPTION 1: I can remove the sod, dig over the ground and get planting. I can either remove the sod by hand or use a turf cutter. Then all the turf can be piled up, wrapped in black plastic, and left for a year to turn to loam. It will be hard work, and I'll lose a few inches of topsoil.

OPTION 2: I can dig down, turn the sod so the grass is under the soil, and then spend the rest of the year battling with the grass that resurfaces. It's hard work, and could be a continual pain in the arse.

OPTION 3: I can wait until no one is looking and then soak the entire area with glyphosate, wait a few weeks then dig it over. It's easier work, I keep my topsoil, but it will be saturated with herbicide.

OPTION 4: I can cover the area with newspaper and a layer of topsoil and let the grass die off underneath. It'll be easier work, but I'll need a whole bunch of topsoil, and there's no vehicular access to the site so I'll be forever barrowing the stuff in, plus it could be detrimental to anything that grows more than a few inches deep.

OPTION 5: Someone (that's you lot) has a better idea!

Come on then, share the wisdom you gardening folks!

Idiot see, Idiot do! (Greenhouse Project Part 1)

2012-01-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who always says that if I fell into a pile of cow shit I'd come out with a cigar. I think that what he was saying, in his own way, is that he considers me to be a lucky bastard. Now, I would actually take a contrary position. I think I'm a fairly unlucky person. Things don't tend to fall into my lap. However, I will admit that I do tend to get the odd 'result', but because I simply can't sit back and wait for things to happen. I tend to push forwards, to charge in where others fear to tread. It's a bit like life is a beer shop, with one glass left on sale. If I ain't pushing to the front, I ain't having no beer!

Of course, sometimes when I push forwards, I get to the front only to discover that life isn't selling a lovely cold glass of beer, but a lukewarm pooh-shake. In such cases I just tend to make a joke about it as I swig down the frothing turd juice. I'm not lucky, but I ain't crying like a ginger step-child who has just discovered that his penis is shaped like a croissant.

I'm certainly not an optimist either. I'm a pessimist. I wallow in the infinite possibilities of disaster and misery. Then, when the shit hits the fan, I just shrug and make a joke about it because I knew it was coming. If things don't go wrong, then it's like finding yourself on a Disneyland ride, high on LSD and canoodling with a butt naked Anna Ryder Richardson!

I started 2012 with bravado. I'll admit much of it was a front. The very idea of ever getting an allotment was pathetic, and as for the concept of constructing a greenhouse out of reclaimed tat that would like a palace was gibberish. Even Aimee at New to Farm Life commented, 'Also I have greenhouse made out old timber and patio doors. Good luck making yours look like a palace because mine looks like shit.'

I began to rethink the plans. I had seen a wooden greenhouse of a decent size, but it was £5,000. Five big ones? I could buy my own tomatoes for a year, get a bunch of coke, a few gallons of rum and a bevy of dwarf strippers for that money, and still have enough left to by Mrs IG some 'sorry' flowers! I also had decided that I didn't want to be messing around with cheap shit glass that would crack every time it snowed or some drunk bloke fell into it. That left old double glazing windows and patio doors, and these are obviously made to measure. It meant the greenhouse would be a patchwork mess. Nothing would be the same size. Nothing would line up. It was, as Aimee observed, going to look shit.

I realised that none of the windows would line up. Okay, that's not an issue at the back, maybe, but I needed the front to look smart. Aimee's words kept reverberating in my head, even after loads of beer and painkillers.

After saying 'Ballsacks' over and over again, I remembered that I'm a bloody idiot, so I set to work. I knew I needed one set of patio doors, to get in and out of the bloody thing, but if I could just find one window to cover the frontage, that wouldn't be a patchwork of ill-fitting bits and pieces. It would be one window, singular, linear, maybe slightly attractive too...

"Idiot", I hear you cry, "a double patio door will be roughly 2 x 2 metres (that's around 6 x 6 feet), and if you're looking for a structure that's roughly 4 x 3 metres (around 12 x 9 feet), that means you'd need one window that measures 2 x 2 metres to go alongside the door. Where in the name of Sodom and Gomorrah are you going to find a window that size?"

"Aha", I reply. "What about if the window was a brand new double glazed double sash window? Imagine that, a bloody huge window to create a uniform front, with four lovely sliding sashes to make it look totally fucking cool?"

"Yeah", you scream. "Where are you going to find something like that without paying a King's ransom?"

"Well", I reply, "right here..."

Yes indeedy ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the front of the Idiot Greenhouse Project, obviously without the front door part. It seems that this window is simply too big for most people, so I managed to pick it up for a pittance as the bloke just wanted it out of his life!

So far, to be honest, I am loving 2012!

Sniff my greenhouse!

2012 - A year of gardening dangerously!

2011-12-31T02:42:00.000-08:00

Can you tell what it is yet?

Let's be honest; 2011 started badly, with grief before the year had even begun. It was as if that shit tainted the whole year for me, creating a smudge of misery that permeated everything I attempted to achieve. Every time I thought I saw a turning point, a chink of light far off on the horizon, Old Father Time sharpened his scythe and rammed it, each time a little deeper, right where the sun don't shine. What with the arse-based lacerations of sorrow and the wobbly weather, the whole year never really got going. It felt flat, and towards the end of the year I was down. Down, but not out! No siree, not out at all. Except for when I went out, but that's different.

Now 2012 is upon us, and it will hopefully be a better year. Okay, it WILL be a better year, most definitely. Hope has nothing to do with it; there's no room for optimism, only positivity and sheer bloody-mindedness. Hope is for the hopeless, and clues are for the clueless. For idiots, there's only the pure utter unadulterated conviction that everything will come together in a perfect conclusion!

Firstly, there is still every chance that the Idiot Masterplan will expand. I'm not counting my chickens, because I haven't got any, and if I did have any I couldn't be arsed to count them. I would just look at them and think, "I have some chickens". Why do you count chickens when you want something to happen, but count sheep when you need to sleep? What about pigs? Where was I? Oh yes, I'm not counting my imaginary chickens but I have been invited to the inaugral meeting of the new Allotment Association's committee. I figure that if they've done that, I must be in with a bloody good shot at getting a plot, although nothing has been confirmed as of yet. If I can get through that meeting without giving away the small fact that I'm a fucking twat, I might just be able to annex a bit more territory! Today, an allotment plot in Sussex, tomorrow Poland!

I have decreed that 2012 will also be the year of the greenhouse. Am I buying myself a greenhouse? Am I bollocks! I'm going to build one, made out of old timber, patio doors and other shit! The challenge is to use a bunch of old crap, but to make it look like a palace. I'll probably put a cupola on it too! I don't know why, but it has something to do with my madness which decrees I can't do anything without going right over the top.

What with the allotment and the greenhouse, I intend to expand the Idiot Mastercrop to include onions, globe artichokes, shallots, celery, sweetcorn and peas, as well as having a second crack at celeriac, salsify, fennel and leeks. There will also be rhubarb and raspberries. I also intend to stop growing herbs in a collection of pots and create a multi-tiered herbage reminiscent of an Escher drawing!

So, you might be wondering, what's dangerous about any of that old nonsense. Well, allow me to elucidate: 2012 will also be the year that I burst - snarling and slavering - onto the horticultural show scene. Well, the Oxted and Edenbridge Agricultural Show to be exact! After Mr Depressing Bastard sneered at the sad story about my tomatoes last year, this year I intend to win something, and then to celebrate by kicking his cripple stick away. It might not be fair, it might not be big, and it might be very insensitive, but fuck him; he started it!

So that's the main plan for 2012 (alongside the staple crops too, plus hopefully another new raised bed), and if you think it's a lot to achieve, then you're be bloody well right. Give yourself a Gold Star for spotting the bleeding obvious. However, as every year passes, the voices get louder, and I need hard toil to block them out (yeah, thanks Dad for the mentalism).

2012? Bring it on!

Never again...

2011-12-29T03:21:00.000-08:00

Back when I was shaking off my teenage years, there was a girl who drank in the pub. She was witty, intelligent, slim, gorgeous and generally the sexiest thing that prowled the streets of North London. Everyone sighed whenever she entered the pub, and I too sighed. I will admit this much. We became friends; drinking buddies and partners in crime. I knew her boyfriend too, so there wasn't an issue.

A friend of mine worked in a bar in town, and he was leaving, but his boss didn't know he was leaving! He told us to come up for a free drink or two, so I went with her. We spent the night downing free glass after free glass, and eventually staggered back to my flat with a few bags of carry outs. After the barman (or ex-barman) had popped by to take his share, we set about drinking the rest.

Alcohol, a pretty girl, a cold frosty world outside; it was inevitable that we clumsily fell together in a drunken moment of lust. Well, we nearly fell together, because while I was still trying to get my boots off there was a knock on the door. I should have ignored it, but beer and vodka had gripped my brain. I opened the portal to find a chilled but rather angry looking other half to the beauty who was currently trying to remove her jeans in my living room. In his hands he held two suitcases. One was bulging, held with one lock, an arm or leg of a garment hanging out. He might have had the most beautiful girlfriend in London, but he was shit at packing.

He placed the suitcases on my doorstep, snarled "you can have her", and turned back into the cold night air. When I told the young lady that she seemingly no longer had an abode, she became distressed. I could see my night of drunken lust going out of the window, so I did what an young male would do, and said she could stay with me as long as she needed to!

She was, pardon the language, a fucking nightmare. She seemingly didn't understand that flush toilets could be flushed. She ate everything. If I shopped for a week, she ate it all in one go. Despite this, she remained slim. Maybe that's how she managed to fill the toilet bowl within seconds of me flushing her crap away. She'd go out and leave the door open. She lost her key four times in a week, and each time kicked the back door in instead of waiting for me to come back. She'd turn on the gas cooker, forget to light it and go out. The old man in the flat upstairs nearly died, as did I when I came home drunk and collapsed on the sofa.

After a few weeks she disappeared. One of her friends saw me in the pub and told me she was back with her ex. I went home, packed her cases, and left them outside her front door.I didn't knock; I just ran away and left them there. I was worried she might come back with me! I vowed then; never again! Never let beauty get in the way of having your own space.

This Christmas Mrs IG and I hosted six guests. Four of them were children. Two three year old twins (that's one set of twins, not two lots of twins, thank the pretend Lord), a six year old and a moody 13 year old. Fuck me, don't little kids make a hole shitload of noise? If they weren't screaming they were shouting, or banging, they were putting the TV on really loud and shouting, screaming and banging over it. I told them that unless they were quiet, Christmas wouldn't happen. They screamed and shouted louder. I told them that Santa didn't exist, and that mince pies were made of dog shit, and that I would kill them. The noise just grew and grew.

Can you believe this; they got up before noon on Christmas Day? Why the fuck would anyone do that? They wouldn't eat rare venison. They wouldn't eat pigeon. They ripped open their presents, and then fought each other for the presents that the others had been given. I started drinking at 10am. So did their Mother!

I make no excuses, no pretence, no hiding of my feelings; I do not like children, in any shape or form. Why did I allow children inside my usually peaceful and quiet house? I'll tell you why; because Mrs IG wanted to see her family. My family can go screw themselves as far as I am concerned, but Mrs IG is different. She has yet to learn the joys of shunning your kith and kin. In order to keep her happy, I consented to the arrival of what turned out to be a bloody nightmare.

On Boxing Day I escaped, sort of! The stroppy 13 year old loves horses, so we went off to Kempton Park where I introduced her to the real meaning of Christmas: drinking and gambling. She had her first ever winners (yep, winners, three of them) and we saw Kauto Star win, which was bloody brilliant. Then the sun set and we headed back to the madness.

Yesterday, the house was quiet. There was no mess, no chocolates trampled into the carpet, no screaming and shouting in the background when I sipped my morning beer, no fucking Dora the Explorer blasting from a TV in an empty room. The earth was cold and frosty, a bit like the night I inherited the pretty girl from Hell.

My fingers turned numb as I cleared the last stragglers from the beds and spread some calcified seaweed. The frosty earth bit at me as I removed the final few roots and added compost. The cold mattered not, for it was silent. As I wiped the snot from my frozen nose, I surveyed my garden and realised how those soldiers must have felt emerging from the trenches in 1918, the guns having fallen silent at then end of the war to end all wars.

It was over; the Christmas to end all Christmases!

Never again! Never fucking again!

Kill the hippies!

2011-12-20T07:11:00.000-08:00

First off, apologies for my absence. Thanks to my Sony craptop dying after a long haul of 12.5 months, and my idleness with sourcing a replacement, I have enjoyed a disconnection with the interweb.

I was born in the very early 1960s, and I started to grow hair in new places in the early to mid 1970s. By the late 1970s I was a raging ball of testosterone and that meant one thing: Punk Rock! I was a spotty greasy snarling venomous little shit, with a fondness for girls in short skirts and fishnet stockings, and loud music.

I knew of the hippies. I didn't mind them, but I didn't get their attitude. It was all love-and-peace look-at-the-flowers and praise-the-sunshine bullshit to me. They just sat around, they smiled at everyone, and the women wore dungarees and armpit hair. Oh yeah, and they ate seeds and drank fruit juice. Fruit juice? I fucking ask you, how did they ever think they were going to change the world, sitting in a field banging tambourines until it was time for another shit in the bushes.

Over the years, I've stumbled across the odd remaining hippy, and again they haven't done anything to annoy me. They're a little bit slow, I will concur, and maybe not as go-for-it as I prefer people to be, but their back-to-mother-earth airs and graces are more amusing than irritating.

So why, you might ask, do these slow but acceptable beings suddenly raise my ire? I'll tell you why. Get a bit of dirt, dig it over, sow a few seeds, and the fucking hippies can't keep their bloody noses out of your business. They start meddling by feigning an interest.

Are you organic?

Do you seed-save?

Does permaculture ring your bell?

Isn't Mother Nature wonderful?

Got any spare (meaning free) seeds?

Then the lazy good-for-nothings give you advice.

Sow in drifts, not rows. Mother Nature doesn't sow in rows!

Here's why Mother Nature doesn't sow in rows; she's too busy creating enough pig-shit to replace your addled braincells. I'm stupid too, because I listened to them. I figured anyone with that much dirt on their clothes must know something about gardening. Here's what happened. The hippies screwed my root veg!

Old Ma Nature is a cantankerous whore. She cares not for the fat roots that fill my belly. All she cares about is continuity. Grow the plant, let it flower to make seeds, and spread the seed for more plants. That's it, you bloody hippy knob-heads. I want roots, which need room, and rows give more room than drifts. You get my drift, you long-haired layabout bastards?

I was a fool, but the blindness of idiocy has been lifted (well, it's like a small corner has been lifted) and now I see the hippies for what they really are: FREAKS!

Get a haircut, have a bath, put on some clean clothes and stay the shit out of my business. And then, maybe, just maybe, I won't have to run your sorry lazy arse over next time I see you crossing the road!

Bless its pointed little head

2011-12-09T13:32:00.001-08:00

When I awoke this morning to the news that David Cameron had told France and Germany where they could stick their worthless Euro notes, I felt proud. It's not because I am interested in politics, nor because I am interested in economics. No; it was the fact that the French and Germans seemed to be a trifle pissed off at our totally British arrogance.

Was? Sie zahlen nicht für die fehler, die wir gemacht haben?

Mon Dieu! Nous sommes dans la merde jusqu'a nos cous.

The audacity of that nasty man, telling the dance masters and sausage guzzlers to get on their bikes. It was odd really, because I was planning a post about the Germans, and Germany.

Over the years, I haven't really liked the Germans and Germany. It wasn't a dislike; I just didn't care enough. I visited Berlin when I was about 17, and I liked the East bit. However, I found Germans to be a generally dull lot with odd shaped heads. As I traveled more, I found better places with nicer people, and Germany moved off my radar, never as low as France, but pretty low on my list. Then I visited Germany a number of times for work, and I met some pretty bastardish Germans. I tarred them all with the same brush, so to speak.

I do have two very good friends who are German, but I put them down as freaks. I told them about my general dislike of all things German, and they seemed to agree. For me, that was extensive research, a bit like when Moira Sheenan told me girls liked it to be over quickly!

Then something bad happened. FIFA decided to hold the World Cup in Germany. Suddenly I was forced to spend time - my own time, not work time, not time when someone was paying me - in Germany, with Germans. As I said to Mrs IG as the Brother and I headed for the airport with blazing hangovers and rucksacks filled with booze, 'I'm not going to enjoy this one little bit!'.

Our time in Germany came and went. We missed our flight home and stayed an extra week. We left with pockets filled with phone numbers, a taste for the Bratwurst and Dunkel Weiss Beer, and a love of the Hun. I only learned one word of German - wahrscheinlich - which seemed to be good for just about everything. I became a fan of all things German. I pestered Mrs IG to visit Germany. I went out there at any opportunity. I even started supporting St Pauli.

Earlier this year I bought some Filderkraut. The lovely Britta informed me it was a favourite in Germany for sauerkraut. The cabbages have big pointed heads, and grow quite large. The only one I have harvested so far is pictured above, unusually next to a beer. I didn't weigh it until I had removed the outer layers and trimmed it. It weighed in at 1.7kg.

Taste-wise, it is sweet and light, and boiled it is one of the best cabbages I have tasted. Raw it is great in salads and has a Kohlrabi kind of vibe. I have a huge one (ooh matron) ready for the dinner on BJ's birthday. I was going to make sauerkraut, but it's just too good.

Will I grow it again? Of course I bloody will.

Filderkraut; the best cabbage in the world. Wahrscheinlich!

The Baby Jesus and Me - a gardening truce?

2011-12-03T01:40:00.001-08:00

Okay, I know it should be the Baby Jesus and I, so save that little criticism!

Regular readers of this pile of pish will be aware of the fractious relationship that has developed between the Baby Jesus and myself in my two years (yes, two years, get me, I'm nearly a real gardener) of gardening. people often ask how it all came about.

"How did it all come about?" they ask.

So I tell them.

"Let me explain," I reply.

First off, most of you will know, or be aware, of the Baby Jesus. If you don't, he's the son of God, and one of the holy trinity. That's God, Baby Jesus and the Holy Ghost. Well, he was the Holy Ghost when I was a boy, but today, like Prince, he's changed his name. He's now the Holy Spirit. Ghost, of course, rhymes with toast, post, boast, most, roast, etc., giving plenty of opportunities for puerile poems. Spirit doesn't. The Pope hates puerile poems (maybe because Pope rhymes with dope, grope, rope, isotope and slippery slope) so he renamed the Holy Ghost the Holy Spirit.

Anyway, God made a virgin pregnant, and she gave birth to Baby Jesus. Then he was nailed to a tree and his followers waged war on anyone who didn't agree with them. Over a couple of thousand years, millions were killed because they didn't agree that the Christian's imaginary omnipresent deity was better than any other imaginary omnipresent deity. Anyone who didn't believe in any imaginary omnipresent deities was considered a heretic, and were therefore burned to death in a barrel.

The Christians, by the way, were the followers of the Baby Jesus, as Christ was his surname. They killed all the people that believed in other things, and burned those that believed in nothing, to bring to market their message of peace, love and goodwill to all men.

Anyway, being brought up an Irish Catholic, I had the fear of God (and the Baby Jesus) beaten into me a child, quite literally. I read the bible from cover to cover, both ways, and whenever I raised the question of the multiple contradictions, I was beaten again and told to believe. I tried, but I couldn't. Something called doubt kept creeping into my head. The Father took me to a shrink. It transpired that the Shrink had also been raised a Catholic, and shared my doubts. We smoked cigarettes and talked about football for an hour every week.

As I approached an age when I could leave home, I avoided discussing the Baby Jesus with anyone. It was for the best. Then I left home and Baby Jesus, God and the Holy Ghost ceased to be obvious in my life. Fast forward 30 odd years, and suddenly I am on the brink of gardening. One thing I was always going to grow was the potato. Then I read that it is traditional to plant out seed potatoes on Good Friday, the day that the Baby Jesus was allegedly nailed to a tree.

I found this funny, and made many jokes about it. The Baby Jesus, being omnipresent, heard every one of the jokes, and he wasn't best pleased. Now, joking about the Baby Jesus being killed and potatoes might seem childish, disrespectful and insulting to those who are fans of the fellow. Unfortunately, if you examine my personality, childish, disrespectful and insulting are all boxes that are ticked.

Skip to autumn, when my tomatoes - which took a lot of love and care and hard work - were heavy with fruit. One day they were fine. Then something happened. The blight arrived. The minute I saw the devastation I knew; it was the work of the Baby Jesus. He'd done me, and I deserved it. So what did I do? Obviously, I made a bigger joke about him being killed, and me laughing about it, and him blighting me in revenge. No one was therefore surprised when this year I was blighted again. No one was less surprised than me ... and the Baby Jesus. We both knew.

Here's the irony. The Baby Jesus is trying to teach me a lesson, but I can't learn that lesson, because I don't believe in the Baby Jesus. Catch 22 has got nothing on this.

So we're locked in the cycle. I can't sow my seed potatoes on Good Friday without having a chuckle, and he can't let me have tomatoes as a result.

The other day I went to a farewell bash for a friend, who has sold up and is heading off to Laos to study Buddhism. I took him a small gift; a t-shirt I had made that read "Jesus saves ... but Buddha scores from the rebound!" As I handed it over I did think that the Baby Jesus was going to get me for it. The next morning I received a letter from the council.

Last winter, have completed my first year of gardening, I realised that certain slow growing crops that demand space just weren't going to work for me. Onions, leeks, celeriac, fennel, etc., were off the list, and some crops such as cabbages and kale would have to be limited. I applied to go on the Local Authority allotment waiting list. The letter was from the Amenities department. It basically pointed out that there were only four plots at the allotment site, and I was number 6,846,682 on the waiting list. I wasn't going to get a plot if I lived all the years of Methuselah. I sensed the hand of the Baby Jesus in this letter.

Then I got to the last paragraph. It started with the word However. I sensed an olive branch. Maybe the Holy Ghost had realised I preferred his real name to his Vatican-imposed name, and had leaned on the Baby Jesus for me. Could this be a truce between myself and the Baby Jesus?

A new allotment association was being formed. It had nothing to do with the Local Authority, but they gave me the contact details. Now, I knew that the other 6,846,681 people before me on the waiting list also received the letter, as did anyone after me on the list, so I did what any self-respecting bloke on the way to the pub would do, and ignored it. A day passed, two days, three days, a week and then I thought "nothing ventured..." so I sent off an email.

I received a reply, along with about another dozen people (according to the header of the email), asking for volunteers to help establish the association, along with an update on the work in progress. This time I replied immediately.

Now, no one has said I have got a plot, but no one has said I haven't got a plot. It's hanging in the balance. Of course, the Baby Jesus might have seen my plans for growing tomatoes under cover and is looking for a new way to smite me! Or maybe...

If it is the former, I swear I shall put a crucifix in my front garden on Christmas Day and a nativity scene will go there at Easter.

Another year, another set of clean underwear...

2011-11-28T09:15:00.001-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, before entering the hallowed space that is this post, please put on clean underwear, slap on a bit of lippy (or have a shave, or both) and pour yourself a glass. No, not the bloody cheap stuff at the back of the fridge, something decent, something celebratory, something with class and finesse, because tonight (yes, it has been a year) you are invited to the 2011 TIGNOGs!

Yes indeed, it has been one whole year since the first ever The Idiot Gardener’s Night Of Gongs, where the good, the bad, the ugly and downright shit are paraded bare before you all.

For those who witnessed last year’s travesty, we can only apologise, and for those that missed it, it was brilliant, much better than this year’s will be.

Now, the TIGNOGs should be much more than a load of old tosh on a backwater in Blogland, so for 2011 it was decided to include the words of wisdom of a celebrity. We contacted Alan Titchmarsh, and asked if he’d give us a few words so we could widen the appeal of the awards, and start a new initiative called ‘Gardening for Numpties’. He didn’t reply. Then we contacted Queen of mainstream permaculture Alys Fowler, and told her she could submit a few words but we didn’t want any mention of her short-arsed dog or her bad fashion sense. Oddly, she didn’t reply. We contacted Sarah Raven, and said we were sorry for taking the piss out of her constantly, and she could send in a few words for this year’s event. She didn’t reply. Maybe we should have mentioned some rope, that was very aged, and how it could raise an obscene amount of cash. Then she would have been right at the front of the queue. We contacted Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and said if he didn’t help out we’d bum a few chickens. He didn’t reply.

It may seem as if we failed, it may seem as if we’ve let you all down. But no! No, no, no, no, no! One man did reply. One man did agree to become tonight’s master of ceremonies. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one, the only, the utterly pathetic horticultural comedian extraordinaire … Paddy O’Furniture!

Good evening one, good evening all. Now, it might seem that I haven’t worked since last year’s TIGNOGs, but the truth is that actually, I haven’t worked since last year’s TIGNOGs. Last time, there were some in the gardening community that found my language poor, my taste even poorer, and felt the whole event was something of a bad show. If those people are here again, then it’s best if you fuck off right now.

This, the second TIGNOG ceremony, means one thing; the Idiot Gardener has been a gardener for two whole years. It might not seem a lot, but considering he thought his interest in growing shit would lastr a round five days, it's a remarkable feat. A lot has happened in the garden this year. The Baby Jesus did the blight thing, zombie lettuce was created, and next door’s cat illustrated just how a scalded cat goes off! Still, it’s not all been fun and games. There was some serious stuff too, and a bloody cripple that thought he knew it all about tomatoes at the Oxted and Edenbridge show.

Talking of shows, everyone’s favourite organic twat, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was doing a bit of judging at the allotment. He saw Mavis bending over, weeding, and came over all aroused and unnecessary. He nipped behind the shed, dropped his trousers, and started to have a quick wank. Suddenly little Tom walked up pushing a wheelbarrow, and said, ‘Oi Mister, are you having a wank?’

Hugh tried to explain he wasn’t whacking off, at some great length, and eventually Tom stated that he would have to tell everyone what happened. Hugh begged him not to, but Tom said, ‘Look Mister, my Dad sent me to sell this wheelbarrow, and because of you I missed the bloke that was going to buy it. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t sell it, so I’ll have to tell them why.’

Hugh looked over the wheelbarrow. The tyre was punctured. The handles were bent. The body was rusted and full of holes. It squeaked when it moved, and the wheel kept jamming. Hugh shrugged and said, ‘Okay, I’ll buy it off you. How much?’

Tom thought for a second, and said, ‘£100, cash only!’

Hugh refused, so Tom repeated that therefore he’d have to tell everyone what he’d seen. Hugh reluctantly handed over the money, and headed off with his newly acquired wheelbarrow. As he headed across the allotment, one of the committee members saw him and asked, ‘Hugh, do you want me to get someone to take that wheelbarrow to the dump?’

Hugh replied, ‘No way, it just cost me £100.’

The committee member laughed and said, ‘£100 for that? Someone must have seen you coming!’

Anyway, enough of this shit. The first TIGNOG of 2011 goes to the biggest bastards in the gardening industry in 2011. Obviously, the Jiffy Group made the shortlist, as did the Raven’s various over-priced enterprises. However, whilst these businesses will take your money and give you overpriced shit in return, they will at least give you all the overpriced shit they said they would. However, there is – in the gardening sector – a thief. He is a thief of the worst kind, one that calculates his thievery. He figures that seeds don’t cost a lot, and in a packet of seeds you’re not going to miss some. Even if you do suspect, you won’t do anything because the value is so small. However, if he takes a few pennies off each of us, it soon adds up to a bloody fortune. The 2011 TIGNOG for the biggest bastard in the gardening industry goes to seed thief Mr Fothergill. Obviously, he’s not here to collect his award, as he’s a bastard. Plus there’s no award anyway.

A quick one for those falling asleep out there. What’s the difference between the admissions form at a clap clinic and Alan Titchmarsh? I’d enjoy filling in Alan Titchmarsh.

The next TIGNOG goes to the seed merchant of the year, and I don't mean that wanker off Gardeners' World. Last year's seed provider was stripped off his TIGNOG when we discovered that Fothergill's a thief. The shortlist this year was minus the moustache-totting bandit and that old lump, the Raven, but did see Sutton Seeds and Unwins battle it out, before being kicked firmly in the balls by Thomson and Morgan, who lift the 2011 TIGNOG for providing lots of seeds that actually germinated.

Talking about seed and germination, I was down the maternity hospital the other night, and saw Alan Titchmarsh, Barack Obama and the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in the waiting room. Later the fire alarm went off and we all evacuated, but afterwards there was a bit of a fuss. It seems all three had been there while their wives gave birth to sons, but because of the fire drill the nurses didn't have time to tag the babies. The nurses therefore asked the fathers to see if they could identify their offspring.

The Grand Wizard nipped in first, and returned a few seconds clutching a black baby. His wife looked surprised, but he whispered, 'Keep you mouth shut; at least we know it's not a fucking Titchmarsh!'

From one failure to another; the 2011 epic fail TIGNOG. The shortlist included the failure of the courgettes to die, the failure of the summer to happen, and the rotting of the herbage every time it was replanted. However, head and shoulders above these dark blots on an otherwise very dark landscape comes the total fail that was sweet potatoes. One tuber the size of a matchhead, and the others were bleeding tiny.

A quick question; what has four legs and one arm? My fucking pitbull when he catches up with Titchmarsh!

I was down the allotment the other day, when I saw the fellow on the next plot. He's turned it all over to flowers, forgoing vegetables altoghter. I asked him why he'd done it, and he said whenever he took a bunch home his wife whipped of her knickers, laid on her back and pulled her legs apart for him. I thought for a second, and then asked him, 'Why, haven't you got any vases?'.

The TIGNOG for Crop of the Year is always an important one. Last year it went to the Carrot, despite a strong showing from the Parsnip. In 2011 the Parsnip again came good, but not good enough. No, the humble Beetroot is the crop of the year. Easy to grow, plentiful with a chard-like leaf and a sweet tender root, the red beetroot - yellow ones just don't have the earthiness - is this year's winning crop. It germinated effortlessly, lasted for ever, and even fed the neighbours too (well, the ones I like).

Now, on a night of celebration, I do have some bad news for everyone who likes over-priced organic veggie-hippy-new age food. Before I came out tonight, someone told me that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall has died. I know, it's a shock. My friend told me that Hugh was judging a show at the allotment, and when he arrived, his Land Rover brakes failed. The vehicle crashed into a brick wall, and Hugh went flying through the windscreen.

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He went through the window, rolled off the bonnet, and landed on old Mr Smith's bonfire.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. Then he got up and his clothes were on fire. He staggered into Mr Jones' shed, where he keeps the lawnmower petrol, and the whole thing exploded, firing Hugh into the air.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He flew above the allotment, and then came crashing down on the bean stakes. They impaled him like spears.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He tried to stand, but the stakes hit Mr Allen's power tools and set the cultivator going, which then ran him over.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. The cultivator also chewed up the cable, and Hugh got a blast of voltage then left him twitching and smoking.

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that.'

'Hang on a fucking minute', I said,. 'I haven't got all day. How did he die?'

My mate replied, 'I beat him to death with a shovel.'

I had to ask. 'Why did you do that?'

My mate replied, 'I had to; he was wrecking the fucking place!'

Ladies and gentlemen, that your lot. I've been Paddy O'Furniture, you've been ungrateful bastards, and 2011 - as a growing year - is well and truly done!

Apart from the kale, obviously.

And the cabbages and parsnips.

And the artichokes too.

Oh, and the other stuff...

Scot Plants Direct - The Bad Penny?

2011-11-25T05:38:00.001-08:00

Well, well, well; does anyone remember Scot Plants Direct? No? Then you're bloody lucky. Way back when I was a mere gardening newbie idiot rather than a gardening idiot with two years' of failing behind me, I purchased the Jiffy Pellets that started Jiffygate from a company called Scot Plants Direct. Now, in the eyes of the law, the liability of the failures of those pellets was down to the retailer, Scot Plants Direct, and under the Sale of Goods Act Scot Plants Direct was liable. That's not my opinion; that's the law. Written by lawyers and judges. And not open to interpretation. By Scot Plants Direct. Or anyone else.

Of course, Jiffygate became best known for the pathetic and childish bleatings of one Jeremy Howarth, who showed that he - and the Jiffy Group - were shallow uncaring bastards who put profit before customers. It's all been well documented. Also, the top brass at Jiffy Group were made aware of the issues, and whilst they did spend a considerable amount of time following the saga (and my rantings on-line), they never had the balls to speak up.

At the time, I contacted Scot Plants Direct, not to request a refund nor to complain, but to ask - yes, just to ask - if they had ever encountered such mouldiness before. I received a response from P Kean (no, still not sure if it's a Martha or Arthur) basically telling me to bugger off. However, once the emails starting flying between Jiffy HQ and Idiot Towers, P Kean decided to do what the law required (or to appear to do what the law required), and contacted me to offer a full refund. P Kean, however, wasn't telling the truth when he/she told me I would receive a refund, and to this day I have never received further word, nor a penny of my money. It wasn't a lot, and to be honest I became so fascinated by the shit service that the Jiffy Group was handing out that I forgot about the scoundrels at Scot Plants Direct who had lied to me.

Just today, I received a comment on my earlier post, from Paul. Now, to be honest, I know nothing about Paul; it's the internet, so he could be a gorgeous blond with large bosoms pretending to be a gardening bloke (makes a change from gardening blokes pretending to be a gorgeous blond with large bosoms, I suppose). He wanted to know how I got on with Scot Plants Direct, because he's had a load of failed plants off them and he's none too happy with the way they've treated him.

Let me put it this way, Paul; if you receive just a small fraction of what I got from them, or if you receive tenfold what I received, or even a hundredfold what I received, then you'll still have the same thing.

Fuck all.

Scot Plants Direct. They lied to me and breached the Sale of Goods Act. I lost a few pounds. I learned a lesson about them. I fear that Paul might have lost a bit more.

Scot Plants Direct. Don't forget that name.

P Kean. Not Keen. And not keen to refund your money!

Sweet FA

2011-11-22T05:57:00.001-08:00

I stood outside the fishmongers. My legs were shaking. I don't know where the core of fear had risen from, but it was palpable. I could taste it. Ever tasted fear, real deep ingrained fear? Well, it has a cold metallic taste. I know this, because I tasted it. The fat bald fishmonger glanced at me. He could see the ice fist tightening on my innards, squeezing the last warmth of hope from my very essence. He flicked a string of fish guts to the floor. It was a metaphor for my eternal soul.

I stood there, a damned figure, waiting. Godot could have come and gone, but my wait was painful, every second burning into my shameful skin, every minute a burning taper laid upon my pitiful flesh. I was wretched; yet I waited.

Eventually she appeared, carrying a box of kippers. The sun shone from her eyes, the stars danced upon her teeth, the fresh spring breeze emanated from her flowing golden hair. She was Doreen Faithful, the fishmonger's only daughter.

"Doreen, do you ... umm ... want to go out somewhere?"

She smiled, but I knew she was going to crush me.

"Okay."

"No, it's fine, it's just ... okay?"

"I want to see Jaws; it's just come out."

Cinema. Darkness. The back row. It would do.

"What time?"

"Hang on, because I'll need a bath, and I don't finish until ... wait!"

She went to talk to Frank Faithful, father, fishmonger and general bastard. He listened to her, then he looked at me for a long time. He said no. The bastard said no. I saw him say no. He said, and I read his lips, "No fucking way!"

"Dad says I can get off early, so I'll see you at the cinema at 6.30."

I was outside the Odeon at 6.00 sharp. I waited. 6.30 came and went. I waited. Seven o'clock, and half past seven, and eight o'clock came and went. I waited. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock and half past ten. The cinema emptied. I waited, just in case I had missed her going in. The crowd went home. 11 o'clock the manager locked up. I went home.

Fast forward around 15 years, and I was at a friend's birthday drink when a random woman started talking to me. I made small talk, and eventually she said, "You don't remember me, do you?" I didn't, and then she said, "I'm Doreen Doran." I mentioned that it was an unfortunate name, but no, I still didn't know her. Then she said, "Back then, I was Doreen Faithful."

I only remembered her because I remembered the fishmongers. To show I wasn't totally forgetful, I said, "Didn't we go out once?"

She rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, thanks a lot for that!"

Then it all came back to me. She had spurned me, left me standing on Turnpike Lane like an idiot, and now she was acting as if it was me that had been the heartless bitch. I wasn't having that.

"Listen Doreen Doreen, or whatever you call yourself these days; I waited outside the Odeon until 11 o'clock. The fucking manager locked up and pissed off home on his bike before I left."

"Then you're an idiot!"

"Why, because I bothered?"

"No; because Jaws was on at the ABC."

Sweet FA. That's what I got then, and it's what I've got now.

I had a spare bit of space, back in the spring, and I couldn't figure out how to fill it. I read a few catalogues, and settled on Sweet Potatoes. Easy to grow, it said. Related to bineweed, it said. Enjoy fleshy tubers, it said. I sent off for ten slips. Ten slips, £10.99 plus postage. That's over £1 a slip.

They arrived. I had paid over £1 a piece for dead stalks. I soaked them as instructed, and planted them. I waited and eventually, eventually, a leaf formed. Then ten leaves. I was in business; sweet potato business! There's nothing sweeter than sweet potato business (however, there might have been had I gone to the ABC instead of the Odeon).

My garden's bineweed took off, and I waited for the sweet potatoes to join in. Like the fishmonger's daughter, they didn't show any sign of putting out. They were slow, very slow. Put it this way; if the bed had a manager, he would have locked up and pissed off home on his bike.

Now, look again at that photo. See that sort of slightly orange bit the size of a match head? Yep, that's my sweet potato. If I had counted on the sweet potato business, I'd be bollocksed!

Doreen Doran; sometimes you get what you deserve!

Mr Soup

2011-11-14T02:38:00.001-08:00

When the Brother was little, I had left home, but on my few return visits I liked nothing more than to traumatise him. One day I took my boots off, put one on each hand, and chased him around, bringing the two soles sharply together on his head whenever I got close enough. I called that game Hungry Boots.

Potato Cricket was good too. He'd be tied to the apple tree with a flimsy piece of rotted fencing, while I bowled (okay, threw) raw potatoes at his head. Everytime he manged to deflect a spud, the wood broke, until he had to endure a barrage of objects with nothing bigger than a matchstick to protect himself.

The Chinese are Coming was another, where having been forced to mind him for a day I locked him in the cupboard under the stairs. I told him the Chinese had invaded, and would pull out his teeth and fingernails with rusty pliers if they found him.

However, the real joy was inventing characters that were going to get him. There was a balance between the ridiculous and the believable, but when right the terror that these characters could create was sublime!

The other night, I realised I had missed a trick. I'd been out picking more courgettes (why won't they die), and when I came in I simply chucked my gardening hat on top of a pumpkin. On seeing it, Mrs IG asked if I was trying to make a new friend. I turned, and with sincerity announced, 'No, that's Mr Soup, and he's very very angry.'

Okay, she just shook her head and mumbled something about me being a twat, but it dawned on me that Mr Soup could be both enticing and terror-creating. Anyone got a spare child so I can test out the theory?

Anyway, I now have a freezer of pumpkin and chilli soup. It was going to be pumpkin and sweet potato, but my sweet potatoes ... what can I say? They deserve a post all of their own.

The difference between men and women

2011-11-07T01:12:00.000-08:00

The other day I stripped the gone-on-too-long runner beans plants, and podded the stringy bastards. I did this whilst watching the mighty Tottenham struggle to a win over Fulham. During the match one of Mrs IG's friends popped in with her other half. Okay, I am usually an anti-social bugger, but having to endure a pair of whinging divots during football is more than a man should have to bear. However, it was worse. They brought their idiot child with them.

As Mrs IG and Mrs Divot-Head talked about shoes or some such other vital topic, Mr Divot-Head decided to ask me what I was doing.

He said, "What are you doing?"

You see; I don't make this shit up.

I replied, somewhat venomously, "I'm trying to watch the football."

"What are those things?" He pointed to the pile of beans on the table.

"Monkey glands."

"No, really, what are they?"

"If I tell you, will you piss off?"

At this point his daughter walked up, looked at the pile beans, and asked, "What are they?"

I'll say one thing; nosiness obviously thrives in his murky gene pool.

"Well, you know when you go out on your own, your Mum tells you not to talk to strangers? Well, those strangers are child molesters, who want to take you away to an old disused warehouse and fiddle with you before they murder you. Whenever a child molester comes and annoys me when I'm watching football, I snip open his ballsack and rip his testicles out."

She thought for a moment, and then asked, "What are testicles?"

Mrs Divot-Head overheard this, and broke off the urgent discussion about West End musicals to interupt.

"What did you say, darling?"

"What are testicles?"

"Pardon?"

I interjected. "I was just telling her that these are child molesters' testicles."

Mrs Divot-Head glanced at the beans, and said, "No they're not, darling, they're fairys' eggs."

Now, that's the difference between men and women. Whilst we both lied to an impressionable child, I told her something that made her aware of the perils of life, and her own Mother tried to make her believe that some mythical flying girls are hatched from eggs.

Even funnier was after the Divot-Heads had left, Mrs IG actually asked me if I was saving them for next year's seed. Imagine that; see actually believed I would do something green and which oppossed the grip of multi-national seed corporations. I laughed, and mentioned the word 'cassoulet'.

Saving seed, or a slow braised pot of belly pork, duck legs, bacon and beans?

There's no competition!

Lloyds TSB Credit Cards - Run for the Hills!

2011-11-05T03:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, a non-gardening, non-knob joke post today. For some of you it will be dull, for some interesting, and for those who carry out financial transaction with Lloyds TSB a little unsettling. There is no picture, I am afraid, as I don't have one of a prick!

I travel a lot, and so I always have a number of credit cards. It's amazing what a Credit Card company will freeze your card for. The 'High Risk' categories include a number of things I do. If you use a card abroad (check), especially in a risk area such as Asia or Eastern Europe (check), or if you buy items from the same business within a period of a few days (check), or buy high value items (check), or buy low value items (check), or use the card for activity outside of your normal pattern such as dealing with an unexpected incident (check), or your transactional data is randomly selected for investigation, you can see a card suspended. That's fine if you're at home, but a pain in the arse if you have just one card and are in a far flung place desperate for a service of item.

When a card is suspended, I always want to know why. They don't want to tell you, but if you push hard enough they will.

I have been a part of the Airmiles Scheme for years, and when they recently switched Credit Card provision to Lloyds TSB - a bank I have never used before - I accepted the new cards (yes, cards - they gave me two of them). During a recent high value purchase, I figured I'd use the card to earn a few Airmiles. It was declined. I rang to check what was happening, and was told because of 'unusual usage patterns' it was stopped for a security check. Once the check was completed, I found out what that 'unusual usage pattern' was. The card had been used twice for similar amounts in a very short period. Now, if a bank calls a charge of around £470 and a charge of around £720 in 27 days 'similar amounts in a very short period', then they can't be doing much business.

Anyway, I represented the card and it was refused again. It was near the end of the business day, so I gave up. The next day the card was represented and again was refused. I paid on an alternative card, but contacted Lloyds TSB to find out what was going on. They told me the Hold hadn't been lifted, and I would have to go through the process again. However, I would have to have a call back on the matter. A week passed with no call back, so I rang them again, and was told that they would not call me back unless I gave them a telephone number that received 'number withheld' calls. My telephone rejects these. I asked why they wanted to hide their identity when calling me about a banking matter, and they put the phone down.

Using a press contact, I found a direct number for the fraud department, which was the department that had screwed things up. They were very unhappy that a customer had called them direct, and they hung up! On the second call someone did talk to me. I told him I was recording the conversation, which he seemed very happy about. Then I asked why I hadn't had a call back. It was repeated that I needed to provide a number that allowed them to call from a phone with a withheld number.

I asked whether Lloyds TSB Terms and Conditions stated I must receive calls a from a 'number withheld' telephone. He said they did not.

I asked whether Lloyds TSB Terms and Conditions stated that customers must do everything within their power to safeguard details of their accounts. He stated that they did.

I asked whether Lloyds TSB would honour a claim for losses if a customer had not safeguarded details of their account. He stated that they would not.

I then asked whether he, as a member of the Lloyds TSB fraud team, felt that discussing account details with a person who only offered a first name, and contacted them via telephone from a number that had been withheld, was best practice for safeguarding account details. He stated that it was not.

I then asked why Lloyds TSB insisted on contacting customers in such a way so as to force them to invalidate any protection they have against fraud or losses.

His answer was staggering.

He said, 'I didn't realise that you rang up to ask questions.'

Then he put me on hold and after 50 minutes I gave up and put my complaint in writing.

I received a response within a few days, telling me a response could take up to four weeks. Then, after four weeks, I was told a response would take another four weeks. Then, eight weeks later, I received a response. It apologised for the inconvenience of the card being refused. It apologised that the card wasn't reinstated immediately and whilst not offering a reason did stress that steps had been taken to ensure that it didn't happen again. It apologised for its poor performance. It then informed that that a significant sum of money had been placed into my account. This wasn't offered, it was just placed there. It wasn't even asked for.

But what did they say about the fact that customers are forced to break the bank's own Terms and Conditions to deal with its security people? Despite that part making up four pages of the letter (yes, the letter was seven pages; I'm a bastard when I get going), they said NOTHING.

I called them and strangely was put through to the head of the department immediately. I asked why they hadn't addressed what was a serious issue for all customers. I was told the letter was a final comment on the matter. I asked why they had paid me off rather than addressing an issue. I was told the letter was a final comment on the matter. I asked whether he was concerned about other customers and how they might react if they discovered that the bank was deliberately ensuring that they lost their legal right to protection from fraud. I was told the letter was a final comment on the matter. I told him he was a prick. He stated that I was entitled to my opinion.

Now, to be honest, I don't care. The account is closed, and I got paid to go away. But if I was a customer of Lloyds TSB...

You are entitled to your opinion.

I know I am ... prick!

First of the Month Mass Debate

2011-11-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's bloody childish, but following in the interweb-bloggy-thing tradition of pointless repetitive things, I've decided to add my own. You already have Harvest Monday, Wordless Wednesday, Touch Your Niece Thursday and Dirty French Friday. Now you also have First of the Month Mass Debate. When I say Mass, I mean me and probably a couple of others making knob jokes, but who cares? Certainly not my niece, as it's not Thursday. Yet.

So, what are we Mass Debating over this month? Manure, that's what. Manure, and where to stick it.

First off, we have the traditional manure, or shit as some people call it. This manure is plentiful if you wait around a the arse of a horse, cow, sheep, chicken, bear or aardvark for any amount of time.

Basically, if they eat green stuff, they'll shit out perfectly usable manure. Of course, you can't simply go from arsehole to plot. No indeed, you need to let it rot, preferably for a long hot summer next to your neighbour's fence, right where the moaning bitch likes to sunbathe.

The upside of rotted shit is it smells nice, and being rotted it pretty much gets on with the soil from the off, a bit like Sonny and Cher at the beginning. The downside is that it can burn seedlings if its a bit strong, and if the animals have been eating hamburgers, then it stinks and is toxic, a bit like Kentucky Fried Chicken. Shit is shit, and if you like it, then it's all good. Unless you're planting carrots.

Now, if 'organic' isn't a word that means 'over-priced' to you, you might like green manure. Yes indeedy, hippy drippy folks have been wetting their bell-bottoms over green manures for a while now. The idea is simple, Grow some stuff, let it die, dig it in and it'll rot to add organic matter. Easy? Oui? Non Monsieur! Like the French, green manure is a sneaky bastard.

I read some article the other day about an old bloke with a moustache, who had a big house with grounds, and was famous for horticultural stuff (if you want history, you're in the wrong place my friend). He shot tigers and stuffed and mounted his niece and generally hated hippies. He also did some tests on green manures. He discovered that in order to successfully rot the green crap, the soil needed a decent level of nutrients to start with, and that early growth the following season was slower, because the soil was still working to rot down the green stuff, instead of just sucking up the goodness from rotted shit.

A combination of weather, timing and existing nutrients was required to achieve anything positive, and more often than not green manure was bad; sometimes as bad as finding a scorpion sitting on the end of your penis (if you have a penis, or course).

So, despite all the green thinking, I do firmly believe that horse shit beats green manure. Indeed, nothing seems to beat chucking some rotted horse shit on the soil and letting it weather over winter. If you have to grow something, let it die and rot on the surface, so you only let the worms eat and pooh out the rotten bits. Then take the rest away. Essentially, shit is the answer.

Funnily enough, I have loads of seed for green manure, but I think I have bought these somewhat ignorantly. I've had the article for months, meaning to read it, but only did so after buying the green manures.

So, green manure or hott shit?

1, 2, 3 - MASS DEBATE!!!

In bed with the dwarves

2011-10-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

So, looking back at my carrots earlier this year, those who read this drivel might remember that I had an attack of stumpiness. Not only were the roots stumpy, but they were as ugly as a 1960s female Romanian shot putter chewing a mouthful of pickled wasps. In fact, they were uglier than that, and even uglier than her ugly sister! And stumpy too. As stumpy as a dwarf that was so stumpy the other dwarves nicknamed him stumpy. Stumpy and ugly. Do you get the picture? No? Well, look at these stumpy ugly bastards.

Well, naturally, we all had a good laugh at the expense of my malformed carrots, but deep down inside, I wasn't laughing. Okay I was, just a bit, but I was also suffering, because the bed in which the stumpiness occurred was also ... the parsnip bed.

I appreciate that some people (especially those that measure money in dollar increments) haven't quite 'got' the whole parsnip thing. For those who haven't, let me explain.

Imagine you are lying on a sun kissed beach, feeling healthy, vibrant, satisfied, genuinely at peace with the world. Now, an angel appears, hovering above you. Use your imagination; it can be a he-angel or a she-angel, dependent upon your gender and orientation (I mean what gender you like to do 'it' to; not which direction you are lying in). Now this angel is having a day off being sacred, and is gorgeous. We're talking hotter than Myleene Klass and Lorraine Kelly wrestling in lime jelly. Now, imagine that you opened your mouth, and that angel settled on your lips, their naughty bits tickling your tongue. Imagine how that would taste. Got it? Imagine just how fantastic that taste is. Yes?

Well, parsnips are better than that!

Since August and the discovery of the stumpy carrots, I have been dreading the first frost. I imagined the disappointment of pulling a stumpy parsnip. That would be like watching a dwarf stripper only to discover it was a normal woman standing in a hole! I fretted, I stressed, and I started drinking heavily. Ho hum!

Then the fatal day came. I approached the bed with trepidation. I took hold of the stems from one plant and gave a gentle tug. I was met with resistance. I slid my fingers into the soil and felt a round top. It was there, waiting. but how long would it be? I pulled a little harder, and it gave way. I looked at the end of the stems. Nothing! The bastards had snapped. This was, hopefully, a big one.

It was turning dark, so I headed in for a torch and a trowel. After 10 minutes, Mrs IG came out to see what I was doing. She found me swearing, with both wrists thrust into the soil. Let me say this to all the women out there who have given birth; that was easy compared to getting this bloody parsnip out. What you experienced was mere chaffing. This was a real struggle, but struggle I did.

Apologies for the soft picture; phone cameras are so crap, but my hands were too muddy to get the proper camera. Oh, and apologies to the purists for having a can of beer, but this is England and we drink beer from cans.

It was 759 grams. That's nearly 27 ounces. That's big. It'll do for me anyway. That one root did us for a venison stew with dumplings, and a slow roast pork belly with Calvados sauce.

It made my week!

Christ on a Bike - make it STOP!

2011-10-20T04:37:00.000-07:00

As a child, I was endlessly fascinated by psychological warfare. Maybe it was a result of the Cold War, maybe it was down to the mental torments inflicted by my gardening-fixated Father, or maybe it was because I was already showing signs of madness. Whichever is closest to the truth will remain a well hidden mystery until such a time as I undergo some kind of hypnotic therapy, which I don't believe in, so don't hold your breath.

One aspect of the subject that I was - and still am - fascinated by is the use of sound as a weapon. Whether used as a slow "erosive" technique to push people to their very edge over periods of time, or as a short sharp aggressive burst to create pain, both are - to me - intriguing. I was once at a demonstration of .an "acoustic canon". It is used to emit a short sound-wave blast at a very low frequency. The bloke giving the demonstration asked for a volunteer. It was a joke, but I was in there straight away. He laughed it off but I insisted, and I'll tell you this for nothing: it was bloody painful, in a way I never knew pain existed. I honestly thought my organs were going to burst out of my body.

The most common use of noise as a weapon is over long durations, effectively breaking an individual's will with repetition. White noise (and variants of it) is usually used for this.purpose. However, there are other ways that noise is used. In a recent case, British Police decided to create sleep deprivation amongst demonstrators at a climate camp by playing I Fought The Law!

The theory behind using white noise is simple; the constant endless tone simply cannot be tolerated. the key is repetition. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. It is, I suppose, a bit like courgettes.

Last year I grew courgettes, of a type, and ended up with the Donkey Pizzle. This year I opted for ordinary courgettes. People warned about gluts, but I figured I'd kill so many of them it didn't matter. Then they arrived, at first a few, and then a few more. I ate many, and gave the rest away. They kept on growing. Bastards. They just grew and grew.

Summer turned to Autumn, and they grew. The neighbours stopped opening their doors. As soon as I hit the street with courgettes in hand, you could hear the locks clicking shut. I used them everywhere I could, but they grew faster than I could stomach them.

Last night we had our first frost. I laughed as I imagined the courgettes dying in the cold. Die, you bastards, die! These bloody things are eternal, they're mocking me, growing and growing and laughing, even though I have stopped watering them.

I gave up and left them to the slugs. I walked away. However, every time I see them it feels so wrong to ignore them. WRONG. That's food, that is. Food. Some starving child in Africa would have to work days and days on starvation wages at a plantation (obviously not a Fair Trade one - why don't they just call Fair Trade stuff "Over-priced to sooth your conscience") just to be able to afford one courgette to put in their Venison Ragu.How can I let them harvest sugar cane for weeks just to earn enough to get that courgette for a King Prawn and Summer Squash stir-fry when I'm feeding them to the slugs?

I hope they die soon. I really do.

You too can be an idiot gardener!

2011-10-07T03:31:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true; follow three easy steps, and you too can be seen as a stupid idiot in the garden, at the allotment, at the garden centre and even in the bosom of your family! Be the envy of your friends as you defy logic by proving to all and sundry that you really haven't got the sense of a carrot. Don't delay; sign up today and within six weeks you'll be a drooling twat!

Step 1: When in the garden clearing the remains of a bed, spot a metal staple still embedded in some wood. Now, allow the aesthetics of that to annoy you. The raised beds might not be perfect, but one tiny metal staple used to hold netting on really does make it all look a bit crap, doesn't it? It needs removing, but you only have a pair of garden secateurs with you, which are obviously totally unsuitable for the job. Get another tool? Not a bit of it; that would waste around 30 seconds and you'd have to walk ten feet to the shed.

Step 2: Although it obviously won't fit, try to jam one blade of the secateurs under the staple. Won't fit? You're not trying hard enough. What are you, a man or a mouse? Put some effort into it. Go one, force that blade under the staple; that'll make it fit. Push harder. You're pushing as hard as you can? Then grab hold on the wood with your other hand - yes, close to the staple - and push harder.

Step 3: Now flick the blade upwards to dislodge the staple. Yes, flick it. Hard. What? You stuck the blade right into the side of your finger?

Now, you are an idiot, my friend!

Zombie lettuce, facial scabs and true love!

2011-10-01T01:59:00.000-07:00

When I was a lad, the Father bought me a bike. It was a momentous occasion, for the usual gift on birthdays and Christmas was a plastic football, which I would puncture within minutes by kicking it into his prize rose bushes. The inevitable outcome was a beating followed by a lawn-mowing session wearing half the punctured ball as a hat.

As you might understand given such expectations, getting a bike was something of a red letter day. I knew he was getting me one, because I had to go to the bike shop to check the size. I dreamed of a racing bike, skinny wheels, lightweight frame, drop handlebars, five gears. You must remember that back in the day, that was the pinnacle of bicycle development. It was also very expensive. Instead I got an iron-framed heavy ungeared basic bicycle.

I wasn't bitter; it beat the shit out of a punctured plastic football. I rode it everywhere, and whilst always envying those with racing bikes, I wasn't too put out.

I am trying to remember back, but one of the Sisters was going to secondary school, and the Mother took her to get her new school uniform. She was Sister #4, so that would have made me 9 or 10 years old. Because the Mother was away with Sister #4, after school Sister #5 and I went to a friends house. His older brother had just been bought a racing bike. He was 15 or 16, so it was a big bugger. We took turns in holding it while the other climbed aboard, and we rode it up and down the street. Then my friend suggested we rode it down the hill, which was bloody steep and bendy. I went first.

It was rapid, properly rapid, and it handled beautifully. It slashed through the bends, and as it came to point where the road seemed to drop away, I saw them. The road was closed, and they were digging it up to replace the water mains. I was flying, and they were coming closer. One major difference - which I hadn't yet realised - between the racing bike and my own bike was that the brakes were transposed. I pulled hard on the back brake, trying to lock the back wheel to slow down, but I inadvertently slammed on the front brake. The bike went over its locked front wheel, and I was thrown, face first, into the tarmac. As if having most of my face ground off wasn't enough, I bounced, once or twice, and then end up in the road work hole.

I don't remember too much about the next week of my life, except that it was one time when the Father was very nice to me. He visited me in hospital every morning on his way to work, and every evening on his way home. He brought me ice cream, as my teeth had shredded my lips, so it was one of the few things I could eat. My eyes were so swollen it was like looking through slits, and my entire face was one huge nasty scab. I had various other cuts and bruises, but my face was a serious mess.

Once out of hospital, the Father decided that what a 10 year old boy with a scab where his face once lived really needed was a holiday, in public, with loads of other kids. Two weeks of people staring at me and recoiling or laughing was what I needed. Thanks for that, Father!

It was shit; no, people were shit, except for one girl. She was from London too, and she talked to me, we laughed, we watched the waves breaking on the flinty beach. We giggled at the seagulls fighting over dog pooh. We sniggered as the bright red fat men waddled past with their bright red fat wives. This was a British beach in the very early 1970s, remember! The relationship was built on kindness, a beautiful girl and a boy with a scab for a face. They'd make a film about this shit nowadays, and most of you would go and see it.

We promised to stay in touch. Was it love? We were too young to know, but looking back I remember two different people, with different lives, coming together and sharing a beautiful time. It was a snatched moment, secret, sacred, pure and intense. There was no sex, no lust, no end game; it was as close as you could get to being perfect. It didn't matter that her face was smooth unblemished skin, as pale and fragile as porcelain, and mine was a rough tatty mass of dried corpuscular waste oozing all manner of noxious shit onto its surface, which then dribbled down onto my Captain Scarlet t-shirt.

My face healed, sort of. The weeks passed, and we agreed to see each other. We were both excited, we didn't know why, but the anticipation was driving us forwards. Then finally, the day came when we met again. It didn't go well. She thought I was ugly. Thanks, bitch!

Things are not always what they seem.

Three weeks ago, the salad bed was dead. Well, it seemed dead. The drop in temperature and the dampness in the air saw the lettuces rot, the sorrel fade and the mustards bolt. It was over. I pulled the mustards out, as I didn't want the seed in the soil. The lettuces and sorrel I left to rot on, figuring they'd put some organic matter into the soil. I ignored the bed, and the bed ignored me.

After a few weeks away, and with a focus on beans, beetroot and chard once I returned, it didn't strike me just how green the salad bed had once more become. The other day I took a closer look.

These are zombie lettuces. They were dead, but like Lazarus they have risen once more. They have seen the blue light, and refused to go towards it. They have deceased, and then thought better of their lot and undeceased themselves. Either that, or time has hit a buffer and is on its way back towards the dawn of existence (in which case I get an opportunity to feel up Tracey Cahill again in around 38 years). They are undead, but not truly living. Zombie lettuces; they must taste good. After all, what's the point in them coming back to life if they taste like a bunch of crap?

I am flattered by their effort. They have decided that rather than simply die away because they have reached the end of their existence, they will live again, so I can kill them and eat them with a bit of leftover slow roast pork. That, my friends, is dedication.

More importantly, we have learned from these lettuces. Firstly, it is better to be killed than to die, especially if I do the killing and eating afterwards. Secondly, time can be reversed. Thirdly, love isn't always love. Finally, and most importantly, if your face is a huge scab, take advantage of the pretty girl anyway, because when the scab is gone, you've only your own naturally ugly face to see you through the loneliness.

Right, that's enough shit spouted; I'm off to do some gardening!

Never leave home

2011-09-26T04:14:00.000-07:00

So, September crawled into view, and stupidly I packed my bags. I mean it was stupid to pack my bags, not that I packed my bags stupidly, filling them with blocks of butter and monkey pictures rather than socks and pants. Understand? Good. Now, allow me to continue.

Why was September a bad time to pack my bags? We'll come to that in a moment. I packed my bags and headed off to Copenhagen. Things didn't start well, as I flew with Easy Jet. I have avoided them for many years, but as someone else booked my flight I was screwed. Still, I approached it all with an open mind, and was pleasantly surprised when I was informed that my in-flight snack (obviously at an additional charge) was a bacon baguette, which I would have to wait 10 minutes for as it was "made freshly to order". Okay, I knew there wasn't a stewardess with a burner and a frying pan, but I did hope for something edible. What I actually received was a sealed plastic bag with a dodgy miniaturised baguette which could not be handled without asbestos gloves. The thing had been microwaved for the full 10 minutes, and the bread was a soggy lump filled with steam. It was hotter than the bacon, which was as hard as a plank. Luckily they had put a sachet of tomato ketchup in with the roll, which had boiled and exploded, showering the whole mess with a sticky boiling tar that tasted of burned sugar. Luckily it only cost £6.50 (that's about $10,000) with a cup of stale cool coffee.

On arrival, I needed to wash the taste of crap from my mouth, and after a bit of hunting in the city centre found a bar that was open. I ordered a beer, noting that the glass was not quite a pint. I handed over a 50 Krone note, which is around £6. The barman looked at me. I looked at him. He frowned. I frowned. Why were we frowning? He wanted more money. Over £7 for under a pint of beer? This was going to be a shit week!

A week of conferences on technology later, I headed homewards and managed a night in my own bed. The next morning I had to drive up North for a week of meetings. I had a choice of either talking to Mrs IG for an hour or two, or getting out into the garden.

It was unbelievable. One week at the harvest end of the year had seen the place erupt. I cleared the beans off a couple of plants at the end of the Beanage, before realising I had run out of time. Mrs IG hails from the North, so she was coming with me (not to the meetings; she was going to spend a week with friends and family while I worked), so we had a quick blanching session before setting off.

As I drove, Mrs IG noted that I was quiet. Knowing that I am not one to concentrate when driving, she asked the reason behind my introspective mood. I replied that I was thinking about all the beans I didn't have time to pick.

She replied, "Yes, and they'll be loads more when we get back".

So, the weekend was spent blanching. The house smells like a Polish kitchen, all the windows are steamed up, and the local shop has run out of freezer bags. I am glad to have three freezers, although we currently need a fourth! We have beans coming out of our proverbial arses, there's more chard than I can shake a shitty stick at, beetroots abound and turnips exude from every inch of soil. The cabbages are taking over, and the carrots are battling the parsnips for the last few rays of autumnal sunshine. The salads have come back to life (aside from the mustards which are now a sea of yellow flowers), and the spinach is shoulder height!

The lesson is a simple one. If you need to go on holiday, travel for work, marry your sweetheart or bury a loved one. don't do it in September. I shall be keeping the entire month clear in 2012 for blanching.

£7 for less than a pint of beer? Bastards!

There's no business like show business!

2011-09-10T05:14:00.000-07:00

The first time I went to Las Vegas, it was for work. I had a meeting with a Korean bloke, and he gave me his room number at the Venitian. At the agreed time I turned up at the desk, they called him and told them to send me up. I arrived at his door, knocked, and heard giggling inside. Then a young lady wrapped in a bath towel opened the door.

Now, she might have been a very nice girl, well educated and well read, her head ablaze with creativity and good will. She might have helped old people cross the street, she might have baked bread and sold it, donating the profit to orphans. She might have even set up a hospital in Bangladesh. Did I think any of these things when I saw her? No! I thought one word. Prostitute. Because she was one. The man I had come to see was in the bed. With another one. I said I'd come back later. Like many Asian businessmen, he was shocked that I didn't want to join in.

I was alone in Las Vegas, with time to kill. I'm not really a Casino person. I like betting on horse and dog racing, not where little balls will fall. It was too early to get properly drunk, so I grabbed a beer and wandered aimlessly, trying to work out how to waste my precious time. I chanced upon a lesson, in Craps. I figured it would kill an hour, so I joined in.

I fell in love with Craps. After the lesson, I decided to get some practice, but the $10 minimum bet made learning seem expensive. I headed to the shabby end of the strip and found a table with a $1 minimum. I stayed there all day. The other gamblers were either hotel staff, low-lifes or people who had blown their savings. It was fun. They referred to me as Mister England. I asked questions about what they doing and why they were doing it. A barmaid with a face like a bag of spanners kept bringing me beers. I learned more and more about Craps. At one point I held the dice for around an hour. That made everyone love me. One man gave me his stetson. I still have it today!

After I had held the dice for nearly an hour, one old man explained to me about covering all the Place Numbers without taking Come bets. He covered them all, and then said, 'Now I'm just going to let all those numbers work for me.'

A young lad next to him added, 'Unless he throws a seven'.

Now, I was new at the game, but I understood that wasn't a smart thing to say. I'd seen these people pull bets because the sitck man held the dice too long. I'd seen them curse people who passed the dice. I'd seen two men square up because one thought the other was copying his bets. I'd seen one gambler driven from the table for continually betting Don't Pass and Don't Come. It's a personal thing, and the last utterance you ever make is that someone will lose, or even worse, that the house will win!

The rest of us all thought it, but no one was going to say it. Even the Croupiers took a sharp intake of breath.

I rolled the dice. It was a seven.

Now, this year hasn't been a good one. It started badly, and never really recovered. That has coincided with a lot of work, and with a few people I work with moving on, I have somehow ended up doing a lot of other peoples' work too. I was getting close to blowing a fuse, so I decided I need some pig therapy. The Oxted and Edenbridge Agricultural Show is on every August bank holiday, in the next village to us. I didn't go last year, because I was too busy gardening. This year I decided to go to see the pigs. I like pigs, both alive and cooked.

It was the first time I had been to the event as a gardener, so I visited - for the first time ever - the vegetable tent. As I browsed the exhibits, I started talking to an old man. He was slow paced and walked with a stick, but he still had his wits about him.

We were at the beetroots, and I asked him what they'd do if someone entered yellow beetroot. He laughed and said they wouldn't be too happy; it wasn't traditional. Then we got to the cabbages. They were bloody huge, and very impressive. We talked about manure. Mrs IG was riveted!

We got to the tomatoes. The old man, who I had taken to be another idiot like myself, announced he'd won first prize for the cherry tomatoes, and second prize for the standard tomatoes. I was impressed. I explained that my tomatoes were still green, that they were supposed to be early, that last year Jesus did the blight thing to me.

He looked startled. For a moment I thought he was a born-againer. No; instead he asked, 'Are your tomatoes outside?'

I said they were. He then gave me this piece of advice.

I'll share his advice.

He's a tomato champion.

First prize for cherry tomatoes.

Second prize for standard tomatoes.

He gave me, an idiot, advice.

I'll share it with you.

He said three words.

Just three.

From a tomato champion.

To an idiot.

He spoke thus.

He said...

'Get a greenhouse!'

Twat.

Then he added something.

He said...

'You'll get blight again.'

I wanted to kick his fucking stick away. In that moment, I was back at the craps table in Las Vegas, dice in hand, ready to throw that seven.

The next morning I went out to see if any of my tomatoes had ripened. That's when I spotted that I had blight.

Next year I am entering that show, and I am going to win something, and then I'm going to find that man, and stick my certificate right up his arse.

Idiot where? Idiot Wear!

2011-09-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

So, here's the thing. I have been scant in recent posts, because the world is an unsettled place and I've been busy. Those few sad souls that read regularly will understand, those that don't merely need to know I have a very extensive milk round.

Either way, before Jesus blighted me (thank you very much, Saviour of the world) I did spend several hours in an airport waiting room, waiting. I should not have been shocked; after all, that's what the description says!

My friend - he's only a friend in airports when his expenses account is exhausted - pulled out his laptop and showed me a few things he's done with pictures of his children.

NO!

It wasn't anything weird, but instead he'd had T-Shirts printed for their holiday. Okay, his daughter of 7 years old might have loved a Mickey Mouse shirt with her face Photoshopped on, but I doubt his 16 year old felt the same!

It got me thinking, and the result is the Idiot Wear 2011 Collection.

Young people and those outside the UK might miss the jokes, but here goes anyway...

I was going to do a joke about the t-shirts not being available in the shops, but that's fucking obvious! However, many places will print one-off t-shirts so if anyone is really stupid enough to want one, I'll send an EPS file suitable for screen printing. All I ask is a photo in return, which I will post, of the shirt being worn in public, or in some gardening context, or whilst your sister/mother/daughter does bikini aerobics in the foreground!

EDIT: If anyone wants a file to have the shirts printed themselves, send me a Comment (which will not be published) with an e-mail address. Send a normal one too, because we want to know what idiots there are out there!!!!

This may be the last time...

2011-09-01T02:25:00.001-07:00

Jesus loves you! That's what they say. Well, he bloody well hates me.

Last year, as many regular sufferers of this bilge I call a blog will know, Jesus did the Blight to me. Now, the disappointment of his vengeful act did make me cross the tomato off my list this year, but then, at the last minute, I had a Paul/Saul moment, akin to him banging his head on a stick. My Road to Damascus moment was less painful. I discovered Sub Arctic Plenty.

Sub Arctic Plenty - referred to as SAP in the tomato community, or as Crap by me - are a tomato breed that apparently loves coll and even cold weather, grows like a bitch (however a bitch grows) and fruits very very early. The seed supplier stated, quite clearly, this: "Be the envy of your neighbours and harvest tomatoes in June".

I presumed they meant June, the month. It seems they may have meany Terry and bloody June. That's a really really shit sitcom for overseas readers and the young (as if the young would be reading a bad gardening blog).

I also went for Ferline, claimed to be blight resistant, and Red Alert, claimed to also be early.

What month is it? September? Have I eaten all my tomatoes? Have I my arse! I have, however, had a major harvest...

There were others, teetering on redness, so this very morning I set forth, a new month, a new harvest, looking for others ready to join my salad orgy. What did I find?

Blight.

Thank you ever so much, Baby Jesus, thank you ever so bloody much. You know, if I'd had a good crop I was going to donate money to the orphans. And now? I'm going to kick a cripple, that's what Jesus made me do.

Two years, two attempts, two lots of blight. Bastards! That's 100 per cent blight. I can't miss the thing. Interestingly, last weekend I went to the Edenbridge and Oxted Show where I met the Tomato Champion 2011. I had a conversation with him, which was supposed to form the content of this post, but instead I am once more reporting the Blight.

Last year's post was 3 September. This year, 1 September.

He's smiting my crops earlier each time!

A right Royal rumpus!

2011-08-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was this bloke called God, and he had a week off work.

"What are doing with your week off?" an angel asked.

"Dunno" replied God, "I might just create a universe."

"Good idea" said the angel.

So God made the universe. In seven days. It was Sunday night, and his Mum reminded him he had better iron a shirt for work the next morning. Realising his universe needed a tidy up, he called up a couple of angels.

"Listen lads, I've just made this universe, but I've got to iron myself a shirt for work. Do me a favour and go and give England a general tidy up. That's my favourite bit, so don't make a mess of it. I don't want any of those crappy swamps or canyons. Just give it some nice trees and rivers and stuff like that."

The two angels were having a general sort around, when one muttered, "Oh balls, I need the toilet."

He started to squat, but the other angel stopped him.

"Don't do it here, you muppet. This is God's favourite country. Go and do it in the watery bit, maybe it will wash away."

So, with one foot in Plymouth and the other in Cherbourg, the angel voided his bowels. However, the sea did not wash it away, and when God finished his ironing and came to check on the makeover for England, he lost it, big time.

"Oi, which one of you bastards did a shit in the channel?"

There was much apologising and begging for mercy, and realising time was short God transformed the turds into islands, and pushed them further towards France. These he called Guernsey, Sark, Alderney and, of course, Jersey.

As a last minute thing, one angel commented, "Hang on God; who is going to want to live on a petrified turd near France. You have to give them something."

So God gave them potatoes.

Since that day at the dawn of time, nothing has happened in the channel islands, except for when the Nazis turned up and the islanders bent over for them. Oh, there was one more thing. They went cap in hand to the EU (run, funnily enough, by Germans and the French) and snivelled until a law was passed that states you cannot call a Jersey Royal potato a Jersey Royal unless it is grown in Jersey.

So here are my Jersey Royals...

No, they weren't grown in Jersey, nor did the seed potatoes come from Jersey. In fact, the seeds came from a farm in Godstone, and I grew them in my garden.

Jersey Royals

Am I allowed to call them Jersey Royals?

Who cares; I just did.

Jersey Royals.

There; I did it again.

I don't give a flying toss what the Sausage Eaters and the Dance Masters of the EU say, nor do I care for the sentiments of those who dwell on a fossilised turd off the north coast of France. They're Jersey Royals, and that's that.

Jersey Royals.

From England.

Where the Queen lives.

Stumpy bastards!

2011-08-13T05:39:00.000-07:00

Stumpy bastards? What the hell is all that about?

Some friends of ours have just given birth to twins. Well, when I say some friends, I mean one friend. The other person just did the sex thing six months ago.

'Six months!' you cry. he really is an idiot. Actually, I am no idiot, because the babies were born three months premature. Obviously, this has the new parents slightly concerned, but with a wisdom borne out of experience, I comforted them by pointing out that I, yes I, the idiot, was born three months premature. He looked me up and down with a frown, and asked, 'Is that why you're a stumpy bastard?'

Of course, I didn't respond to the six foot high deformo. That would have been like openly laughing when you see what we refer to as a 'special child' frantically pulling at a door marked PUSH.

No, I didn't respond because I knew that he, like all men, knew that five feet, eight and one half inches is the perfect height for a correctly proportioned male.

And no, this post isn't about my height. It's about my carrots!

The 2010 crop of Nantes 2 were slender and straight. So slender and straight were they, that an award for slender straight carrots would have been theirs, had such an award existed. As a new gardener, I just smiled smugly and figured that all the experienced gardeners with deformed carrots maybe weren't as smart as they thought they were.

I planted them in a raised bed with a good two feet of fine compost as a top layer. It was unmanured, because I knew (I'd read it, in a book) that corrots didn't like manure. It made them fork (or fork off, something akin to that). They grew fast and strong, and slender and straight too. Did I mention that bit?

And so we come to 2011. I obviously changed the bed (crop rotation yardey yardey yaddah!) nd once more planted Nantes 2 again. Why mess with a winning formula. The bed had been manured the year before, but it just had some bonemeal and blood this year.

The carrots grew strong and fast, just like in 2010. They also grew fat. I imagined how the fatness of them indicated a long taper sleek straight length of carroty goodness.

Of course, as the picture clearly shows, they're just stumpy bastards!

I have no idea why this has happened. Maybe it's the manure, or maybe the soil has compacted since last year, or maybe it's some stumpy disease that I haven't read about.

Answers on a postcard...

Ballsacks!

2011-08-09T06:34:00.001-07:00

I hate that thing when you walk into a pub, look around at the empty seats, and just as you think you'd be better off back at home some Twat mutters, 'You should have been here last night!' Bad timing is a curse!

When I was at school, one of my sisters had a friend called Caroline. She was a bit of a wild one, always in trouble for drinking, smoking, then she got a reputation for being a bit easy. My sister terminated their friendship after a story went around that she had got stoned, performed a striptease, and pleasured herself for the entertainment of all gathered. As a 13 year old (me, not her; she was an unattainable 16 year old at the time) it never occurred to me that the story might be false. She became a goddess in my eyes, an out of reach goddess.

A few years later, when three years in age didn't matter any more, I found out that someone I played football with was actually Caroline's brother. I didn't say anything to him; he was a big bloke with a ragged temper. However, one day I ended up chatting to her in the pub. She admitted that yes, she had been a bit wild, and no, whilst the stories weren't true, she had certainly been sexually adventurous. I admitted I used to worship her, and she laughed. Then she told me that she had a bit of thing for me, and that I should have made a move.

I suggested that maybe I should make a move now (when I say 'now', this was in 1989). She smiled, blew a little kiss in the air, and sighed. Then she said it was a shame, but there was another in her life. I mentioned that it was a pity, and then she suddenly jolted, as if someone had shoved a cattle prod up her arse.

'Maybe you should join us?'

Now, many men might smile and lick their lips (yes, you know who you are) but I must admit that the old ménage à trois has never been on my shopping list, especially when deux of those in the ménage are les hommes. I pointed out that her husband might not agree, and she replied that the 'other' wasn't a husband; it was Jesus!

Bad timing? It follows me around!

I guess it had to happen. A very hot Spring saw all manner of things kick off a bit too early. Then the leaden grey skies rolled in, and we had a few months of cold and rain. It was a bit like Spring and Summer fell over each other and ended up in the wrong place. The baby salad leaves rotted, the beans refused to grow, and the whole garden slowed down.

I sowed again. I figured that once summer arrived, stuff would grow quickly and normal service would be resumed. But summer didn't arrive, and everything crawled along, until now...

Now, that's what I call bad timing. I have everything coming at once, and I can't think of a single way to use it all up.

Ballsacks!

An Elephant's Gestation Period

2011-07-30T05:44:00.000-07:00

Here it is folks; my first proper video blog thing.

Episode 1 - An Elephant's Gestation Period.

If you enjoy it, then I am happy. If you don't enjoy it, so what? It didn't kill you, did it?

Unless it did kill you, in which case, sorry.

Underground gardening

2011-07-22T03:35:00.000-07:00

I've always had a thing about being underground! Growing up in London, there was always plenty to do. The children of the well off played tennis, rowed on the river and visited the West End stores. The children of the middle classes played rugby, went fishing in the river and shopped at Portobello market. The children of the poor played football in the park, pushed shopping trolleys into the canal, and shopped at the corner shop. Then there was my mates and me. We had the underground!

Back then, the underground - or the tube, as it is colloquially known - was crap. It was properly crap, but it was our playground. There were no barriers, no machines, just old men to check tickets. We'd just walk in, go down the stairs and jump on the train. At the other end, we'd just get close to an adult near the ticket collector and pretend to be with them. Any conversation would do, and the ticket collector would look to the adult to hand over a ticket for 'their' child. In that moment of confusion, we'd be gone!

On a Saturday we'd meet at the tube station, hop on a train, we head for wherever we fancied. The names were magical and new - Bromley By Bow, Notting Hill Gate, Chalk Farm, Stratford, Pimlico, New Gross Gate (where I got to feel up Debbie H in the waiting room) - we didn't know where they were, nor did we care. It was random.

Once past the ticket collector we ran around the streets, darting in and out of tenement blocks, shouting cheek at passers by, pinching apples from the market, knocking on doors and running away. We'd write our names on bus shelters so the locals would know we'd been there. We'd crash through the back streets flicking v-signs and sneering at the bus stop queues. Then, just as the local kids realised they'd been invaded and had gathered together for a turf war, we'd be gone.

We'd be back into the dark and damp tunnels, riding the thundering flash of bucking machinery that formed the lightning dragon of our dreams. We laugh and whoop as the rattling carriage carried us to our next random adventure. It was misbehaviour on tracks! It was a badly behaved rollercoaster. It was magical. It was ours!

When I first visited New York, way back before the clean-up when only psychos and the very poor used the Subway, I spent a few days just randomly travelling around, occasionally rising into the sun to have a beer before diving back into the darkness.

For me, I dislike the modernisation of underground railways. I know that they should be there for the people. I know they should be available to all. However, I don't care much for other people's needs! I still prefer my underground railways dark, damp, dirty, decaying and - dare I say it in today's namby-pamby 'wrap them in cotton wool' soft society - dangerous. To me, they should be ethereal, but darkly ethereal!

Now, the UK weather has been pretty wet this year, and the result has been a few balls-ups in the beds. Anything that needed a late start - May onwards - has decayed at seedling stage due to the constant damp. Many of the earlier plants have survived, but they look a bit under-developed. However, there have been some successes, and where do you think these have come from?

Underground. You see, this shit does hang together, sort of!

The potatoes, despite the early demise of the foliage, have done well. The turnips have been brilliant, and the beetroot are in line to become my favourite veg of the year. The carrots are ready, although the second sowing saw all the seedlings rot in the dampness. The artichokes have taken off and are already over six feet high, and the parsnip leaves have cleared off to around four feet high. I just hope the roots are as good as the foliage!

I have third sowings of turnips under way (the first are eaten, and the second are being eaten). They, like the potatoes, are lowing the excess of rain. It just goes to show how water will drive some veg forwards while killing other types.

Interestingly, the most successful have been Estima. This is the potato typically sold as a generic type in supermarkets. I did think twice about growing it, and I was about to reject it when a bearded bloke in a hand-knitted country-folk jumper strode up to me and pointed out that people owed it to Mother Nature to grow heritage potatoes, organic heritage potatoes, and to grow them while wearing horse-hair underpants and an 'everything I do is green' t-shirt. I opted for Estima just to piss him off.

Now, the reality is they're a good size, a decent crop, they hold together well when boiled, and they taste of ... potatoes! Yes, they're better than supermarket potatoes, and if they upset the born-again heritage organic crowd, then that just makes them taste a bit sweeter!

Of things literary...

2011-07-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

First off, there's nothing gardening related in this post, so if you absolutely must have some beans or carrots, then please await the next post!

I have just finished a rather interesting book. It shouldn't have been funny, but it made me laugh out loud for all the wrong reasons. It's not a comfortable read, especially if you're the type of person who reaches for your wallet/purse every time there's a humanitarian crisis.

In War Games, Linda Polman delivers a journalist-eye view of the darker side of the Aid industry, from Rwanda, Sierra Leone, the Balkans and Afghanistan ... via Ethiopia and Biafra. For some, it might be a real shocker, whilst others will realise they already knew how things work, but just didn't want to admit it to themselves. Either way, it's worth a look.

If a book is a tad too engaging, or if you just want a short read, might I point you towards Resistant But Persistent. Short snatches of life, portrayed with a clarity and honesty that catch in your throat life a little spark of reality, these entertain, evoke memories and immediately feel familiar. I love them, and am also jealous of the way they portray so much in so few words.

Now to something less poignant.

Many years ago I ended up in a late-night drinking session with a friend who made short films. He was working on a piece about a prisoner that wrote poetry. The poetry, however, was very bad, although no one dared say so as they feared recriminations from the con! We talked about the idea, and I foolishly agreed to write some bad prison poems for him. We kept drinking until 4am when I headed home.

It was a nice night so I cut across the park. Re-entering the street near my house, I was passed by a police car which quickly pulled over. I was still pissed, so I decided to be cheeky. They asked where I was going, and I replied that who on this planet really knew where they were going? Indeed, did we even know where we'd been? If time was, as the Mayans suspected, a circle, then maybe we'd been where we were going. However, if like the Angkorians you believed...

They cut me short and asked, 'What's in the bag?'

'What bag?'

Then I looked down ... and I was carrying a bag. For one second, fear shot its icy finger into my rectum.

One copper took and the bag and lifted out ... a book. It came back to me; as I was leaving my friend had insisted I take - and read - a copy of the Good Soldier Svejk. I relaxed, and smiled. I was about to resume my cheek when the copper said, 'This is a stolen library book.'

He showed me the first folio, resplendent with a Barnet Libraries slip pasted in; it was a library book that should have been returned around three years previous. I simply smiled and said, 'No officer, you're confused. it's not a stolen library book; it's a substantially overdue one!'

I liked the event so much that it inspired one of the bad prison poems; there were around 30 in all that I spent minutes writing. The film did get made, but my friend rejected my poems as 'unsuitable'.

Very recently, another friend (yes, I have two) got involved in creating a book of pieces contributed by the community. The idea was to highlight opposition to the closure of libraries. As he approached the deadline, he'd received a lot of 'I like the library, it's good and it's warm in winter' type comments from the elderly and children. He wanted a few different points of view, something a little less obvious, so he called in favours. I was one, and I said yes when I meant no.

I didn't have time to write anything about libraries. I buy books, new ones that the elderly and children haven't drooled on. I didn't do it. I forgot about it. I was too drunk. Whatever.

He called the other day and asked if my piece was ready. It was the last bit; he was waiting for me so he could get it printed before he presented it to the Local Authrities. Well, I was screwed. I thought I was going to have to put pen to paper when I remembered the bad prison poems. I remebered the one that made reference to a library book. Sod it, I thought, and sent him that.

He sent it back. He said it was 'unsuitable'.

Actually, he said it was shit!

So, for you all, a world exclusive of my unloved (and unsuitable) poetry. And yes, I know it's bad: didn't you read the rest of the post?

Prison Poem No 1

Dear Dave, what can I say?
A ten by twelve cell for the next 21 years;
maybe 16 with good behaviour.
Heavy shoes and a heavier heart,
and all for what?
One moment; just one moment.

Dave, I'm sorry I killed your Mum,
I never knew she was a brass,
or black, for that matter.
If I'd known who she was
I would never have cut her throat
that much.

I know I can't ask for forgiveness.
I can't ask for pity or mercy.
I can't ask for understanding.
But I will ask one thing, Dave,
because once we were friends.

Can you take my library book back?
Even though the fine is only ten pence a day,
after 21 years that's £766.50,
and that's a lot to pay
for a fucking Jeffrey Archer,
dead Mum or not!

Love spuds and limp lengths

2011-07-11T01:29:00.000-07:00

It's great to be young, all firm and upstanding no matter what life throws at you. As age descends, sometimes life's little rigours can cause that upstanding rampant firmness to wane on the odd occasion. As you approach the pivotal point in your existence, the tipping point, some things can cause it to go all floppy, collapse, turn yellow and fall off. That's right, my potatoes are going through the droopy stage.

Now, last year my spuds experienced a slight lazy droop with a bit of tangling to boot. I panicked, read a thousand blogs and concluded that they were affected by some terrible disease. I purchased highly expensive powders - no, not cocaine, but it was about as expensive, and did nothing, so maybe some Bolivian marching powder might have been a wiser move. I sprayed my spuds, they stayed limp, so in the end I gave up. They struggled through and were all edible. My conclusion was that by reading Bastard Titchmarsh's comments about not watering spuds, I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book: believing in a false messiah!

This year I was ready to prove that I'm no idiot. I planted my spuds on Good Friday (once more annoying the shit out of the Baby Jesus), and gave then 10 Elephants of water every day, even when it rained. They took off like a scalded cat, and if you've ever scalded a cat you'll know just how accurate that is. They grew tall and firm and rampant. Hurrah!

Every day 10 Elephants of water, lots of earthing up, and I wiped my backside on the pages of Vegetables and Herbs by Alan Titchmarsh. Nothing could go wrong! A few weeks ago, we had our first Pentland Javelins. No, they're nothing like Javelins. They're round and white and perfectly waxy with a subtle but clear taste. They are currently Mrs IG's favourite, especially as their smooth skin makes them easy to clean.

We were in potato heaven. Potato heaven. I repeated it, so that you understand it. potato heaven. Got that? Sure? Even the slow ones amongst you must now understand. We were in potato heaven. Good, let's move on. Let's move on to earlier this week.

I wandered outside with my morning cup of Java, and what did I see? I'll tell you what I saw. I saw a bloody mess where once there were upright firm rampant potato plants. Potato heaven was burning with the fires of hell. I called Mrs IG and asked her to slap my face, which she happily did. I looked again. This was no delirium. This was armageddon! No, this was armageddon with bloody chips!

This is what I saw...

Now, I'm no Hercule Poirot, but I reckon that the aforementioned Alan Titchmarsh has nipped off, whipped the Baby Jesus off his Easter Cross, and the pair have sneaked around to my garden. There they have wreaked their revenge of my constant piss-taking by donning clogs and dancing around my spuds while Terry 'The Living Devil' Wogan accompanies them by singing the bloody Floral Dance.

For some reason, their spite has been directed at the King Edwards (maybe Jesus didn't like the false idolatry of a King called Edwards), the Shetland Blacks (obviously a racist motive creeping in there) and the Estima (Titchmarsh obviously hates anything that isn't Heritage). They've left the Jersey Royals (maybe they're leaving Bergerac to arrest me for calling them that) and the Pentland Javelin (I don't get that, unless Javelin was a reminder of the spear in the side at Golgotha).

If you think I'm making this up, look for yourselves...

I did a bit of Googling (no sniggering at the back) and found a few people who suggest bracing the damaged stalks with adhesive tape. Now, I might be an idiot, but if you think I've got time to tape up damaged stalks you've got another thing coming. No; the future will be a 'wait and see' policy. They'll still get 10 Elephants each day, and we'll see what happens.

I did empty one sack of Shetland Black. They were quite small but plentiful. I took a dozen really small ones and replanted them in some compost. Let's see if they can offer a late cropping option. It's an experiment, but I bet no one thought that man would ever fly until Thai Airways gave the world a cheap way to visit Bangkok to see the lovely Ping Pong sisters!

Confused? You bet your sweet arse!

2011-06-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I can be a right cock.

A while back a few of us went out for a working lunch. It started at 11.30am, and we finally got out of the restaurant at around 9pm, very much the worse for wear. We went our separate ways, and I shared a taxi to the station with George. The driver dropped us across the road outside a pub, so we naturally decided to have one last drink...

At the bar, drinks in hand, I noticed a bald bloke behind me, trying to get served. I moved and told him to get to the bar. He thanked me, in a strange accent, slightly Nordic.

The conversation went like this. Remember that I was very pissed, as was George. Also, if you don't like language, stop reading. I've included a few notes for those across the pond.

Me: You're not from around here, are you?

Baldy: No, I am from Sweden.

Me: Sweden, eh? Have you got meat balls ... or is it just the way you're standing?

Baldy: Yes, we have meat balls.

Me: You lot eat piss-fish too, don't you?

Baldy: What is this?

Me: Piss-fish. Fish ... in piss.

Baldy: I do not know this.

Me (to George): He doesn't know piss-fish.

George: He doesn't know piss-fish. What a bastard.

Me: He says you're a bastard.

Baldy: I do not know this.

Me: So, what brings you here?

Baldy: I am here for a training course.

Me: You're a bit old to go to school. Are you backwards?

Baldy: No, I am teaching the course.

Me: What do you do?

Baldy: I am a street fighter.

At this, George grabs his arm and squeezes his bicep, before shouting that he's a fine specimen of manhood. I jab a punch into his shoulder and ask if he wants a fight. He looks a bit freaked out, but then relaxes when we both fall about laughing. I order some more drinks, and we start to quiz him.

Me: So, you've come to England to teach people this?

Baldy: Yes, that's right.

Me: What about the police?

Baldy: Pardon?

Me: It's got to be illegal.

Baldy: No, it's allowed.

George: I'd like to teach women! That would be fun.

Baldy: I have women, and men, it's very mixed.

Me: Where do you do it?

Baldy: In the Hilton in Queensway.

Me: Shit. Do they know what you're doing?

Baldy: Yes.

Me: And they're cool with it?

Baldy: Yes, I hold it there twice a year.

George: Is there much blood?

Me: And piss-fish? Bloody piss-fish?

Baldy: What is this?

Me: Never mind. Do you want a fight? No, I'm only joking. That's such a great job. I can't believe that you get away with it. I thought it would have to be kept top secret.

Baldy: No, I have a friend at Granada (a TV company) and he helps promote it.

Me: No shit?

Baldy: Yes. We have someone from Coronation Street (a UK soap opera) on the course.

Me: Bollocks. Someone from Coronation Street? You beat the living shit out of someone from Coronation Street?

George: Do you smack the face off them? Kick them in the balls? Stamp on their fucking head?

Baldy: What?

Me: Do you kick the living crap out of them. I would, trust me. I'd kick the shit out of them, and then back in again.

Baldy: No! They help with stage direction.

George: WHAT?

Me: Hang on there. What do you teach again?

Baldy: Script writing.

George: I thought you said street fighting.

Me: So did I.

Baldy: No, script writing.

Me: Fuck off, you bald twat.

George (to me): What a prick. No wonder they eat piss-fish.

Sometimes I get confused, and so do my salad leaves. In the UK, April was hot, really hot like the best summers we ever have. Everything sprouted and grew like buggery. Early May was hot too, and it kept on growing. Then it cooled down. No, scratch that. It turned cold, and very wet. After six weeks of very unseasonable heat and dry, it turned unseasonably cold and wet.

Things stopped growing, especially the herbs and salad. They just halted. Then, thinking winter had arrived, they went to seed. Young seedlings suddenly threw up flowers. It went from being a spring bed to an autumn cemetery in days. All that work on the salad bed wasted!

The watercress was still getting its first true leaves when it went hard and showed tiny flowers.

I did the only thing I could. I covered the whole lot with a layer of manure, then a layer of compost, and then I started all over again.

Sometimes, when I think of things I've done in my life - especially when drunk - I think it would be great to just cover them over with a layer of shit and start afresh.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Any excuse to whip it out!

2011-06-27T03:41:00.001-07:00

A recent comment on my Curcubit post revealed that Damo at Two Chances Veg Plot is going for the Trombonchino experiment this year. Now, I know that he's got greener fingers than me, so I fully expect his to grow well.

For those that are unaware, the Trombonchino is classed as a courgette, but it's not a courgette, on that you can trust me! The fruits do not turn to marrows, and can reach a mythical 1.5 metres in length. I grew mine last year by accident (I thought they were typical courgettes), but saved one fruit to see if I could make it to a metre in length.

I failed.

A mere 95 centimetres was all I could manage. I wish Damo well in cracking the one metre mark, and if he manages it, I will smile graciously whilst muttering "bastard" under my breath!

Curcubit Death Camp

2011-06-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

First they came for the cabbages, but I did not speak out, because I was not a cabbage.

Then they came for the carrots, but I did not speak out, because I was not a carrot.

Then they came for the turnips, but I did not speak out, because I was not a turnip.

Then they came for the parsnips, but I did not speak out, because I was not a parsnip.

Then they came for the curcubits...

Regular readers might recall last year's curcubit car crash. I started off with 48 seedlings, and somehow managed to destroy all but five plants. Neck rot got most of the seedlings, then the few that survived perished in the wasteland that was the Beanage. In the end I had two Patty pan Squash plants (which was more than enough), one very spindly cucumber (I had one three incher from it and that was it all year), one Munchkin Pumpkin (I listened to the Raven before I realised she had more manure than my manure pile) and the infamous 'donkey cock' Trombonchino.

This year I figured I'd do things differently. This year I would be ready for the inevitable march of death. I'd pack them in and watch them die. I'd be the Angel of Death to their withering end. I'd wear a long leather coat and big boots and oversee their demise. I would build the Curcubit Death Camp.

My thinking was pretty clear. If I embraced the death and demise of the curcubits, I wouldn't be pissed off when it happened, and I would still have a few more plants because I'd be ready. I sowed Patty Pan Squash, Green Bush Courgettes, Soliel Courgettes (the yellow ones), Delikates Squash (the white ones), some Pumpkin with a name I don't recall and some cucumbers of some type. Yes, I know I should have written them down, but I think I saw some beer or a film with a nude woman in it and the seedlings immediately slipped from my mind.

Cautious of Neck Rot, I sprayed the seedlings with cold Chamomile Tea, and the results were amazing. Despite my lack of luck last year, not one single seedling suffered the withering rot of death. Still, it didn't matter if neck rot did occur, because I'd oversown by a stupid degree.

Death, where is thy sting?

Now, I am an idiot, so for some reason (I think I was drunk) I mixed up the seedlings. I thought it would be funny to not know what was what until they fruited. Yes, I know, what a bloody fool.

I planted them out as the frosts passed, and took care to water around the plants, soaking the ground by keeping the water off the stems and leaves. I waited for death, I checked daily to see how many fell by the way side. I lost one. I didn't know what it was, because of my random planting moment.

Where one died, others would surely follow. They didn't. I had too many curcubits. I started watering randomly, soaking leaves and stems. I taunted death. I teased it and stuck two fingers into its fiery eyes. What happened? Nothing.

Death is laughing at me. I'm knee deep in bloody curcubits and it's laughing at me.

Bastard.

Trust me, I'm a doctor!

2011-06-18T07:23:00.001-07:00

Many years ago, I popped into a pub I frequented for a swift beer. As I got my drink I spotted two of my friends talking to three girls. I wandered over to say hello, and after a few minutes the third girl asked, 'Are you a pilot too?'

'A pilot too?' I repeated, somewhat confused.

'Like these two, pilots?'

Kevin worked at a local bakery, and Steve fixed petrol pumps! I wasn't going to drop them in it, but I also wanted to get off without being dragged into whatever bullshit they were laying on the girls.

'No, I'm not a pilot; I'm a badger gynaecologist actually.'

'A what?'

'A badger gynaecologist; you know, a gynaecologist for badgers.'

The girl looked puzzled, so I finished my drink. She asked if I was having another one, and I replied, 'No, I'm on call. It's a busy time for badgers with gynaecological needs.'

As I left, she called out, 'Oh wait, I get it, you're a doctor, aren't you?'

I just smiled and headed out the door.

Fast forward ten or so years, and I happened to back in the area I had lived in, and was in the same pub seeing a few friends. I found out that someone I knew had actually married the dumb girl from a decade ago. We were chatting when she walked up to the bar, so he introduced us. He explained that we had worked together a few years earlier, at which point she turned on her newly wed husband and hissed, 'Don't lie to me. Why would you lie to me?' We were both taken aback, until she declared, 'I've known him for years, and actually, he's a doctor!'

That's when I discovered I could still blow bubbles of beer froth out of my nostrils.

Why do I bring this up? Because maybe I am a doctor, as I seem to have cured myself of my illness. Three weeks without any gardening, so I wasn't expecting much from the beds. I did, however, find a few morsels to accompany our roast Muntjac haunch for dinner.

The change from fierce heat to cold and constant drizzle means the salads are suffering. The lettuces are too wet and the mustards have bolted already. The rocket is thin and leggy. The herbs have rotted and the peas look scrawny.

The radishes, however, have gone mad, as have the first sowing turnips, and the beetroot are offering up the first thinnings to be roasted as baby beets. I also have my first courgette, and yes, that mushroom really is that size (it weighs 200g).

I was going to catalogue the highs and lows for each bed, but it started to throw it down so I bolted back indoors with my booty.

There are some good things going on out there, but there are also a few serious concerns, such as two beds - filled with the same soil - that are struggling to deliver.

I shall attack each bed in order in future posts, and see if we can't work out why there are some disasters out there already!!!

Right, I making my dinner!

First glut of 2011

2011-06-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

On June 15 2010, I wrote the following in a post on this very blog:

Yeah, I know. You all told me so! Yes, okay, let it bloody go. You were all right and I was wrong. I admit it. I hold my bloody hands up and I accept that I was wrong. I'll write it out one thousand times, in my own blood, with a stub of a tooth I've torn from my own jaw. Okay? Happy now?

Never, ever, ever intercrop with bloody radishes!
Never, ever, ever intercrop with bloody radishes!
Never, ever, ever intercrop with bloody radishes!
Never, ever, ever intercrop with bloody radishes!

Right, that's four times. Now I've only got to write it out another 996 times, and I'm done.

Well, you don't need to be Einstein to realise that I forgot my own advice, intercropped more radish, and suddenly had to lift the whole lot to save the other plants they were overshadowing. Yes, I know what I am; read the title of the bloody blog. You're not telling me anything I don't already know!

Last year I pickled my radish glut. They were okay, but nothing sensational, so this year I give you this as a solution...

Radish soup! What? No, really, radish soup. Take a big onion, chop and soften in a knob of butter. Add your radishes (a couple of pounds or one kilo), then add three diced floury spuds. Top up with stock until everything is covered and boil for around half an hour. Then whizz it all up, season with salt and pepper, and the job's a good one. Eat or freeze as you desire.

What's that with it? Why, that's beer, bacon and cheese soda bread. Fry off around 250g of smoked bacon lardons and drain off the fat. Chuck 500g of flour into a bowl, with a couple of teaspoons of baking soda and a pinch of salt. Chuck in the lardons and mix, before adding around 300ml (half a pint and an extra mouthful) of beer. I use Tanglefoot, but anything bitter/stout/porter will do. Mix until a dough forms (no longer) and then make four biggish rolls out of it. Dust with flour, slice a cross in the top of each roll to let the heat in, and then fill the cross with grated cheese. Bake at 200 degrees C for 15 to 20 minutes.

That's that; a radish glut overcome!

Mind games, blogs and bogies

2011-06-10T04:13:00.000-07:00

So I have been lying in my bed, both sweating and shivering, with a trail of snot that identifies my attempts to get around the room seeking out the remote control for the TV. I don't know if it's the fever, the lack of beer (I'm seeing how much worse I feel without a drink) or the cold grip of Death's flint-like fingers on my struggling soul, but my mind is wandering - and no, not to the dirty stuff!

I remember last summer, its heat, sunshine and joy. I was six feet tall, bloody good looking with a big head of hair, and not an ounce of fat on me. The local children gathered every morning to watch me skilfully turn the sod to reveal an ever increasing mound of fresh luscious vegetables. It was vegetable heaven, and the world was my oyster.

Fast forward 12 months, and I am a grey haired fat man with a face like a bag of spanners, too knackered to go outside and see the dying twigs that I laughingly call a veg plot. What went wrong? When did it all slip away? Where are my trousers?

The Mother used to say that if I drank and chased loose women, I'd end up in the gutter. I laughed, but she was right. I have landed in that gutter. Mrs IG fetched me a coffee, and I told her that I was ready to go towards the light, there was nothing to hold on for, even the veg had deserted me.

She looked upon me with tenderness and understanding (she actually sneered, but I try to see beyond her disgust nowadays) and muttered something about looking back; nothing was ready in early June.

That, my dear friends, is just why I keep this tissue of shit streaming out; so I can look back. A check to the blogs of June 2010 revealed nothing but dying curcubits and a radish overload. Hang on; so it hasn't all slipped away. It hasn't gone wrong. That said, I haven't a Scooby where my trousers are though!

I am getting bored of being unwell, and my garden needs me. It's been two weeks now, and I've had enough. Maybe, just maybe, those snotless days of last summer will return. Maybe I will once more be six feet tall with a big head of hair (unlikely, I admit). Maybe I will find my trousers. One thing is for certain. This not drinking isn't doing anyone any favours.

Bastards (and some frogs)

2011-06-06T07:15:00.001-07:00

Now, I know many men catch a cold and slope off to bed, crying like Grandmothers that they've got the full range of terminal diseases, but trust me when I say I'm not one of them. I have continued to work, cook and drink beer throughout my current sickness. I even contined to garden, sort of, but to be honest after 15 minutes I was drooling and sweating like a pig at a hog roast, so I called it day and had some more beer.

However, my absence has allowed some of God's creatures - the bastardly bastard ones - to take liberties with my vegetables.

First off, the pigeons pulled up my peas. Okay, I guess I can see some logic to this attack, as I do eat a lot of pigeons. However, I cannot let this act of aggression pass, so I shall be increasing my consumption of the flying rats with immediate effect. Additionally, they did this despite me leaving a few cabbage plants out for them (my original thinking was the spares might keep the flying vermin off my brasica bed). Needless to say, those have since gone into the compost.

I also hit a pigeon in the truck (when I was driving along, I mean; I didn't lure it into the cab and then punch it). Usually, I try to avoid them; there's little point in their death if I can't eat them. This time, I laughed. Bastards.

Then the slugs ate the leaves off my beans. They were under cover (the beans, not the bloody slugs, what do you think I'm running here, a holiday camp for invertebrates?), awaiting planting out. I just left them for a few more days due to my snottiness, and the slimey bastards stripped the stalks bare. Double bastards.

On the plus side, the recent rain has brought out a plague of frogs/toads. I don't know which they are. Do I seem like the type of man who knows a frog from a toad? Of course I don't. I do, however, like them. I might have to build some sort of landscaping that they like. It's just a shame they don't kill pigeons and slugs.

There's some stuff going on in the garden, and I was going to do a video blog thing, but I just can't get the energy at present.

Be an angel, someone, and fetch me a beer!

Birthday Blues

2011-06-01T02:54:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am one year closer to death. I just hope that Kyna over at Crystal Coast Gardener, who shares my birthday, had a better one that I did! Strange really thast Kyna and I could be twins, born on the same day. Okay, it was 19 years apart; that's some long labour. Oh, and we've got different Mothers (and Fathers too). But apart from the time and the geneology, we're just like twins that look nothing like each other!

Last week, Mrs IG became unwell. Nothing serious, but my day of visiting Monkey World followed by an evening of dog racing, scheduled for Tuesday 31st, was in doubt. Being a nice bloke, I tended to her and decided to delay the celebrations. Then, on Sunday, two days before the big day, I awoke with a head feeling like it had been inserted into a badger's rectum. Not an ordinary badger, mind; a spectic badger.

So that was that; no gardening, no dog racing, no monkeys, no nothing. Instead we sat in bed and watched old TV re-runs, only breaking the illness with a pheasant and foie gras pie I rustled up, and I few bottles of wine that I couldn't taste!

Look on the bright side; Kyna's birthday is over for another year, but mine is still to come!

Did I mention we could have been twins?

In case you're wondering why there's a picture of artichokes at the top of the post, well, I thought a picture of my illness would be too disgusting. There's green slime coming out of every orifice, which mingles nicely with my pouring sweat. I am a love God, and no mistake.

Now, where's that snotrag?

Moist? It all depends on your point of view!

2011-05-24T04:14:00.000-07:00

I have beeen away for work. Then I returned home, all too briefly, before going away again. Then I managed two days at home before going away again. It's been stressful, not because I miss home comforts, nor because work trips are roughly 23 hours drinking and 1 hour sleep, nor because Mrs IG has become like a stranger to me. No, the stress is because right now, at seedling stage, my vegetables need me.

What did I do? Well, I could have entrusted a neighbour with watering duties, but they would have stolen my plants. I could have allowed Mrs IG to care for the seedlings, but she used my time away to head back 'oop Narf' to see her friends.

Instead I watered to a very high degree, left the plants alone to dry out, heavily watered, went off again, came back and flooded them once more ... you get the idea.

Some plants have loved the flood/drought scenario and have thrived. The radishes are the size of tennis balls (oddly with no splits), the salad leaves are bright green and lucious, and the potatoes are off on a blazing growth expedition!

The herbs, however, didn't like things too wet then too dry, and the seedlings have all rotted. I've replanted, but apparently they might have fared better if just ignored for a few weeks!

I also have mixed news about the death camp that is Beanage 1. For some reason, I mix up the beans and curcubits; there's no reason for it only that I did it last year! Following last year's curcubit disaster where 48 plants turned into 5 living ones in a few days, I over-planted this year. I knew a few would die. Well, I knew the majority would die, so I figured I'd cover the bases. More of that in a curcubit-related post.

Still, I've had my first salad of the year, and it was good. I'm still waiting on the herbage to reappear, and watering is currently very light, staying on the dry side (as advised by some bloke with dirty fingernails which - in my opinion, qualifies him highly to dish out advice).

Ho hum!

Filderkraut: you know you want it!

2011-05-10T05:44:00.000-07:00

You're sat in a smokey backroom bar on the Reeperbahn, on the table a fresh Dunkel Weiss Beer. The pianist is playing a slow crawling tune, limpingly out of time. It's somewhere between stupid o'clock and dawn. She walks slowly towards you, her hips swishing in that tight red silk dress. Her eyes are locked on yours, and you can almost taste the Jaegermeister on her breath as she leans in and whispers, seductively, questioningly, "Filderkraut?"

You nod, rise slowly, carefully place your manure-stained Fedora on your head and follow her through the side door and down the corridor. Her shimmy lures you on. The walls seem to drip crimson velvet, and the air is heady with a scent of rich perfume and something spicey, oriental, almost opium-like. Somewhere a barrel organ plays a crescendo of collapsing splintered notes.

She stops in front of the oak door, its panels worn smooth by hundreds of hands that have pushed through it, centuries before you arrived. She kisses the tip of her finger and places it to your lips. It tastes bitter, almondy, poison. Then she's gone.

The door opens silently when you push, and although gloomy, there is a slight glow in the centre of the room. The bed shimmers in the half-light, black sheets that almost seem alive, spreading like a bruise, soaking up the little light that struggles against the darkness. There, in the middle of the bed, it sites. The Filderkraut. Its head is pointed and it's the size of a child! It's the biggest cabbage you've ever seen.

FILDERKRAUT!

Last year I mistakenly sowed Trombonchino belieivng them to be normal courgettes. Then I read that they grow up to 1 metre in length. I didn't believe it, and I was right not to, as my longest fruit only grew to 95 centimetres!

Well, I've done it again. Mistakenly, of course. I picked up some Filderkraut seeds, basically becauser the cabbage picture on the packet had a pointed head. That, plus a Germanic name, was enough for me. Well, following some research it appears that a single head of Filderkraut can grow to silly sizes, up to 5kg in weight. That's around 10 odd pounds in old money.

I shall be eating them as they grow, but I will save the largest and healthiest to try and hit the 10kg ceiling. If it does, I shall accept that the Filderkraut is a beast beyonf compare. The whole potential size thing will turn out to be a load of balls, no doubt, and I'll probably only manage 4.5kg. Still, I am prepared to be disappointed.

FILDERKRAUT!

Audere est Facere

2011-05-03T08:22:00.000-07:00

Yes indeedy, Audere est Facere! Not just the motto of the might Tottenham Hotspur (we're building for the future, honest), but also a creed for all idiot gardeners out there. That'll be me then! For those of you with poor Latin (what were you doing at school?) it translates as "To dare is to do".

"Oh my God", I hear you cry, "he's off on the bloody dare to dream nonsense again."

Like MLK, I had a dream. That dream was that once Hill 49 fell, and the crap was removed, and the four-foot deep ivy roots that were as thick as my arms were dug out and carried away (two pick-up truck loads I might add), that salad would grow. I dreamed that salad would grow in a bed the likes of which salad has never grown in before (well, in my garden at any rate).

Jesus died and came back to life, and aside from planting the spuds, I toiled on that dream, the dream I dared to dream. Royal weddings came along too, and Osama Bin Laden got deaded by the USA, and I dreamed the dream I dared to dream. Got that?

Look, for the slow ones, I spent two Bank Holiday weekends dreaming the dream I dared to dream. Yes that's right people from other countries, all of us in the UK got a day off work because some toff married a bit of rough. You see, living in a cold rainy country where food costs more than a dentist earns does pay off sometimes.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was dreaming the dream I dared to dream, or some old ballsacks like that. I sawed a bit of my thumb (again - when will I learn to do it properly), I hit myself in the eye wifth a bit of 6 by 2, and I got a lovely bruise on the fleshy bit under my arm when it got trapped between two lumps of timber.

Did I give up? Did I buggery! I did it, and do you know why? Because I dared to dream that I dared to do it. And do it I did.

It's 3 metres x 1.8 metres (that's around 10 x 6 feet in old money), I only have to fill it with topsoil and compost mix (that's tonight's job) and fit a leaky pipe irrigation system. All the beds will be getting one in winter, but for now the new salad bed is the only empty one.

Once filled, it will be home to three kinds of lettuce, sorrel, various mustards, rocket, cress (water and land), ong choy (yes, it's back for another go), pak choi and any other salad stuff I can think of. It's a bit bigger than my original plan. This is what happens when you just think of something and build it without putting pen to paper!

Dare to dream! You know you want to!

Behold what I have done; I've made a better world for everyone!

2011-04-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

As the sun, a crimson ball of fiery hope, settled towards the darkening horizon, the sweating man stood, leaning on his shovel. The small boys gathered around in awe. One, their leader, the one with the leg caliper, lazy eye and scabby knees, spoke first.

"It's amazing, Mr Idiot, amazing!"

"Thank you litle Johnny."

"Actually, my name's Nigel ... but you can call me little Johnny if you want. You can call me anything; just call me! That's what my Mums says!"

"Yes, little Johnny, we're all well aware of what your Mum says. Take a word of advice from me. Don't use that line on any retired teachers that you meet in the woods. Anyway, back to this. What do you think then?"

"It's fantastic, Mr Idiot. You've actually gone and done it."

"I have done my best, little Johnny."

"It's brilliant. You're like God, Mr Idiot. No, you're better than God."

"Some have said so, little Johnny. Still, my work is but a humble effort for the children of the world."

"Oh great, is it for us kids then?"

"Don't be a moron. If you touch it I'll cut your hands off. But you can stand on the other side of that tall fence and imagine what it looks like. Let it inspire you."

"They laughed at you, Mr idiot, they laughed, but you went and done it."

"That's right, little Johnny. Never be afraid to dream. They can take your money, your house, your health and your life. They can take your freedom, your dignity, your self-respect and sometimes your sanity. They can take your teeth, your hair, your eyes, your ears and even your testicles. They can take your breath from your lungs, your blood from your veins, the beat from your heart, but they can never take your dreams. Dare to dream, boys, dare to dream, and never lose sight of that dream. One day, even you little Johnny, might reach that dream, and get that job washing dishes that everyone said was beyond you."

The boys cheered.

"You showed them good and proper, Mr Idiot!" shouted one fat ginger-haired one.

"Yes boys, I showed them, and wherever there are gardeners with not enough space, wherever there are vegetables with no plots, wherever seeds lie ungerminated, I am there too!"

"So, Mr Idiot, you're going to help other gardeners?"

"Don't be soft. Of course I'm not. It's just how people talk during historical moments! Let those lazy basatrds help themselves. They're mostly tree-hugging flower-sniffing goat lovers anyway, like that Titchmarsh gobshite. Now boys, remember this day, and whenever the world is closing in, whenever you are condemned or ridiculed or told to sit down and shut up, dare to dream. Dare to dream! Now fuck off and let me get finished!"

To be continued...

Stupid? I can do that!

2011-04-26T14:12:00.000-07:00

Easter. So the Baby Jesus died, and the spuds went into their bags. Back in January, I was going to go to Damo's local potato day, but on relaising it would take 2 hours there, 2 hours back and a minimum of 1 hour there, I had a discussion with Mrs IG. Remember that we were off to Sri Lanka the next day, so the conversation went like this.

IG: It's only 5 hours.
Mrs IG: We haven't packed yet.
IG: Actually, you're wrong. You have packed everything you need, you have sorted everything that needs sorting, and you are ready to go.
Mrs IG: Okay, you haven't packed yet.
IG: Good point.

So, I nipped into a local garden centre that sells individual seed potatoes. On Good Friday they went out; King Edwards, Shetland Blacks, Estima, Jersey Royals and Pentland Javelin.

Okay, I know you're not supposed to call them Jersey Royals unless they grow in Jersey, but here's some facts. Well, here's one fact. Jersey capitulated to the Nazis, and then we had to bale them out. I think that gives me the right to call my potatoes whatever I want. What are they going to do about it; send Bergerac after me?

I also spent Easter realising that I can still do stupid.

STUPID 1

Artichokes are invasive. That's why I dug out every last tuber to make way for a sweet potato bed. Maybe I missed one?

STUPID 2

The curcubits had been in the propogator for two days and had just shown growth. I either had to move them and be late for the pub, or just go drinking. One more day can't hurt, can it?

STUPID 3
I did have some spare artichokes in January, just before I went away. That's when I dug them all out, every last one of them! Realising that they wither, I read about storing them in sand. I had no sand. I figured I'd stick them in a bag in some compost until I was ready to cook them. It was the same as sand, right? I then put it in the dark cool shed. They wouldn't grow. Even if they did a little bit, it wouldn't matter. No harm done?

Can't get stupider than that? You reckon? As I have often said, I didn't choose the Idiot moniker for cheap laughs!

The great seed robbery!

2011-04-18T10:16:00.001-07:00

It is with a heavy heart that I am forced to report the great seed robbery. What is worse, what is upsetting and disheartening, is that I must also report that a previous winner of a TIGNOG is being stripped of his award, stripped of his TIGNOG for bringing the awards into disrepute. It's a disgrace, a shame and a bloody scandal; that's what it is. It's a dark stain on the soul of gardening, a rot deep in the heart of horticulture, it's a crime against gardening, a bloody terrible crime against us all, and the culprit has to be made to pay. Rather than repeat the whole story, I'll just leave you with the letter sent today to the dirty criminal in question.

*
Dear Mr Fothergill,

Unaccustomed as I am to writing to a cartoon character, I feel compelled to do so in this instance. Yes, I accept that as the friendly face of mainstream gardening, you do go some way towards ticking the boxes for the great unwashed. I also accept that your seed and seed potato collection are - considering you are a mainstay of the sheds and confused garden centres (I speak of the places where Christmas Decorations and Hedgehog boot scrapers are more important than plants) - pretty diverse. I can’t comment about your flowers, as they’re for girls.

I am surprised that you even bother with flowers, as clearly - from your cartoon face – I can see that you are a man who knows more about onions and cabbage than hollyhocks and daisies. Your moustache is certainly more Burt Reynolds than Gay Bob, and for that I heartily commend you. Also, that’s one hell of a hat; definitely the head-adornment of a vegetable grower!

Now, before you think I am just contacting you to offer praise, I’m not. You see, there is no easy way to say this, but Mr Fothergill, I am on to you.

Don’t play the innocent, we both know what I’m talking about. It’s the seed scandal. You must have known that one day someone was going to spot it, and today, my moustache-wearing, titfer-adorned friend, is that day!

Recently I purchased from you, via a retail outlet, some squash seeds. Delikates, to be precise! Yes, I felt your smile slip when I mentioned that. It’s because you know what’s coming, don’t you Mr Fothergill? Now, I often buy direct from you, and as I had bought these seeds offline, so to speak, I was concerned that maybe some sly shop assistant was perpetrating the scandal, but no. The packet was intact. But you knew that, didn’t you? Yes, you did, because it’s not a ‘who-dun-it’; it’s a ‘you-dun-it’!

What does it say on the back of the Delikates packet? It says: Average seeds, 20. Yes, I do know what average means, but when I’d planted 10, how many do you think were left Mr Fothergill? Not ten; I know that and you know that. No, not nine or even eight; don’t play the innocent with me. It was five Mr Fothergill. Five.

Now, let’s say that the seeds cost £1.49, because that’s exactly what they did cost. Now, let’s say that a million people buy the seeds, expecting 20, and they only get 15. That means that you now have 5 million Delikates seeds, which I bet is exactly what you’ve got stashed in that fetching hat of yours.

Now, if you then sell those 5 million Delikates seeds in packets of 15, you have … ummm, hang on, I’m not great at maths … 333,333 packets of seeds at £1.49, which equates to just short of a whopping half a million pounds. Even in cartoon money, that’s stronging it a bit.

But wait, it gets worse. My Delikates pack states 20 seeds, and I’ve seen others quoting 20 seeds, but now I note that you’re selling them on-line in 10 packs, still at £1.49! That means that when I and the other 999,999 people bought 15 seeds instead of 20, your 5 million free seeds suddenly realise a value of £745,000.

Blimey!

Now, here’s the thing, Mr Fothergill. Do you know who might be interested in this? I’ll tell you who. Deputy Dawg! I can’t think of any other cartoon policemen or sheriffs, so he’ll do.

What have you got to say about that, then?

I look forward to your conmments.

The Idiot

XXX

Tiller death do us part

2011-04-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in life, you do find yourself wondering whether there is an easier way. All those hours, days, weeks, years spent working hard, blood blisters and sweat and aching backs. There must be an easier way, right?

When the Mother shuffled off to the Home for Batty Ladies, I raided her garden shed, and one of the things I carried off was a Mantis Tiller, plus all the attachments. If there's one thing the Mother did, it was to buy all the accessories. The bloody thing even had a plough attachment! I don't know what she was planning, maybe raising some cotton in her postage stamp sized garden.

Anyway, what did I care? I had over £300 worth of tiller for free. So what did I do? I chucked it in the shed, naturally.

The work on Beanage 2 and the Salad Bed was crying out for a quick fix, so I decided to do the obvious and break out the Mantis. Now, when I said I chucked it in the shed, I did just that, so after I'd spent 30 minutes working out why it wouldn't run, I spotted the severed power cord. It's only mains electricity, so I lashed up a quick solution and we were in business.

Now, you might have £300 (or about $500) kicking around, and you might be thinking that a Mantis Tiller would be a bloody good investment. Well, read on, my friends, read on.

Within 30 seconds I realised it was just going to bounce around like Shivering Sharon, the epileptic pole dancer. Bastard. It wouldn't till. Then I realised that if I let it scrabble forwards, before pulling it back, it would make a slight hole and shower me with dust. Double bastard. Then it jammed. Double bastard with chips.

I disconnected the power - look at those tangs, you don't take risks with them - and levered the stone out. Then I powered it up, dug another small hole and showered myself with dust before it jammed again, this time on a twig.

After it had jammed 27 times, I was sticking my fist in, power still on, and wrenching bits free. I kicked it and called it names I shouldn't even know. The soil was pock-marked with tiny holes, and I was covered in bits of crap. Then it jammed again on a leaf, so I threw the bloody thing on the floor and went to get a fork.

Mantis Tillers? They're a big pile of shit.

Bunking off, and getting ready to hurt

2011-04-09T01:49:00.000-07:00

One day, before April is out, salad will grow here. Honestly.

Having spent most of last Sunday, all day Monday - and Monday evening too - finishing off a project, I decided to bunk off work on Tuesday and do some gardening. It was a cool grey day, and thus was given over to manual labour. I toiled for most of the day, and spent the late afternoon putting together a rather decent roast pheasant supper.

On Wednesday, I returned to work. The sun was shining and the birds were tweeting. Okay, the birds were annoying me, but the sun wasn't. One person at work had just found out a family member had died. It was an old and frail family member, but they seemed in shock. Another person that I have to deal with was trying to cope with a three-pronged assault from the menopause, giving up smoking and giving up caffeine.

By noon, I'd had enough of the wall-to-wall misery so I returned home and did a bit more gardening. On Thursday I had a meeting, and as I headed back to the office at lunchtime I had an urge. I popped into a stables and loaded the pick-up truck with manure. Lucky I don't wear suits to meetings, eh? Then I returned home and spent the afternoon ... gardening!

The results are positive. I have prepeared the raised beds, finished Beanage 2 and re-manured Beanage 1. I have also sowed the parsnips, radishes, carrots, filderkraut, turnips, rocket and spinach. I have also got the Sub-Arctic Plenty germinated, and the courgettes and squash are in the propogator.

On Friday, the sun was shining again. I was having breakfast with Mrs IG, debating whether or not to round the week off with another skive day. The menopause woman was on holiday, but Mourning Bloke was in. Could I face his long face? Then my phone went. Mourning Bloke was ill. Mourning and ill; he wasn't coming in. With the office to myself, I decided that actually, I might enjoy doing a bit of work. So I went to work.

Today, I have a return of the shoulder trouble I had last year. Still, there are tree stumps to be dug out in order to prepare the salad bed. Luckily, I have a collection of very hoppy beers and desire to clear the ground, so we'll see what inevitable disasters await me.

Sing if you're glad to be grey

2011-04-05T05:08:00.000-07:00

A grey day, cold and drizzling and miserable. Bear that in mind for a minute.

I like a beer or two, always have and probably always will. I don't have a drink problem; I really don't mind how much I drink. I do go long periods without beer, usually when I'm sleeping, and I don't always drink first thing in the morning. I only do that if I want to.

When I was a lad, we discovered something. Whilst it was frowned upon for school children to buy and consume alcohol in large quantities, it was acceptable - even encouraged - for the same children to brew their own beer. This was because it was a 'hobby' and hobbies meant less time for masturbation and arson.

This might seem odd, but it was also during a period when it was acceptable to give children weapons as presents. That might be run-of-the-mill in the US, but here in the UK it was a no-no, except for during the 1970s! The days following Christmas saw kids walking the streets high on home brew and bearing hunting knives, air rifles and even high powered hunting crossbows (thanks Dad).

Anyway, we brewed and drank vast quantities of questionable beer. We also discovered that if you gave beer to girls, they sometimes showed you their girly parts. Yes, you know what I'm talking about; don't say you've never done it.

The word on the street (well, on my street) was that Celia Branston was anytbodies when she'd had a few drinks. As I was anybody, I decided to go for it. She came round on a Saturday afternoon and we headed off to the woods with as many bottles of the estuary bilge that I brewed as we could carry. She could drink, and eventually we were both very much the wrong side of the beer. A quick snog and a grope later, she suddenly went into panic mode. She had to be home - and sober - before her Dad got in.

I watched her stagger away, and then decided to take the short cut home, along the disused railway line. Rather than walk the extra 10 yards to the path, I decided, drunkenly, to hop off the side of the cutting. It didn't look too high.

Today, I still have a scar on my forehead. The cut was so deep they had to stitch it twice, which made a mess of it altogether. It's such a mess that even now, thirty and some more years later, people who know me still ask what I've done to my head, as it turns dark red when it's hot!

As I explained the story to the pretty nurse who stitiched me up, she said, 'You won't do that again, will you?'

I nodded. No, I won't!

Well, I lied. I continued to try and get girls drunk, and I continued to go the wrong way home when intoxicated. I never learned a bloody thing, and I have the scar to prove it.

So, where were we? Oh yes, it's a cold, miserable, drizzling grey day, and it's cold, and grey, and miserable. Did I mention that yet? Regular readers (there's one out there somewhere) will remember that late last year, Jesus got upset with my constant piss-taking and repaid me with the blight. As a result, I swore off the tomatoes for this year.

But guess what? I didn't learn my lesson. Today, being a grey, miserable, cold and drizzly day makes it ideal for my new tomatoes; Sub-Arctic Plenty!

Apparently, they will ripen in even the coldest weather, and will fruit very early, so hopefully they'll be done and gone before Mister Blight even knows I'm growing them. Some folks seem to claim they're tasteless, but I'm buggered if I'm going though another 15 tonnes of green tomato chutney! I've also got some Red Alert, also claimed to be earlyish, and some Ferline, claimed to be blight resistant.

I shall let you know if they're good, bad or generally indifferent!

Sometimes the road is long and twisty, but after a while it also goes up a bloody steep hill...

2011-03-28T10:14:00.000-07:00

The Father used to say 'Hard work never killed a man'. Mind you, he also used to say, 'Pleasure is a cheese sandwich, carried into battle on a mouldy horse, and that's why I'll never be rich; because of the bloody badgers!' Probably the maddest thing about the Father was that we were genuinely shocked when they carted him away to the Pickle Factory!

In life, the long hard twisty roads with sharp gravel edges are the ones I often tread. I don't know why, but my hard road to travel is also littered with the empty husks of good intention. This isn't to say that I give up; perish the thought, I'm an idiot, not a quitter. No, it's not that I tire of the struggle, nor that I succumb to the seduction of the path of lesser resistance, nor that I sink into the soft inevitability of resignation. For me it is more that I come face to face with obvious defeat, and that it bitch-slaps me, time and time again.

I find that assessing the situation is not a skill I possess. I've ignored the ugly girls who went on to bloom into beauties, and I 've chased the pretty girls, only to watch them remove their false teeth, wigs, wooden legs and glass eyes at the end of a night. I've bet on red when it's been black all night, and I once proclaimed the K-Tel Buttoneer to be the product of the century.

When I see a simple and easy-to-achieve job, I know that it's going to be ... simple and, umm, easy to achieve.

Today, I have a bad back, bad shoulders, bad arms, bad legs, bad feet and bad hips. My fingers are cramping. My neck is spasming. I also have several cuts and bruises. The weekend was spent preparing the New Beanage and the New Salad Bed. I worked from sun rise until the sun set, and what did I achieve?

Well, the ground for Beanage 2 is cleared, the Wall of Inishrah has fallen and the footings have been filled. It now requires a tilling and manuring, before the bed is built and the beanage props installed. Yes, the fencing is new, so I need to paint that too.

The salad bed is less impressive, although to me it's more impressive. You should have seen it before I started. The fencing is all new, but there was ivy, around six feet high and four feet deep, that had to be removed. I wish I had a 'before' photo, but I didn't know I was going to tackled it until I was in there, fighting with the bloody stuff, eyes watering from ivy pollen poisoning, face beaten with errant branches, while Mrs IG stood back and wept for her lost years of hapiness!

I do accept that maybe, given it's the end of March, I might have a bit too much to do to hit the deadline for salad planting.

Maybe.

But I shall not quit.

Yet.

Maybe.

First Blood

2011-03-19T08:55:00.001-07:00

You can tell that spring is properly upon us and a new gardening season has arrived, because the inevitable has happened. No, not blossoms on the trees, nor a pregnant badger snuffling in the damp musty woodlands, or even gypsy folk (who are really as honest as the day is long, so let them tarmac your drive and mend your buckets) converging on the game market selling lucky heather. No, the true sign that Mother Nature has given the thumbs-up to seeds to indicate that germination may begin comes in a more original form: idiotic injuries.

The first occurred when I decided to work some bonemeal and blood into the beds. I sprinkled said muck on the soil, allowed a few weeks’ worth of weather to work it in, then went to give the soil a rake. But where, I hear the astute amongst you ask, is the bloody rake? It’s in the bloody shed, under a pile of crap. Now, a lesser idiot would have moved the crap and fetched out the rake, but I am no lesser idiot. Instead I grabbed the handle and pulled. It was stuck. I kicked away a few things: a sprayer, some pots, a roll of weed matting that then became unrolled.

The rake moved, but was still stuck. I pulled harder, and muttered a few obscenities, before trying a more subtle technique of jerking the handle as hard as I could. A few items fell of the crap pile, and I heard the sound of something breaking. This spurred me on, so I pulled harder and more violently. Eventually I realised that the rake head was entangled in the rotovator power lead. I grabbed that and yanked aggressively, and seeing the rake head become free I pulled violently at the handle once more.

You can snigger all you like; yes, it is obvious, but I wasn’t in a mood for thinking. The rake head, now being free, reacted to my violent yank by flying upwards to meet with my face. One prong bit into my nose, while another pushed my lip against my teeth so hard that it split. Glory glory halle-bloody-lujah!

So, I raked the bed, spitting some of my own blood in to supplement the bonemeal. Then I decided to clear a space for the new beanage. The area selected is – or was – home to a wall. It is a wall of division, that splits the harmony of the garden by separation. It divides one bunch of thorny weeds from another bunch of thorny weeds. It is a divisive wall, a symbol of hate and futility, it is the Wall of Inishrah!

Look, I don’t just give names to everything because I am mentally ill. It’s because … umm … well it’s … okay, it’s because I’m mentally ill. The Father used to give names to things, and look what happened to him!

My approach to the demolition was, if anything, a tad haphazard. I fetched the sledgehammer, and removed brick after brick, before walking them to a pile I started to build. That got boring very quickly, so I just randomly twatted the bricks and let them lie where they fell. This created an area hazardous to work in. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t!

I got bored, and boredom led to a new way of thinking. I fetched a pick axe and buried it into the top of the wall. I leaded against the handle, and using my full not inconsiderable bulk, I pulled. The whole wall move an inch or so. Bloody hell, I could – maybe – pull the wall down in one go. I girded my loins and pulled again. Maybe two inches this time, and the centre of the wall looked bowed. The plan was a good one.

Okay, when I say plan, I might be overstating the case somewhat. If it had been a plan, I might have been prepared for what happened next. I wasn’t.

I pulled again, this time also throwing my body outwards to add to the force. The Wall of Inishrah could resist no longer, and slowly, very slowly, began to angle forward, as one solid piece. It was at this point I realised the flaw in the piss-poor plan. I let go of the handle and decided to run. Luckily, I stepped on one of the previously discarded bricks and my ankle went from under me. I fell, not like some wounded bird with one wing broken and useless, drifting inevitably towards the lake's smoky surface, but more like a sack of shit that had been dropped from a great height.

The Wall of Inishrah, as it ceased to exist, stuck one last blow and landed with all its divisive bitterness, on my foot. I was wearing steel toe-capped boots, but it landed on my ankle. The one I had just twisted. I lay there for a moment, the pain burning in my lower appendage (that’s my foot, you dirty-minded peasants), the dried blood on my lips, and then I shouted as loud as I could.

“Mrs IG, come quick, and bring some cold beer.”

And so, gardeners across the globe, I do now declare the 2011 growing season well and truly open!

When the going gets tough, the tough get gardening

2011-03-17T08:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, so life's shit, but I am determined to bring forth a positive mental attitude. Unfortunately, I decided that I needed such an attitude at around 10pm last night, when the choice was to open a bottle of vodka or do some gardening shit.

Now, by the time I'd donned my gardeing atire and ventured out in to the cold, it was approaching midnight. Ever tried gardening at midnight? No, I didn't think you had.

After a few minutes of falling around, I decided to take action. Now, on border crossings, one of the most important issues is identification. To achieve this, they need good lighting at night. To get colour recognition spot-on, they need 100 per cent pure white light, which is expensive. It's worth the cost, though, because colour accuracy is bang-on, plus whilst not appearing to be dazzling bright, these lights do illuminate the world in a very clean way. It's wierd light, almost too clean to be true.

Now such lights cost a hefty amount, but I had one in my collection of kit I've gathered during my work from all over the place, so I decided to mount it on the shed, along with a night vision camera (more about that in another post). After a bit of work and rigging up an appropriate power transformer, I was in business.

Now, to be honest, that image is very very disappointing, because the quality of such a lamp is more based upon intensity of chrominance rather than the more traditional luminance of lighting. Cameras like luminance, and so this picture doesn't show the quality well. The best way to describe it is that to the human eye, it's like a pool of daylight over my garden.

I know it's impressive, because Mrs IG - who asleep in the house with the curtains closed when I started this bout of lunacy - came out to see what the bloody hell I had done. My neighbours also got up from their beds to see what was going on. And the birds awoke and started singing.

I'm running it on lowest power, as at its highest power it has a range of around 150 metres!

I might not be popular with the other villagers who like darkness at night, but I can now garden at 3am, and in my book, that's a positive mental attitude!

Happy and Sad

2011-03-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

Happy, why? Pissed.

Sad, why? Too many friends in Japan because of my work that I've not heard from, plus one very special one from New Zealand with still no answer.

My best friend, the only one I'd die for (excluding Mrs IG) is one I've not heard from. It's odd how these things remain unspoken, because they never come to the surface...

When I first did 'international conflict journalism', we used to drunkenly pick a mate that was responsible for your eulogy. And giving your wife/girlfriend a final one. It was bar-room banter. I don't think (to date) one of us has ever picked up the tab.

Now I have to.

It's shit.

When I said Happy and Sad at the top of the post

I meant

Fuck

The great bean mystery

2011-03-12T01:04:00.000-08:00

As many of you will be aware, last year was my first ever growing season, and the very first thing I grew was broad beans. These gave me a false sense of security, growing quickly and strongly in what was for me a record time; it had to be a record, because they were the first thing I'd ever grown.

The beans grew, got planted out into a specially prepared bean trench, and they lived happily in the Beanage without a care. Their pods formed, swelled and grew bulbous. I waited until I could wait no more. Then I picked and discovered that every pod was empty. They had swollen and even showed clear bean shapes along their length, but every pod was just like Old Mother Hubbard's mythical cupboard: bare!

Last year I had a lot of successes, and I also had a lot of failures. I have either understood or at least been able to understand the reasons behind every failure bar one: the great bean mystery. Logical(ish) explanations include poor pollination due to too early a start, an overfeed of nitrogen, and even pixie activity in the Beanage area.

I did plant two lots, one under cover to be planted out (February 14th, funnily enough), and a second lot direct (late March). Both had empty pods. Okay, I might have been a tad to early, and we did have a poor showing from the bees, but no one can affirm the belief that this caused the sans-bean situation.

I also saw the young plants' leaves turn yellow. I think that was due to overwatering, but my big book of knowledge stated it could be nitrogen deficiency. Now, we all know that beans are great nitrogen fixers, but they also need some to get going. I fed the young plants a nitrogen heavy feed. maybe that killed the development of beans in the pod. I don't know why it might be the case, but as Is The Wiz suggested it, and she's normally right, I have to accept it as a possibility!

This year I have changed bean variety, going for Masterpiece Green Longpod. I have already sown some under cover, as pictured. I have noticed that germination has been far slower than with the previous Aquadulce Claudia. I will also be trying a few slightly different things.

The Beanage is to be expanded this year. Last year's area will be given over entirely to the curcubit experiment. Last year's multiple disasters with curcubits has strengthened my resolve to understand these plants. The new Beanage (or Beanage 2) will be opposite the old Beanage (or Beanage 1 - you see, I still have a system). The two will then be linked with netting to allow pumpkins and squash to rest high in the air. It might work, it might not!

Beanage 2 will see broad beans, french beans and a new addition, runner beans. More details will be forthcoming when Beanage 2 is built.

Winter fades, her icy days numbered...

2011-03-05T02:46:00.000-08:00

Adorned with clean pants and back home once more, I am taking one last backwards look at winter. Since the snow arrived in early December, I haven't really done anything in the garden aside from a bit of harvesting; a few thousand tons of artichokes, some kale and cabbage, and that's it really. The celeriac were a total waste, coming in at golf ball size.

Then Christmas came and went, and I did nothing in the garden. January staggered into view, and back out of view, and I did nothing. February came, and while much of the world shivered, Mrs IG and I adjourned to Sri Lanka. Here's a few more holiday snaps to bore you all to death!

And now, the end is near. Winter is probably over, technically, and today I shall be setting forth into the garden. I'm not sure where to start. I have beds to clear, new beds to build, stuff to sow, compost to dig in, mess to clear up and Christ alone know what else.

Oh well, where's that fork?

It shouldn't happen to an Idiot!

2011-03-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but when I get home after a few long haul flights, the last thing I want to do is fly for a while. So home I arrived with Mrs IG. By the way, thanks to all for really being bothered that my - yes, MY - day at the temple of the tooth was ruined by Mrs IG's evacuation of her stomach. Not one of you mentioned how upset you were that I had to deal with that. Instead it's all 'Poor Mrs IG' and 'Hope Mrs IG feels better'.

Anyway, so home we arrive and we just drink up that travelling-is-great-but-thank-fuck-for-home thing, when the message comes through that I, yes me, not Mrs IG, not saintly lovely lying-in-bed Mrs IG, but poor old me, has to go off to North Africa (apparently if I type the name of where I am some blokes will come and put electrodes on my testicles; it might be bullshit, but I'm not risking it). I arrived here today, stepped over dozens of Libyan refugees, and stood at the baggage carousel.

Guess what? Yep, fuck all. That's what arrived. As I sit here in my hotel room downing fake German lager, I am wearing my bath towel. I have to, as I need to get three days out of the clothes I arrived in. I will be at a conference looking at approaches to solving cross-border skirmishes in the region, and I shall be wearing a pair of knackered jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of one lady spanking the bottom of another lady.

I did go to what is laughingly called the shops, and was offered a pink shirt. That's all they had in Fat Westerner size. I have also just noticed that my fake German lager, named Bavaria, is allegedly from Holland. Not only that, it is signed (printed on the can, not really signed, what do you think this is, a civilised country?) by the brewmeister called J Patel.

Now, you can all go and water your seedlings, and chit your spuds, but me? I'm stuck here with no clean clothes and fake beer (although I do seem to be getting pissed), and Friday night CANNOT come soon enough.

Snide insurance claims, here we come!

Botanics, not brothels!

2011-02-25T09:58:00.000-08:00

I, like any man, do like a good brothel! Indeed, I've even been known to like a bad brothel. Of course, when you get to my age, the essence of youth has turned to vinegar, but that doesn't stop me. I don't partake of the wares; perish the thought. However, there's something very enjoyable about sitting in an Asian brothel (they have to be Asian ones - any other part of the world and they just seem seedy) with an ice cold beer, watching some young minx cavort around to a bad cover version of 'The Boys are Back in Town!'

Mrs IG doesn't see the attraction, but she tolerates my passion for seedy drinking dens. So, while on the Indian sub-continent, did I get to down a few cold ones whilst watching scantily clad sirens gyrate to the throb of psuedo rock? Did I buggery! Instead, at my own insistence, I went to a bloody botanical garden! In fact, I went twice!

We were in Kandy, and we visited the Temple of the Tooth. This is Sri Lanka's most sacred site, and contains one of the Buddha's many teeth! This isn't a casual temple. It's hard-line. No shorts, no sleeveless tops, no cleavage, no 'My Other Buddha's a Fat Bastard' t-shirts. You get frisked by the police, then mentally frisked by the mind police, and then introvertedly inspected by the karma police. If you pass muster, you may sneak inside and feel very very reverential.

Mrs IG decided to contract a viral fever and told no one. Then, in the Temple of the Tooth, she spewed out her heart. It was touching. It flowed into the Sacred Pool. It jetted onto the Boddhi Tree. I suggested a quick sit down in a brothel, but she said no, not this early in the morning. Not knowing whether she would feel better or worse, we headed to the botanical garden anyway. We were there for an hour when she deteriorated, so we headed off to find a doctor's office. However, so impressed was I that a few days later we returned, and to be honest, it was the first time I've ever done a botanical garden in any detail.

And it was good!

Now, please don't ask what any of that stuff is, because I don't know. I do know you can't eat it; well, not much of it.

So, my next post will be a reality check about gardening. or I might allow myself one more post about elephants, monkeys and tropical beaches.

Also, regular readers will know that I like to take Mrs IG away for her birthday. Last year it was Edith Hope's Budapest. This September I have booked a few weeks in Bali. It's not totally selfless; they do whole suckling pig on a spit!

The Idiot has left the country (and prostitute nonsense)

2011-01-29T03:18:00.000-08:00

Packing done! (Although the toothbrush might be excess baggage!)

When I was lad, one Christmas an Aunt offered to take me to see Jesus Christ Superstar at the theatre. Being an independent man of 14 years, I stated that I'd rather go with my mates, and the result was that Kevin Jackson, Tim Crawford and I ended up going to the see the show. It was crap, and the only reason I can think of that the Aunt suggested it was because she might have heard me singing the song. The only reason I ever sang the theme song was because the words could be changed to: "Jesus Christ, Superstar, Looks like a woman and he wears a bra!"

Anyway, the day we were going we were at the park playing football when Patrick Dolan came along. He was a boastful bastard, and a liar too. He was always filled with tales of his sexual conquests, and as a 15 year old his exploits would have put Errol Flynn to shame.

He warned us about the back streets in the theatre district. He claimed that he was up there one evening when he chanced upon a prostitute in the Soho backstreets. His story went that as he approached her, he had an overwhelming urge to feel her arse. He made a grab, and she turned on him, demanding 10 pence (about the price of a bag of chips back then) for the feel. We asked if he had paid her, and he said he had to as she would have cut his throat otherwise.

As an aside, Patrick Dolan, the love stud extraordinaire, once dated Helen D (name withheld because it's a very unusual name, and she did something famous later in life). Now, at that time (stressed for her current husband's sake) Helen was as loose as a hard-driven Land Rover's wheel bearings, and one night when she demanded more than a kiss and feel-up from the Love God Dolan, he wept like some grandmother. When she told me that, I laughed so hard that I fell off the washing machine.

Anyway, before we headed off to the theatre we visited the corner shop, purchased some cheap cider and Marlboro, and headed to Soho early. We sat in Soho Square, finished off the cider, jammed Marlboro in our mouths, and sauntered off to seek out the said prostitutes. I had 10 pence in my pocket, just in case I got a chance to cop a feel.

We walked in ever decreasing circles, and it was getting later. We gave up and headed for the theatre. As we moved out of Soho, we cut up a side street, and suddenly we were in a dark backstreet with a number of windows showing red light bulbs! You know that you're old when you can remember red light districts actually having red lights! Many of the doors were open, with gloomy staircases leading into the mysterious land of sex. One had a door bell with a post card pinned underneath. On the card was scrawled the word MODEL.

Now, it might have been the urge to see a real life prostitute. It might have been the cider. It might have been the 10 pence burning a hole in my pocket, but on impulse I rang the bell. As soon as I did, Tim screamed and ran away.

A crack of light fell onto the staircase, and someone was walking down. I looked up and saw the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Okay, she looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, and was a little older than I had hoped, and a few more teeth would have improved her look, but here was a woman that did sex for money! She wasn't pleased to see two inebriated schoolboys choking on Marlboro.

"Waddayawant?" she wheezed.

"Have you got a Lancaster?" I asked.

"Wassat?" she snarled.

"Only the sign says model, and I wondered if you had an Airfix kit for a model Lancaster bomber?"

"I want a Spitfire" Kevin giggled.

As we ran away she called after us, "Fark off yew liddle borstords!"

The next day, for some reason, I told the Father about this. He didn't laugh; it seems the joke was only good if you were a 14 year old with a cider head! I then mentioned - in a somewhat naive moment - that I found the idea of prostitues quite interesting.

He responded thus: "Just get married son, and you'll end up paying for sex every day of your life. And then, when you're on your death bed, fighting for that final breath, you'll realise that if you'd stayed single you could have used all that money to get a bear costume and open a pet shop on Mars."

He might have been insane, but I do tend to remember his advice. Maybe one day I shall write a post dedicated to the Father!

So, what's all this about? Well, I intended to post that I was going away, and thus ouldn't be updating, reading, commenting or any of the like for at least three weeks. I decided to nick the Elvis line for the title (excluding the prossie comment, obviously), then I decided to mention that I hadn't yet left the country, as I was heading off to Damo's potato day tomorrow.

When I say Damo's potato day, I don't think he owns it. It's run by some gardening association thing that he's the secretary for. I think that's his role; I wonder if he has to wear a skirt and let the boss put his hand up his jumper? Being a secretary and all.

Anyway, admission to the day costs £2, and as I'm taking Mrs IG I was going to mention that my attendance would swell the coffers by £4. I tried to think of all the things that you could buy for £4. A pint and a half of beer, a pheasant, two packets of seeds, a feel of a prostitute's arse. Then it happened; all the above came back to me and got me thinking.

As the Father used to say: "Thinking is the last resort of the idiot!"

So, I haven't left the country yet. I shall go to the potato day tomorrow, then I shall leave the country.

Goodbye!

Nought, nada, nothing, a bit fat zero

2011-01-22T06:47:00.001-08:00

That's what I've been doing in the garden. Not a thing, nothing at all, absolutely sweet FA. I have been non-functional, unmoving, some might even say absent.

Now, when some people find out what I do for a living, they tell me how lucky I am to work in publishing. They think it's just like Lou Grant; rooms filled with busy writers churning out copy, and when Lou nips off on holiday, there are a sea of faces filling in for him. Is it like that? Is it bollocks!

Well, it might be on the Washington Post, the Times or the New Statesman, but it's not if you work on specialist (no, not that sort) publications. I might not be able to tell you which colour will be the new black, or what the next Hollywood blockbuster will be, or which hipster bongo ensemble will be ripping up the hit parade next year, but ask me for a few thousand words explaining how advanced technology is being used to stop terrorists blowing you out of the sky, or to explain the role of thermal imaging in desert warfare, and I could rattle them off in a moment.

The problem with such unusual subjects is that not many people can step into the void, so the result is that every time I need to go away, I have to do the work I would normally do whilst away before I go. Magazines still need to come out, whether I'm sick, on holiday or in need of gardening time. The result is that in order to manage to get away for a break, I am currently spending every day, including weekends, as well as evenings, getting things done for work. The result; no garden work.

Interestingly, it's times like this when you also realise just how much of your time other people waste. These are, incidentally, the same people that tend to go on holiday and leave others (that's me) to clean up their shit. Odd that, eh?

So, with Sri Lanka 8 days away, I have not been able to top up my seed bank, or to prepare the beds, or even to clear out the potting shed. I have not even pulled up the last remnants of last year's crop, nor have I started on the building of the new salad bed. Project Hot Shed Action is currently doing nothing, and I haven't even dug in any manure. In fact, I haven't even got any manure. If I had found a pile of the stuff, I haven't got time to collect it.

Last year, we had a late start to Spring, which meant things didn't get too serious until late March or early April. I hope the start is just as slow this year, as when I come back, there will no doubt be three weeks worth of other peoples' crap I have to sort out.

I had wanted to go away at the start of January, but Mrs IG's deputy (the thief) had booked it off to go to Australia. January is usually good because it means I have the Christmas/New Year break to get ahead of myself. In a way it's lucky, as we would have been in Sri Lanka for the floods. I am led to believe that they've nearly dried up now.

I just hope I can enjoy my ice cold beer and spicey curry, worrying about whether I'll have enough time to clear the beds and chit spuds when I return!!!

Bitching Kitchen and Blue Pubes (warning: long and tedious)

2011-01-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

The Mother was a good cook. I know that because she told me so. The Father also told me. Of course, now I know that he was staring down both barrels of clinical insanity at the time. Anyway, I wasn't a great one for the food. When I left home I feasted on beer and drugs. It did me fine. Until I got to the point that I either had to follow the bloke in the black cloak with the scythe towards the blue light, or eat something on a regular basis. I ate something, and do you know what? It tasted nice. That was a revelation for me.

It transpires that the Mother was an incinerator of food. She destroyed food, dried it up, extracted all taste, and then made it turn into leather. She was Jack the Ripper of food. Only her name wasn't Jack. And she didn't rip it, she simply cremated the living fuck out of it. I apologise for that word, but I can think of no other.

I liked cooking, because after they'd eaten, some girls would take their jumpers off. They were the good girls. I liked them. The bad girls wanted to go out somewhere, or to talk. I specialised in good girls, who would eat a nice meal, drink some wine, and take their jumpers off. I also found that the better the food and wine, the quicker some took their jumpers off.

Then I went to University. Now, most people think University is all girls taking their jumpers off, beer and drugs, and it sort of is like that. However, as an early starter, I found the other students' ambitions in taking drugs, drinking and getting girls to take their jumpers off sort of ... well ... amateur. I got bored easily with their puerile antics, so I opted to do something else. I studied!

I was fastidious in my studies (I had then realised that better pay meant more drugs, beer and girls taking their jumpers off), but I was then - as I am now - slightly disorganised. I was also a cocky bastard!

My disorganisation meant that I inevitably forgot to get a student job in the lead-up to the holidays. I needed money for drugs, beer and food to get girls to take their jumpers off. As a result, I often sought proper work, and lied about my situation. One fateful day I went for a kitchen porter's job. I figured I could wash pans with the best of them. I arrived and enquired about the advertised job. The barman headed off and I heard him talk to someone out back.

He told them I was there for the job. I clearly heard them say, 'If he's here for the porter's job, it's gone. If he's here for the chef's job, don't let him leave.'

The barman returned and asked which job it was. In the past, I had cooked for a few loose girls. I knew nothing about cooking for any number of people. Regularly. Over and over again. I couldn't do it. Ever. I opened my mouth. I wanted to tell the man goodbye. Instead I said something else. I said...

'The chef's job.'

And so it began. The interview was pointless. If I'd said I had killed kids for fun, they probably would have nodded and voiced their approval. They didn't care. It was a few days before Christmas, and their commis chef had been snaffled by a rival establishment. Their head chef had stated she would walk unless a replacement was found that very day. She wanted a body, come what may. I - unintentionally - was that body.

The first moment Hubba saw me, she knew I wasn't a chef. But she saw something; I like to call it the insanity. She knew that despite it all, I was serious. And thus it came to pass, she taught me what I needed to know to keep her head above the rising tide of shit.

On New Year's Eve, having worked with her for 12 days, lunchtimes and evenings, on the bounce, we adjourned outside before the New Year service to partake in a marijhuana cigarette. She asked me what the stupidest thing I had ever done was. I told her it was applying for the job. She thanked me, and said I'd actually been a real help. I asked her the same question. She said it was dying her pubic hair blue.

I went back to University, but I always remember Hubba, for she took me from goodish cook to someone ready to challenge myself in the kitchen. Since then, I've blagged a few more jobs in kitchens until my writing career took off. If I hadn't been lucky enough to earn a crust from the written word, I'd have seriously considered giving cooking a go.

Mrs IG never cooks. I won't let her. Now, I know a few in the past have commented on my cooker. When we bought Idiot Towers, the kitchen was a shithole. Really, it was. Look and see for yourself.

I always wanted a decent kitchen, and I was determined to have one. I decided to put my back into it, and yes, I did do much of the work myself. It took a year, and cost far too much, but this is what I did.

Now, every night, I love cooking in it. It must be remembered that cooking is what brought me to gardening; the pursuit of good quality ingredients. However, I will tell you this (this is for the menfolk, not the ladies). When I rattle up a three course fine dining experience, the girls still take their jumpers off.

Of course, when I say girls, I mean girl.

And when I say girl, I mean Mrs IG.

And when I say jumper, I mean ... okay, we'll leave it there for today!

Fire, Theft and Money for Nothing!

2011-01-15T03:56:00.000-08:00

I had no dilema about the recipient of my spare seeds. Apologies to the others, but once I got a message from Liz at Nutty Gnome, it was all over. If you read her blog, you'll know about her Christmas suprise from the local scumbags. If you don't, you can find out all about it here.

Anyway, as well as losing the potting shed's contents including tools, old tins of paint, Mr Liz's porn stash and no doubt an old bicycle that no one was ever going to do up, she also lost her pots, propogators and seeds.

Now, I do know if that some twat torched my shed I'd be out at night, creeping around, seeking them out with a crossbow. It's the best weapon for taking out arseholes, being accurate and silent. Of course, when I say silent, I mean relatively silent. Try firing one in a library and listen to the tuts from the elderly at the reading table! Naturally, that's a joke (the bit about shooting a twat through the neck, not the bit about the library) because it would be illegal and very very wrong, so don't do it, any of you, ever.

Liz - the seeds are on their way; well, they're on the kitchen table waiting for me to walk to the post box!

So that's the fire; now for theft. I have a thief. In my garden. An artichoke thief. Yes indeed, something (or someone; I haven't ruled out the old lady down the lane) has been digging up the artichokes. Whatever (or whoever) it is doesn't want them, because they are leaving them behind, but they obviously think there's something down there that they do want.

As a result, I have artichoke overload. I have about 12 kilos of the things. I have discovered that I can cook them, puree them and then pop them in the freezer. Tonight we are having venison three ways (scotch egg made of a quails egg wrapped in venison and black pudding mince; vension liver very lightly fried, and venison loin) along with an artichoke gratin with port and juniper sauce. Then I shall keep the ten best looking tubers for planting in March, and the rest will be frozen.

Finally, we come to money for nothing. Whilst most of what I write is technical (for my job, obviously I'm not referring to this gibberish), I do occasionally get bored and rattle out short stories. Many years ago I penned a piece titled Cock-A-Doodle-Doo! It was a humorous look at child abuse, but with a manipulative twist. I submitted it to a magazine and they accepted it and sent me a cheque. Then, at the 11th hour, they contacted me to say they'd had a change of heart. They didn't give a reason, and didn't ask for the money back.

It sat on the PC for a long time, and then I came across it while looking for another file, and off it went again, to another magazine. They accepted it, and sent me a cheque. Then, with the fiery arrow of deja vu still vibrating in my back, they changed their mind. They did give me a reason. They were "concerned" that someone who had "undergone a traumatic episode" might read it and be retraumatised. I did reply, asking them if they thought that people who had "undergone a traumatic episode" lived in bubbles, protecting them from the outside world. They didn't reply.

So, there you have it. Now, if you don't mind, I have scotch eggs to make!

We plough the fields and scatter...

2011-01-11T04:03:00.000-08:00

I've never been a collector. To me, collecting just means having to find more places to keep all the shit you've accrued. It's a bit like a dull way of wasting money, both in terms of buying the crap you collect, and the valuable real estate that you eat up storing it thereafter. I actually have a friend who recently moved because he needed more space for his model plane collection. When I say friend, I of course mean dull twat that I sometimes talk to down the pub. Any man who collects model airplanes is no friend of mine.

When I was a lad, some distant relative that smelled of wee and tried to touch my bum during so-called 'wrestling games' died. I wasn't sad. However, for the only time ever in my life, I was left something in a will. It seems that everyone I know who dies either doesn't leave me a bloody thing, or they're poor as a poor person whose just been mugged for their shoes.

Anyway, my inheritance. I prayed before I received it, I really did. I was worried it might be some collection of etchings of muscular Romans wrestling each other naked, or maybe even life membership to the 'Wrestling in your Underpants' club. Fortunately, it was neither. It was about ten leather-bound volumes of stamps.

Now, I wasn't exactly cock-a-hoop, because I wasn't a great letter writer. Then someone pointed out that these were old stamps, used stamps. To me that meant one thing: bloody useless stamps! They were dull, as dull as a big dull thing viewed through a veil of dullness. Ten volumes of dullness. I set about reducing the dullness, but rearranging them.

I found some stamps with a picture of Queen Victoria. Some were black and some were red. Dull! I threw them away, moving one with a picture of a monkey to the first page. Things were looking up. There was an American one with a plane upside down. It was a misprint. In the bin it went, and it was replaced with a Yugoslavian number with a ship crashing through a wall of waves. Now we were cooking.

On and on I went until I had reduced ten volumes to a few pages of nice pictures. Then I got bored and took the few remaining ones down the road, where I swapped them with some geeky lad for a half-smoked pack of his Gran's Woodbines. As I sat in the park smoking, I knew it had been a shrewd bit of business!

Like I've already said, I'm not a collector, which is why I was somewhat shocked to find myself getting into a serious seed collection this time last year. I bought some, was given some and got some free with orders and/or magazines. Most are good until 2012. Some have been opened, but the remainders are things I opted to ignore in 2011.

As part of my 2011 preparations, I have vowed to rid myself of all extra seeds. Here's the thing; I don't want to chuck them away, but I can't be arsed with seed swaps. It's all a bit too needy for me - I'll give you 12 carrot seeds for two pumpkins and a turnip. Okay, it probably isn't like that, but I have neither the time nor patience for it. I am also paranoid that I might not get good seeds, perish the thought. I might even get stiffed, finding out my alleged beans are bloody lupins. You lot are gardeners, and we all know what queer fish they are!

If anyone wants my spares (I said I haven't got time to swap; I certainly don't have time to list them all) just leave a comment with your details. Don't worry, I won't publish it! Also, if you want the seeds and also want to say something pithy, then leave two comments or I won't be able to publish it.

Oh yeah, and as I am mean, I'll only post them to the UK.

Twenty days until Sri Lanka. Not that I'm counting. I have got to prepare the garden, clear away the mess, add fertiliser, prune the bay leaf, sort the artichokes, drink some beer ... it never rains but it pours!

Ho hum!

You like potatoes, I like potatoes...

2011-01-04T08:34:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, I meet up with one of the blokes I used to be in a band with, and after a few beers he guilt-tripped me into taking part in a musical evening for a charity his other half was involved with. I tried to remind him just how shit our band used to be, and stressed that if anything my musical talent had waned since those days, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Eventually I discovered that a friend of mine had also been coerced into participation, so I decided we'd do something together.

Luckily for us, he was - at that time - dating a very good classicly trained pianist. He laid the charity guilt trip on her, and before you could say "bollocks to this for a game of soldiers", it was decided that she would play and we would sing "Let's call the whole thing off". However, we also decided that we would promounce the various words (potato, pothato, etc.) exactly the same. It seemed a funny idea at the time.

Come the night, it transpired they'd managed to pull in some fairly big names. The only issue was that a few had other engagements, which meant the running order kept getting shifted. As we were nobodies, we were constantly shunted later and later on the running order, which meant we drank more and more beer. Then the call came. We were ready. The pianist didn't know how we were going to change the song. We'd rehearsed it in the correct fashion. We clambered onto the stage, just as the Patroness of the charity arrived with an entourage of sick people. No one stopped us.

It was like a car crash; two drunks shouting "Potato" and "Tomato" at each other, with exactly the same pronunciation, while an angry pianist glowered as she tried to get through the song as quickly as possible. No one laughed. Only us. We thought it was great. At the end, a child was crying. No one even thanked us.

I often remember this moment of wasted hilarity when gardening, especially when looking after my potatoes.

In 2010, I opted for Arran Pilot, Pink Fir Apple, Sante and Carlingford. They started out well enough, but then all looked limp and droppy. I read my Gardener's Big Book of Knowledge, which stated that potatoes need little water. Mine looked weak, ill, and slightly yellowing. Death was approaching. The more I read, the more I learned that they didn't need watering.

As a lad, I remember Irish potatoes being big floury tasty bastards. I also remember it raining nearly every day. Not drizzle, not fine rain, but sheets of wind-blown water constantly cascading down from above. All that rain, and great spuds to boot.

Against established wisdom (Titchmarsh is a twat), I started to water my potatoes. I gave them 10 Elephants, with the hose, every morning. The plants picked up, grew stronger, turned green and luscious. The more times I gave them 10 Elephants, the better they looked. They grew and grew until they were chest high, and then they collapsed. The weather turned hot, and they seemed to struggle (although the Sante faired better). They were now getting 10 Elephants with the hose, three times a day!

I learned this. Potatoes love water. The more you give them, the happier they are.

The Arran Pilots were okay, slightly waxy but nothing to write home about. I had expected extra potatoiness, but they didn't deliver. They were just okay. The Sante fell apart as soon as they saw hot water, and turned into mush. Not mash, mush. And they were bland, so very very bland. The Pink Fir Apple were tasty, waxy potatoes, and were deemed to be worth the work. The Carlingfords were late mains intended for Christmas. the early ice and snow killed them off. I have yet to dig them up, but I am expecting tiny tasteless tubers.

So, for 2011, only Pink Fir Apple will be back. I am thinking of drafting in Golden Wonder and Kerr's Pink as main crops, and Charlotte and Kestrel as first earlies. I don't know why; I just like their descriptions in the catalogue. I also intend to attend the Whitchurch Potato Day (my local one is on when I'm away) in late January to get a few odd varieties for an experimental patch!

I do know one thing though; they will get plenty of water from Day One!

Cavalo Nero laid naked (maybe)

2010-12-30T03:44:00.000-08:00

I have decided that after a December of knob jokes, I will try to end 2010, and start 2011, with some gardening stuff. Apologies to those who thought this was a blog about failed lust and furious teenage masturbation, but it's not. About that stuff, I mean.

So, one of my chosen crops to return in 2011 is Cavalo Nero. In my mind, this is a very misunderstood and much maligned vegetable. For me (and for other gardeners) it represents something wonderful, something exciting, something fanastic. It's a vegetable that really has no intention of dying!

It is known by many names; Cavalo Nero, Cavalo di Nero, Black Cabbage, Tuscan Cabbage or Tuscan Kale. Basically, it is a member of the kale family reputated to originate from the Tuscany region. Whether that is true or not doesn't really matter.

So, why is Cavalo Nero such a must-grow crop? Let me explain. I sowed my Cavalo Nero seeds in pots during August, and in early September the seedlings were planted out, along with some seeds sown directly. As the summer crops were coming to an end, this meant the Cavalo Nero took up otherwise empty space.

I did very little bar a bit of watering, and they grew, at first vigourously, then more slowly as the days shortened. They soon threw up greeny black leaves like feathers, and created a visual point of interest. As other crops finished, they stood proud and tall(ish). I had a small attack of some sort of pest that nibbled the leaves, but a single spraying and the cooling weather soon put an end to that.

A frost is claimed to make them taste sweeter, as is the case with parsnips. I did try the leaves after one frost, and they were good. However, the plants have been under heavy snow for the past two weeks, with temperatures between 0 and -9 degrees C for the past three weeks. They're still out there, looking good, and the ones I ate last night with some smoked gammon definitely tasted better than before.

The plants grow off a central stem, and as you pick the lower leaves, so new ones grow from the top. I have around a dozen plants and they keep us going very well. Indeed, I might have to freeze some (they need blanching first), I have so much.

So, they are a late crop, utilising empty space, they are easy to grow, pest resistant and they sneer at the very worst of weathers. What's not to like? Well, there are many who don't like Cavalo Nero, and I can shed a little light on this.

Why isn't Cavalo Nero popular? Well, to find out I hit the streets and questioned the populace to unearth the truth. (Did you see what I did there? No? Well, wake up!)

Okay, when I say I hit the streets, I mean I went to the pub. And when I say I asked the populace, I mean I asked Dave and the Beard, who were both enjoying a lunchtime pint. Neither rated it. Dave reckoned it was like ten year old cabbage that a dog had done its wee-wee on, and the Beard likened it to 'chewing a Johnny'.

Now, for those not well versed in the Queen's English, a Johnny is a condom. Don't think about today's sensitive and lubricated ribbed devices for his and her pleasure; think instead an inner-tube type reusable sheath from the 1940s, which has been left out in the sun too long and has perished. That's the texture the Beard was alluding to.

I put this down to one thing; bad cooking! I've read numerous reports of how to cook Cavalo Nero, and all state it needs boiling for five or six minutes. Really? Yes, they do. I've tried it, and trust me here; it doesn't work. It'll be tough and slightly bitter. Unless you like it tough and bitter, you'll obviously dislike this wonder-veg when slightly cooked.

I disliked it for years, until I read something by Italian chef Giorgio Locatelli. He said that in all his years in Italy (and Tuscany), he had never seen Cavalo Nero. He only discovered it when he moved to the UK. He also stated that it was a great veg - if cooked correctly. He then sneered at the notion that a five or six minute simmer would do anything of use to the stuff, other than make its as chewy as a perished Johnny. He advocates boiling the stuff in well salted water for at least an hour. An hour? Yes, an hour; that's why I wrote it down. An hour. At least.

Chop the leaves finely removing the base of the stalk if thicker than a pencil, a good handful of sea salt, bring to the boil, cover and simmer for an hour. At least. You will end up with a tender, sweet, tasty treat. It doesn't cook down like spinach, so you end up with pretty much what you start with.

Okay, those who are into their vitamins and minerals might ask whether such an approach robs us of the inherent goodness. It doesn't. The stuff is so rich in nutrients that it's still bloody good for you. I also reuse the water as vegetable stock.

In the western world, too many people overcook veg. Strangely, the same people regularly undercook Cavalo Nero.

Trust me, I'm an Idiot!

What do you get if you cross an idiot with a garden?

2010-12-27T02:11:00.000-08:00

Well, folks, the curtain has fallen, the lights are out, it's all over and done with. I now officially declare my first gardening year over. Yes, there are still some crops out there; the cabbages, kale, winter carrots, celeriac, spring onions, rocket and winter potatoes are still under a sheet of snow, with added ice, as they have been for the past two weeks. I think it's more a case of salvage than harvesting once the thaw sets in.

So what have I learned? Well, I'm an Idiot (granted, really), not all gardeners are up their own arses (that's a bow to you lot - well, most of you), and hitting yourself in the face with a shovel* hurts. (*Take that to include all various gardening induced injuries I have suffered).

So here we go: free from knob-jokes and lurid tales, it is my first annual report!

TOTAL FAILS

Thai Aubergine Maybe it was the cooler climate, maybe it was the lack of fish sauce, but the seeds germinated, grew a few leaves, attracted a plague of blackfly, then died. Not one single eggplant appeared. Off the list for 2011.

Fennel It grew, and it grew and it grew. It was so bushy I couldn't see the bulb at the base. Then after it had invaded half the bed I cut it down to find ... no bulbs. I know some doesn't bulb, but this should have. Off the list for 2011.

Rosemary What can I say? I planted it, nothing happened. Might be on the list for 2011 if I have space.

Chives / Garlic Chives Yes, they grew, but they tasted of nothing. I might grow again if I have space and DON'T use Sarah Raven's seeds!

Samphire / Saltwort / Salsola Like with the lovely Marian, the vicar's daughter, I got nowhere with these. The only one that germinated was the Saltwort, and it had no salty taste. It had crunch, but frankly I won't waste garden space on texture. Off the list for 2011.

Red Spring Onions Another Raven's Seeds travesty. A few grew to the thickness of hairs, and they tasted of hair too. Off the list for 2011.

PARTIAL FAILS (OR MAYBE PARTIAL SUCCESSES?)

Ong Choy Call it Ong Choy (I do), water spinach, water convulvus or even morning glory, this is one of my favourite vegetables. It grew, but because of the cool water it didn't grow big. I dedicated a third of a bad to it, and I got one meal back, and it wasn't as good as it was in Asia. With great regret, I accept it is wrong to grow it in an English raised bed, so it is off the list in 2011.

Tokyo Bekana Now, some will remembering me waxing lyrical about Tokyo Bekana, so why do I see it as a partial fail? The positives are it is fast growing, accepting of neglect, and when stir-fried tastes like a spinach/chard cross. The downside is that flea beetle love it. For me, the space it takes up is better given to spinach and chard. For that reason alone, it's off the list for 2011. If I had more space (or even less space as it replaces two crops) I might reconsider.

Celeriac I had a bumper crop of celeriac. I ended up with around 50 plants, which produced around 50 golf-ball sized tubers, which will deliver around two meals. Too much space was taken for so little return, so they off the list for 2011.

Leeks With over 100 leek plants, the thickest I managed was around the size of an AA battery. The rest were more like decent spring onions. They tasted great, but for the size and the space needed I might just skip leeks for 2011. The jury is out on them at present.

Broad Beans The Aquadulce Claudia germinated well, grew well, and podded well. A few pods had two beans. A few more had one bean. Most pods had no beans. What few I gathered did taste great. Broad beans of another variety will be trialled in 2011.

Pumpkin I grew Munchkin Pumpkin. I started with 12 plants and ended up with two, which produced okayish. The pumpkins were small (as they should be), but resulted in little flesh quotas. 2011 will see a larger pumpkin trialled.

Courgette I opted for the donkeyesque Trombonchino believing it to be a genuine courgette. I only selected it because it climbs, thus reducing required space. Well, it's no courgette and young fruit are bland. However, left to mature they are more like a winter squash, sweet and orange and brilliant with chilli. I vowed to never grow them again, but I might just have one plant!

Miniature Cucumbers I started with 12 La Diva plants, ended up with one, and got two cucumbers. They were sweet and juicy, so I am tempted to try another variety, not from the Raven's house of horrors!

Yellow Squash I inherited the squash seeds, started with 12 plants, ended up with two, and had a bountiful harvest of gorgeous patty pans. In a way it was lucky ten plants died, because they were seriously prolific. I will try planting direct, because they are definitely on the list for 2011.

Cabbages I planted them too late (August!), and so the heads of January King are very small. It was my fault, so they get another run-out in 2011.

Tomatoes - Black Krim and Red Cherry They grew, they fruited, they ripened, they got late blight. They took so much care and attention that it left me somewhat depressed. 2011 will only see blight-resistant strains being trialled.

Potatoes - Arran Pilot and Sante The Arran Pilot grew well but were tasteless. The Sante grew well but were tasteless and fell apart as soon as they even were in the same room as a pan of water. Both will be replaced with other varieties in 2011.

Radish - Munchen Bier and Rat Tail Both grew well, invaded, took over and did little else. Then overnight I had about ten million pods with were spicey and zingey. Within 48 hours they all went hard and bitter. Didn't make the list for 2011.

Ishikura Spring Onion Really a Japanese bunching onion, these were planted in April 2010. They're still out there despite the snow and frost, and are just getting to look like they're the right size. A decision will be made once the thaw is over and I've tried some!

Winter Savory It grew well, but was only;y added to counteract the fart-inducing properties of the artichokes. It didn't, so it's off for 2011 (although its perennial so it will probably still be here).

Salsify I think it got choked out by other crops, but the roots were spindly and thin. I might try again in 2011 if I have space.

Salad - Lolla Rossa Lettuce, Oak Leaf Lettuce, Mizuna All grew well, but all were outshone by the salad leaves mentioned later. They'll be dropped during 2011.

SUCCESSES

Jerusalem Artichokes What can I say? I planted the tubers, they grew to over ten feet high, flowered, died back and each produced around 1 kilo of tubers. I shall use a further ten, saved for 2011. A definite, and highly recommended!

Potato - Pink Fir Apple Yes, it's a cliche, but who cares. These waxy, tasty, easy to grow main crop spuds are a favourite at Idiot Towers, and will be back in 2011!

Perpetual Spinach Easy, fast, hardy, tasty. That's it really! Definitely back in 2011.

Turnip I grew Milan Purple Top, and they were seriously delicious. They were too delicious and we ate them all, so 2011 will see two sowings, as well as a light sowing of the slightly less tasty but very fast Tokyo Express. Both are back for 2011.

Swede I can't remember which swede I grew, but it was magnificent. They will be given more space in 2011, and I'll try to remember which variety it was.

Cavalo Nero The old black kale is a sure-fire winner. Ignore conventional wisdom and boil it for an hour to get the best out of it (an Italian chef told that little trick). There are tastier greens, but as it goes in late (I sowed late July and planted out in September) it fills gaps. It will reappear in 2011.

Swiss Chard I followed the crowd and planted Bright Lights. The colours were immense, and we loved it so much that I did a second sowing. It was a waste of time as the first sowing produced all year. Is definitely back in 2011, and I'll try Fordham White as well.

Carrots - Nantes 2 I planted, I watered, I waited, I ate. More carroty than any other carrots I have ever eaten. They are getting double the space in 2011.

French Beans The purple pods of Brauhilde overflowed in their abundance. I gave them a good load of manure, plenty of water, and the occasional spray of diluted fairly liquid. Definitely on the 2011 list.

Parsnips I grew Gladiator, and thought I had zero germination at first, but something started to grow a month later. These fantastic roots will be given more space in 2011!

Radish - Spring, Mooli Both of these went off lat a scalded cat. The spring radish grew so fast I had to lift and pickle them, because they were choking the carrots and parsnips. The Moolis were great too, reaching a foot in length, but a few days in damp soil saw them rot. I have mastered a technique to freeze them, so they're on the 2011 list.

Salad - All Year Round Lettuce, Red Salad Bowl Lettuce, Red Frills Mustard, Red Giant Mustard, Watercress, Land Cress, Salad Rocket, Wild Rocket The salads were a major success, but got squeezed out by other crops as summer hit. The two lettuces were fantastic, cropping repeatedly and not bolting at all. The new Hill 49 Memorial Salad Bed will ensure they have their own dedicated space in 2011.

Herbage - Basil, Mint, Corriander, Parsley, Sage, Thyme All winners and all well used, they will return in 2011, some in the Picasso Herb Construction (trust me, it's a great idea on paper).

IN SUMMARY

In 2011 I'll be doing what many people suggested I should do in my first year, concentrating on a few crops. I was arrogant enough to think that I'd master vegetables in 2010 and add fruit in 2011. Fruit is off the plan for now; I want to get the basics right(ish), and try a few of my more idiotic ideas too.

The main crops will be potatoes, carrots, parsnips, swede, turnips, cabbage, broad beans, french beans, squash, courgettes, pumpkins, chard, artichokes, horseradish (I left it in the ground this year to intensify flavour) and the successful salads and herbs. I shall be adding beetroot, pak choi, runner beans and calabrese.

I might try some tomatoes again if I can find blight resistant ones with taste, and I might consider onions at some point.

So that is that, now on with the final plans for 2011!

The Greatest Story Ever Told...

2010-12-21T08:47:00.000-08:00

Someone once said that the Christmas story was "the greatest story ever told", and they were probably right. Having said that, the Poseidon Adventure wasn’t too shoddy either. Like the Christmas story, it is set at Christmas. Unlike the Christmas story, the characters in the Poseidon Adventure climb down the Christmas tree to go upwards – that’s because the ship has capsized you dumb arses, it’s not a bloody riddle!

Now, that’s what I call a story. There was also that bit when the ship starts breaking up and they all fall around; you get a right good look at that woman’s knickers, which works for me! I could have sworn that you got to see a bit more, but maybe it was just wishful thinking.

The Towering Inferno tried to be the greatest story ever told. However, they tried to do the Poseidon Adventure on land, and although some might disagree I didn’t think it worked that well. It was always obvious that by travelling upward to escape the flames, there was going to come a time when they reached the top and would need to make some sort of external escape. You could see it coming a mile off. When they chucked a bit of rope between the two buildings, I realised that not much effort had gone into it. I could have written a better ending than that, so it was a mystery why anyone paid the writers for the drivel.

Talking of mysteries, the Christmas story is based on mystery. The immaculate conception, travelling miles on a donkey, a birth in a stable, three Kings, a shower of shepherds and cherubim and seraphim playing trumpets on the celestial horizon. Here is another mystery: just what do the words of the Cliff Richard classic Wired for Sound actually mean? I quote: "Power from the needle to the plastic, AM, FM, I feel so ecstatic now." I think there are some bad things going on in there.

But it gets more serious. He tells us: “I met a girl and she told me she loved me, I said you love me, then love means you must like what I like, my music is dynamite.” Shame his music wan't dynamite and he didn’t blow his fucking head off, really! Still, he turned it all around with Mistletoe and Wine, and that’s all that matters. Cliff sang about the true meaning of Christmas, booze and snogging, although obviously not with other blokes because I read somewhere that he likes a bit of that sort of thing.

Anyway, I digress. Let’s return to the greatest story ever told!

And lo, it came to pass that four Kings did set off from the East, using a bright star as a navigational aid, a bit like the motorway signs reading “Fog” that you can barely make out through the fog. At least those signs reassure you that you are facing hostile climatic conditions and not cataracts - that’s the Fog warnings obviously, not the bright star.

Now, you often see the Kings pictured on sentimental greetings cards riding along together on camels, but it couldn’t have started out like that! At some point they must have met on-route, probably at a service station when they stopped off for a comfort break and to eat a cold Gingsters Peppered Shit Slice. They would have been travelling separately until that point, because obviously four Kings would have four kingdoms. In fact, they might not have known each other that well. They may even have had the odd war in the past!

So there they were, four Kings perhaps heading for a day out at the sport of kings, what with Boxing Day having so many horse race meetings. What’s more, they knew that Bethlehem would be buzzing, especially with King Herod’s census in full flow and the Christmas break and all. It seemed an ideal place to stop off, sink a few beers, cop off with a few local lasses who they could easily win over with Kingly jokes (such as "my other camel’s a Ferrari" and shit like that). Then they could get some Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, watch the Christmas Top of the Pops, and get off to the races the next day. Job done, as they say in all four kingdoms!

Of course, the Christmas story is much more than horse-racing, fags and beer, turkey with all the trimmings and burned out Ford Cortinas, but we don’t really have time to go into that here. Suffice to say that the festivities are celebrating the birth of Jesus, who coincidentally was born in Bethlehem, and Joseph and Mary were simultaneously travelling there aboard a donkey (not Joseph and Mary simultaneously travelling, you fools, they were together - Joseph and Mary simultaneously travelling with the four kings!). Imagine what the Animal Lib activists would have done if they had seen a big fat woman riding on a little donkey. They would have probably told her to get off and walk, that’s what!

The odd couple and their donkey were actually attending for the census rather than anything else, what with Mary being with child and Joseph not being one for the horses. The planning phase of the journey had been somewhat rushed, and subsequently they ended up kipping down in a stable on account of all the hotels being full due to the Christmas rush. Joseph didn’t even look on www.lastsecondforabitofcheapshit.com to see if he could get a cancellation. He was obviously a bit thick, so it’s no wonder his missus got away with that immaculate conception lark.

Up and down Bethlehem High Street the ‘No Vacancies’ signs littered the windows. Revellers spilled onto the pavements singing Cliff Richard songs and swigging beer, yet Joseph and Mary were bedding down in a stable, alongside the ox and the badgers, not a present or a tree festooned with baubles and tinsel in sight. It was probably a bit like a Travelodge, but with some life to it.

‘Any food service?’ Joseph asked of the stable-hand. The response was downbeat: ‘There’s a Little Chef up the road. Give them this coupon to say you’re staying here and you’ll get two slices of toast free when you order the Bethlehem breakfast.’ Just like a Travelodge, then!

During the night, Jesus was born. Shortly afterwards we find our four kings wandering around the stables, maybe trying to pick up a bit of information from the stable-hands or to arrange a meet with a trainer or two. Then, suddenly, they stop and poke their heads in at one stable. No trainer or horses, but there is a couple and she’s obviously given birth. Her legs are akimbo and her clacker is there for all to see. It’s not a pretty site, and so one of the Kings, who is a bit pissed, pushes the other three into the maternity stable and then swiftly runs away giggling like a ... well, a bit like a pissed King I suppose.

Before they can duck back out, Joseph spots them and ushers them in; they stand there feeling a bit awkward. Joseph asks: “Are you kipping here too?” They point out that they’re not. They can’t really say they want a racing tip, so one answers: “We, four Kings, of Orient are.”

Joseph stops them and says: “You silly idiots, there’s only three of you.” They look around and realise that the cheeky bastard who pushed them in here has done a runner, so the King starts again, saying: “We three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts we traverse so far, field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star.’

Joseph shows some interest, asking one: “Which king are you?” He looks at the baby and replies: “I’m not Jonathon King, so you’ve no worries on that score. I shan’t be touching your kid’s arse!”

Then the conversation turns to the fact they are bearing gifts. Joseph asks if they’re visiting relatives for Christmas. They shake their heads, and one King, feeling the worse for wear and wanting to get away from the placenta on the floor, blurts: “They’re for the baby”, and before you can say Pa rum a pum pum in true Little Drummer Boy fashion, they dig in their rucksacks and hand over the gifts.

Before the conversation gets any further, a bunch of shepherds arrive. The Kings push past them, saying: “Let’s get out of here before their sheep shit all over the place.”

A few hours later at another stable, information is divulged, brown envelopes change hands. The trainer shakes his head. “Lads”, he says, “I appreciate the shekels, but where’s the gold, frankincense and myrrh I was promised?”

Life is full of twists and turns, just like a twisty turning road, so to speak. The three Kings went down as an integral part of the Christmas story, the greatest story ever told. Besides the fact that it is highly unlikely any number of Kings would have upped sticks just before Christmas and buggered off to follow some star, I doubt they would have been knocking around some stables in the middle of the night.

It's more credible that they would have been in the Piano Bar at the Bethlehem Hilton. Still, the Kings are part of the story, alongside snowmen and robins, and we might never really know why.

Perhaps it’s better that way!

Oh, and happy Christmas to all of you.

Thin and spindly

2010-12-17T07:51:00.001-08:00

My first proper girlfriend was thin. By proper girlfriend, I don't mean that I had a string of fake girlfriends, or that I just followed people around thinking in my head that they were my girlfriend when they just really a woman who worked at the cooked meat counter in the grocers, and I'd spend all night peeping in her window and watching her eat her dinner, and there was that time she got drunk, all alone on New Year's Eve, and danced naked with her hoover while James Last played Jazz on the gramophone. No, I don't mean anything like that all. That wouldn't be normal.

No, by proper girlfriend I mean the first girl with whom I spent a lot of time solely to try and get her drunk and naked so I could try out all the unmentionable things I had read about in the letters page of a crumpled copy of Shaven Ravers that was hidden under a loose floorboard in the shed.

Anyway, back to my first proper girlfriend, who was thin. I mean properly thin. Not fashionably thin, but skrawnily unhealthily thin. Like a stick. A thin stick. A very thin stick that was too thin to really be called a stick. More like a thread of cotton. She had no shape, no curves, no real buttocks or thighs or breasts to speak of. What did I see in her? I was told that she was anyone's for a bottle of cider. That kind of thing really turns a young lad's head.

Anyway, when the Punk thing happened, she dyed her hair. It was supposed to be Fire, or that's what it said on the bright red bottle. It came out pink, shocking pink. It looked better than it would have done if it hadn't gone wrong. She was thin with a shock of pink hair.

We decided to do the sex thing. I came from an Irish Catholic household. She came from an Irish Catholic household. We weren't exactly best placed for a bit of "how's your father". We were, however, resourceful, so we headed off to the woods. It wasn't brilliant. She went off the idea once we rolled onto an ant's nest and her arse was alive with them. That was that; no outdoor sex.

Now, as any young lad will tell you, it's not possible to curb your ardour just because of something small like the girl not wanting to carry on. No indeed, these are just minor problems sent to try us. I persuaded her that maybe we should try again, this time indoors. We headed for my house. Maybe she was thinking of doing it in my bedroom, but the Father would have taken the skin off me for bringing a girl in to do the sex thing. No, I had a better idea. The shed.

It was Saturday. The Father was digging in the garden, no doubt cursing me for having disappeared when there was so much work to do. We crept along the bushes, used a Yew to move past the sweating hulk of Fatherhood waiting to kill me for my errant laziness, working our way towards the shed. I gently opened the door, and we moved into the dark dank interior.

We kissed. Well, I sort of licked at her face and she let me. I wasn't bothered by the kissing, because I already had my hand up her jumper. Passion ruled, and all thoughts of silence and stealth vanished as the possibility of sex moved closer. Mid embrace, I dropped my trousers just as the Father opened the shed door to see what the hell was going on.

He looked at me, trousers down, hands all over her. He looked at her, bright pink hair, spit all over her face from my fastidious licking, her thin naked body exposed in all its unhealthiness. Then he spoke.

"Is that your girlfriend?"

I nodded. I could not speak; fear was choking me. I was looking at the Father, probably for the last time before he ended my life.

He shook his head.

Then he said, "Jesus Christ; it must be like screwing a stick of candy floss!"

What brings this to mind? I'll tell you what. My bloody Salsify. It's so thin and spindly, so unhealthily thin, that when I dug it up and beheld its girth, I was back in that shed, trousers around my knees, looking at the disappointment on the Father's face.

If he was alive today, I'm sure he'd have something to say about the piss-poor specimens I have grown. I'll tell you something else; whatever he would say, he'd probably be right!

Nguyen says: "Put your hands on your head!"

2010-12-11T11:41:00.000-08:00

Following my last post, Kyna left a comment which worried me. It started me thinking, how many people avoid Vietnamese cuisine because it's alien to them? I've eaten a lot of stuff all over the world, but for me the best food, the food I feel most at home with, is Vietnamese.

Unless you visit Viet Nam, or live in area with a large Vietnamese community, the chances are that you'll be served up watery Chinese if you eat Vietnamese out. Even areas with large Vietnamese communities often serve a Westernised form of the food, because Vietnamese is driven by necessity, a need to use every single last scrap of food. It's not poor food, it's clever food. When the Vietnamese move to the West, they lose that essence that makes Vietnamese so good!

So, I figured I might as well try to drag some of you to the taste of Viet Nam, by getting you to cook a very simple but traditional dish. Paddyfield Pork!

This is a one-pot dish that takes a few hours of very slow cooking. It has no more than a handful of ingredients, and is easy to adapt to suit your taste. Ready? Steady? Get bloody cooking.

I use a claypot, but you can use whatever you like.

Pop your pot on a low heat and add about two or three tablespoons of sugar. Then mix in enough fish sauce to make a caramel, and as it starts to bubble add black pepper or szechuan pepper. The taste should be a little bit sweet, a little bit salty with a pepper kick if you've got it right. If not, adjust it. Then add diced pork. Use something like shoulder, as you want a bit of fat in there. Stir a few times until the pork is well coated, and cover for about 10 minutes. Stir again and add stock to just cover the pork. leave it for about an hour and a half!

Now, put a few eggs to hard boil. These are added at the very end, and blend well with the juices.

I usually add a bit of greenery too. Sour mustard or bamboo shoots are good, just wash them well to remove any vinegar of they're in a jar. Put them in for the last 30 minutes.

Next, rinse your uterus well. Oi, don't run away, not now, we've come so far together! It's only a pig's uterus, not baby pooh! Touch it, go on, it's only a dead pig's uterine tract. Don't give up; we're nearly done and it does add a lovely taste and texture!

What do you mean, you're not eating uterus? You already have, in every processed meal you've ever eaten. It's in your food, your make-up (or your other half's make-up), your drinks. What do you think happens to all the uterus in the world, that it goes onto the uterus heap? Wake up and smell the coffee! You've been chowing down uterus for years, served up by some gonk in a happy hat!

Rinse, chop and add the uterus. You don't want it raw or it'll be like rubber. Over cook it and it'll be like over-cooked uterus. Get it right, and it's a proper treat.
It's also nice to know that the plural of uterus is uteri. You see, this is educational, justlike college, but without the drugs (unless you are on drugs, in which case it's just like college).

Are we finished? Nearly. Peel the eggs and half them, and drop them into the pot to warm through. Then serve with rice, and garnish with a few chives.

It just doesn't get better than this!

Cabbages and Condoms

2010-12-08T11:33:00.001-08:00

Fear not, brave reader. This post involves no insertion of greenery into Johnny Bags. There is no spurting, pulsing, throbbing or thrusting. There is, however, chicken - or a lack of chicken. What the hell am I on about? Read on, my friend, and all shall be revealed...

Next time you find yourself in the City of Angels, perambulating on the Sukhumvit Road, take a turn down Soi 12 and shortly you will find yourself stood outside Cabbages and Condoms. Don't dilly-dally; walk through the gate, smile at the old man sweeping leaves with a broom that resembles two twigs tied together, and settle at a courtyard table. The willowesqe trees will shade you from the burning midday sun, as well as magically shuttering out much of the noise from the outside world.

By the by, the picture above is the Grand Palace. Cabbages and Condoms is less grand; very less grand!

Cabbages and Condoms isn't what you would call a gastronomic great, but it's a great lunch stop. Okay, it pales into insignificance alonside Le Dalat, Baan Khanitha, Le Lys and Khrua Vientiane; they might not be the restaurants you read about in the trendy foody guides to Bangkok, but they're where you'll often find Mrs IG and I, and everyone I've recommended them to has come away pleased. Okay, one couple did run away from Khrua Vientiane, but we love the place.

Cabbages and Condoms puts all of its profits towards AIDs prevention and sex education in the country, and Mrs IG and I like that. After the meal, the bill comes not with minty chocolate thins, but with condoms. They're a bit chewier than minty chocolate thins, but taste good all the same.

I have a few things I want to achieve before I die. One is to eat the Honey Roasted Baby Mountain Chicken at Cabbages and Condoms. In nearly 20 years, I've never managed to get it. The courtyard is alive with baby chickens, wandering between tables snacking on discarded crumbs, but every time I visit I order it, and it's never on!

Maybe it's just not popular enough, maybe it's too popular, or maybe none of the staff fancy picking up one of the laid back almost pet chickens and wringing its neck. Whichever is true, I am determined to get that dish one day.

Okay, fine, but why bring this up today, on a gardening blog? Well, I'm cold, and pissed off with working too hard, and I need some sun and warmth and ice cold beer (so cold it hurts) and bars with half naked girls gyrating to bad cover tracks of 1970s soft rock. I need that, and with Sri Lanka still 7 weeks away I'm starting to daydream.

Why Cabbages and Condoms? Well, it was cabbages that started it. Here's my cabbages.

See them? No? Well, give yourself a pat on the back. They are there, in the third bed. The first has kale and the second has chard. But here's a thing. Apparently, according to a commercial cabbage grower, if you pull them now while it's freezing they will fall apart, but if you leave them a few weeks after the big thaw, they'll replenish themselves with cabbagey goodness.

Am I impressed? No. I want to go to Asia. Now.

The Good, the Bad and the Fugly! (Warning: Very Childish ... but not suitable for children!)

2010-11-30T11:51:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the inaugral TIGNOGs ceremony, The Idiot Gardener's Night Of Gongs, arranged to celebrate one full year of utter drivel in this blog. There will be winners and losers, and some of the losers will be winners, just as some of the winners will be losers! Trust me, it all goes downhill from here! I hope you're all wearing clean underwear, just in case you have an accident.

Why do Mothers always tell you that: put on clean underwear in case you have an accident? Trust me, if I have an accident that leads to hospitilisation, my underwear won't be very clean for long. And another thing ... oh hang on, where were we?

Oh yes, I hope you're all wearing clean underwear, and have a charged glass ready to toast the winners. What? You haven't got a glass? Then go and get one. I don't care if it's 7am, you either do this properly or you go elsewhere!

So, without further ado, let's give a great big gardening blogging thing welcome to tonight's Master of Ceremonies, the one, the only, the utterly pointless and somewhat suspect Paddy O'Furniture.

Good evening, one and all, and welcome to the 2010 TIGNOGs, the only gardening awards that no-one cares about. They're worthless, shambolic, and represent the views of one Idiot, so if you've better things to do, we can just call it a night right now. No? Oh well, let's get going then!

I must advise those amongst you who witnessed my set at the Chealsea Flower Show earlier this year that tonight's material is all original. Okay, when I say original I mean that it's not the same jokes from back then. Of course, none of it is original, otherwise I'd be a real comedian earning real money, rather than a pretend one earning chuff all!

Tonight, I feel that everyone is a winner, apart from the losers, who are actually losers, but let's try to make those who failed feel a little better about themselves.

I hope you all enjoy the awards. I won't; I've been out of sorts for the last month, because my wife went missing. The other night the police came round and told me that I'd better prepare myself for the worst, so the next morning I nipped down to the allotment and took her clothes back off the scarecrow.

I miss the wife since she disappeared. Well, when I say I miss her, I mean I spend a lot of time at a brothel. The other evening one of the whores realised that I had visited 25 nights in a row, and told me it was a new record. To celebrate she told me she would do anything I wanted, anything at all, for just £25, but I had to name it in just three words. I handed over the cash, and said, "Dig my allotment".

If you look around tonight, you won't spot many celebrities. Alan Titchmarsh isn't here, which is a shame as I have some unfinished business with him. I saw him on the telly the other night, and he said an onion was the only vegetable that could make you cry. I just wanted to see if he stood by what he said when I hit him in the bollocks with a pumpkin.

Anyway, enough frivolity for the moment. Let's start with the TIGNOG for the best gardening book. Initially, Tender by Nigel Slater sprung to mind, because that was the book that started the Idiot off down this vegetable growing lark. To be honest, it's not a great gardening book, and the inspiration of one fool doesn't mean it will inspire others.

The next thought was Dr Hessayon's The Vegetable and Herb Expert. The only negative with an otherwise good book is that it relies on drawings. The result was that sun scorch was interpreted as blight, nitrogen deficiancy was interpreted as blight, and underwatering was interpreted as blight. When blight finally did arrive, it was interpreted as blossom end rot. Nice one, Doc.

Ultimately, the TIGNOG for the best gardening book goes to a book not about gardening. It does, however, get more use than any gardening book. Not only that, it is printed on recycled paper with vegetable inks, but we'll forgive the bloody boring hippy for that. It is a veritable encyclopedia of how store your crop, with instructions on all manner of ways to turn a glut into a long-term food-bank. Yes, the TIGNOG for best gardening book goes to How To Store Your Garden produce by Piers Warren.

Piers can't be here tonight to collect his TIGNOG because he's a hippy, and won't upset his carbon balance to drive here. Plus this is the interweb so there's no 'here'. Plus he doesn't know anything about this pointless drivel. But do buy the book, or get it from the library, or steal a copy, or get one person to buy it and then all photocopy it. I don't care, I don't make a penny out of giving it an award.

Next up comes the TIGNOG for best customer service with regard to gardening stuff. I'd love to talk about all those who might have won this, but thus far there has only been one bit of good customer service in ther past 12 months. Very early in the Idiot's gardening career, he managed the unmanagable by bending a Neverbend fork. A quick complaint letter resulted in the delivery of a brand new item. It is for this reason that the TIGNOG for best customer service with regard to gardening stuff goes to Spear and Jackson!

Now, Spear and Jackson can't be here tonight, as both of them are probably dead. If they are, then rest in peace lads. If they're not, it won't be long now, eh boys?

Talking of death, after my Dad died he went up to heaven. After a few days of hanging around, he met Jesus. Jesus asked how he liked heaven, and my Dad said, "It's okay, but a bit boring. I'd like to do a bit of gardening." So Jesus took him by the hand and led him into a walled garden.

It was magnificent, every fruit and vegetable growing in abundance, healthy and disease free. In one corner was a empty patch. Jesus pointed towards it and told my Dad that's where they were planting the leeks. Dad set to work, first trimming the roots, then trimming the stalk, before making a hole, dropping in the seedling and gently watering it in.

Next, Jesus picked up a seedling. He held it aloft and a dove swooped down, nipping off the overlength roots with its beak. Another joined it, and nipped off the gangly leaves. Then Jesus pointed to the soil, and a small tornado appeared, sinking into the earth to make a hole. A butterfly fluttered up, took the seedling and dropped it into the hole, before a small cloud drifted past, raining over the hole to water the seedling in.

My Dad turned to Jesus and asked, "Are you going to help, or are just here to fuck around?"

Next up comes the TIGNOG for worst customer service in relation to gardening stuff. Now, this award could have gone to Sarah Raven Seeds, who upon sending out the wrong seeds demanded that they were returned at the expense of the Idiot before the right seeds could be sent out. Apparently telling them where to put their seeds, accompanied by a bit of legal banter, solved the problem.

The award could also have gone to Scotplantsdirect, who supplied the iffy Jiffy pellets involved in Jiffygate, then got snotty when the Idiot asked about the mould, before offering a full refund but never delivering it (an act commonly known as telling lies to a customer and breaching retail law).

However, even Scotplantsdirect's dispicable customer service was trumped by Jiffy group, who win the TIGNOG for worst customer service when they displayed complete and utter contempt for their customers during Jiffygate, when the Jiffy pellets went mouldy before the Idiot had time to say "Jiffy pellets are shit".

No one from Jiffy Group can be here to collect their TIGNOG, because they're a bunch of right horrible bastards.

A quick joke to lighten the mood. What's the difference between a Jiffy pellet and a dog turd? One is a lump of shit, and the other is the excrement of a canine beast.

Now it's time for the TIGNOG for the best seed supplier. Obviously, by best I mean the supplier with the highest germination rates at competitive prices. Much science went into this process, followed by much eating of the stuff that germinated. Nicky's Nursery could have won, as they offer a good range of unsual stuff at decent prices, with a good turnaround time. Sadly, their germination rates let them down.

Ironically, it wasn't some seed loving green local co-operative that came out on top, but the one and only Mr Fothergill, one of the major commercial seed merchants. The seeds were plentiful, low cost, but best of all they had very high germination rates. Sutton did perform better, but their range isn't as good, and they don't have a cartoon of some old tosser on the packet. So it's decided, the TIGNOG is his.

Naturally, Mr Fothergill isn't here, because he's a bloody cartoon character. It comes to something when a cartoon bloke with a gay Bob moustache beats the crap out of Sarah "make mine a pint" Raven, a real world celebrity with over-priced seeds that deliver shockingly bad germination rates (the Idiot should have listened to the Chinese woman after the Raven lecture, who told him the germination rates were piss-poor).

We move on swiftly to the TIGNOG for the best bit of gardening kit. The first thought was the Sankey Plantmaster. PLANTMASTER! Go on, strip naked and run around your house (and garden) at 3am screaming "PLANTMASTER!" at the top of your voice. It's liberating, and will win you friends and influence people. No, I'm not bailing you out.

It could have even been the Gardman potato planters. They work, they really do, and they're big enough to take three plants. And yes, it is the same Gardman that make pellets that don't go mouldy, unlike the shitty Jiffy ones!

The winner of the TIGNOG for best bit of gardening kit, believe it or not, is the home-made riddle, made by the Idiot himself. Four bits of wood, a few screws and a bit of wire mesh. However, when fitted over a barrow it allowed Hill 49 to be turned from stoney ground to fine tilth in the twinkling of an eye.

PLANTMASTER! Sorry, I just can't help myself.

The TIGNOG for the crappiest bit of gardening shit - let's not waste our time here; it goes to Jiffy pellets. Jiffy Group, to a man, you can all piss off. I know, it's not a shock, no more than finding Sister Imelda doing press-ups in the Convent marrow patch. Again.

Talking of shocks, I was down the allotment the other evening, when a snarling dog came charging in, frothing at the mouth and snapping like a mentalist. I headed up the apple tree, my mate headed up the pear tree, and we left Doris alone to face the beast. As it charged towards her she calmly lifted her skirt and pulled down her knickers.

The dog, on seeing her bristly bush, slumped to the ground, and with its eyes fixed up her skirt it crawled forward until it was licking her feet and ankles, still looking up, transfixed.

My mate shouted from the pear tree, "Oi, Paddy, I bet you couldn't do that!"

I shouted back, "I could, and I will ... as soon as that dog fucks off!"

The TIGNOG for the nicest people met through gardening is next. The Idiot met some lovely folks at the garden centre, and a few down the pub, but the TIGNOG goes to you lot, all of you. There's only one so you'll have to share it. Actually, there isn't one at all, but just find an old vase lying around in your house and pretend that's it. You can do a speech, but do it later, when we don't have to hear it.

In all seriousness, there has never been been a single word of criticism, smart-arsedness, arrogance or pomposity from any of you. You're all truly lovely people.

Well, the Irish ones are a bit of trouble, and the Americans could give it a rest occasionally. As for the Americans who pretend to be Canadian, well they're as bad as the Hungarians posing as English ladies, and don't get me started on the Scots. Both of you. Or the bloody Northeners or people in Salisbury bloody Plain. Or the French and those that cavort with the French. Or the bloody ex-pats in eastern Europe (sorry Edith, I wasn't doing you twice, it was someone else with rats). Or men with big bushy moustaches. Or men with bloody Hosta collections. Or men with big bushy moustaches and Hosta collections. Or widows. Or bloody people with dogs. And chickens. And Mexican goats. And goats of any description. Or people who pickle stuff. Or the elderly (got interweb yet, Granny?). Or bloody Australians. Or that bloke with a limp in Zimbabwe. Or the greenies. Or the feel-good hippies, even if they do post good recipes or say Namaste. Or Deb with her Lady Garden (an English moment of humour). Or that one that has a header with the dog sniffing a flower. Or twats in hats, regardless of colour. Or bastards with new farms that like to rub in how much space they have. Or people that build good stuff, including grow boxes and tea houses. Or that bloody American that supports Tottenham. Or the Alaskan mafia. Or you.

No, fuck all them lot, but the rest of you; you're okay!

The TIGNOG for the biggest prick ever encountered through gardening? That goes to Jeremy Howarth, UK Sales Manager of Jiffy Group. He's the one that denied that Jiffy pellets ever went mouldy, and then when confronted with facts screamed (like a girl) that they only went mouldy because you lot (and me) - amateur gardeners - were retards. He did eventuially promise a refund, but never delivered. Another lying twat, then!

So that leaves the last TIGNOG of 2010. Vegetable of the Year.

It could have been the chard. It has consistently produced for 9 months. It could have been the fartichokes; so easy to grow. It could have been the parsnips, sweet and tender. However, one vegetable has stood out from the crowd. The taste was, quite frankly, unbelievable. Easy to grow, and so different from shop-bought shit, the final TIGNOG, and the most important TIGNOG, goes to... THE FUCKING CARROT!

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, brings this long and dreary post to a close. I hope you've enjoyed the TIGNOGs, and I hope you've laughed, a little at least. Remember that when you feel down, when you feel despondent, when life is passing you by, you can always take off all your clothes, run down the street, and scream "PLANTMASTER!" at passers-by.

I'll leave you with a tender tale about the Idiot and his dear wife, Mrs IG. Just the other night they were enjoying the last of the bean crop, and the Idiot became nostalgic. He spoke tenderly to Mrs IG (something of a strange event in itself).

"Mrs IG, when I decided to enter the world of gardening, you were there, beside me. When I drilled through my thumb building raised beds, you were there to mop up the blood. When I hit myself in the face with the hammer, you applied ice to my split lip. When I fell down the hole I'd dug, you helped me to stand again. When my cucumbers got neck rot, you helped clear the debris away. When my curcubits died, you helped me carry them to the compost. When my potatoes froze, you were the there to help cut away the dead stalks. When the radishes choked the salsify, there you were helping me cut away the leaves. When the blight hit, you helped me strip the plants of their mouldering fruit. When my Christmas spuds got snowed on, you helped me lay the fleece. All year, you've been beside me, and now I realise ... that you're a fucking jinx!"

I've been Paddy O'Furniture; you lot can all fuck off home!

I thank you.

The Year of Living Stupidly

2010-11-29T11:24:00.001-08:00

This time last year, there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find Postman Pratt with a parcel. It contained many books, including a copy of Tender by Nigel Slater. Now, as a keen cook, I have learned the classics, struggled with the art of the saucier, and have spent many an hour digesting Escoffier in an attempt to glean some small idea of his genius. However, I did little that was unusual with vegetables, and so the publication of Tender (Volume 1), a cook-book dedicated to veg, was a godsend. The only downside was that Nigel also talked about growing vegetables, in mud in a garden, and that was something that I frowned upon.

Having thumbed through the edition, I made a shopping list and headed off for the local farm shop. Now, Occasionally Yours in Lingfield masquerades as a farm shop, but it might be better named Occasionally Fresh, or even Crap Food and Crap Service. I was gobsmacked by the rotting shallots, the limp herbs, the grotty carrots, and the browning green beans that were very local, if you lived in Zimbabwe!

In disgust I headed off to Sainsburys, where I was assaulted by a wall of the elderly, people in track suits, and screaming brats of every creed. It was hell on earth, so I dodged off to another greengrocery establishment, ths time within a nursery. Again, I was met with inferior produce, and a bad attitude when I asked whether they sold shallots without the mould. I left empty-handed, save a gardening magazine. That afternoon, with beer in hand, the magazine and Tender open on the dining table, I hatched a cunning plan to rip the garden apart and start growing shit. I called the plan Operation Grow Some Shit.

When Mrs IG arrived home from work, I revealed my plan. She rolled her eyes and muttered something about it being another idiotic episode that would all end in tears. She reminded me that I knew nothing about gardening. I told her it couldn't be that hard if a twat like Titchmarsh could do it. She shook her head and poured a large glass of wine.

I've seen her look more dismayed with my antics, but even so she was close to the edge. Remember that this woman, this saintly being, had suffered a decade and a half of me trying to do bugger-all in the garden. She just wanted somewhere to sit and relax, amongst the broken motorcycles and piles of earth. Now I was suggesting turning the whole lot over to the plough.

So, today is a momentous day, because I have been an idiot in the garden for one whole year.

There has been blood, sweat and tears. Most of the blood came whilst building the raised beds. I learned that a drill through the thumb isn't clever, nor is hitting yourself with a hammer, or sawing the side of your hand off. I also learned that if you dig holes, don't be surprised when you fall down them. Bamboos will drive long splinters under your nails, and the human back has a tendency to lock up.

There has been sweat. I sweated more than a fat lass at an Abba evening. I sweated under the sun, the moon, in rain and even in the snow. I sweated through layers of winter clothing while shovelling manure. I sweated through thin summer clothing while ... shovelling manure. I moved a lot of horse shit in a year. I sweated digging out Hill 49. I sweated thinking about how much I sweated.

And the tears? I knocked my beer over when doing a bit of drunken planting. It wasn't pretty.

Sometimes things went wrong. I nurtured weeds. I dropped my hat into the manure. I fell over, sometimes very often. I bent my Neverbend fork. I watched my seedlings get neck rot. I learned what damping off was. I killed my curcubits with overwatering. I killed my aubergines with underwatering. My broad beans were broad, but without bean. My radishes choked my salsify. Then my radishes rotted. My rocket went to seed. My cress was chewy. The celeriac were too small, the courgettes were too big, and then God done the blight thing to my tomatoes.

I swore a lot. I said Shit and Bastard and Fuck more often than I should have. I also said Bollocks a lot. I read expert advice and ignored it. I listened to other bloggers and ignored their advice. I learned a lot, but never learned enough. I learned that sometimes, I didn't know how much I didn't know.

I upset the local horticultural mafia. I made friends with a few strange people that grubbed around in the dirt. I read a lot of blogs and discovered a community of like-minded people, and I found a few fellow idiots in the mix.

I laughed, quite a lot. Apart from when I spilled my beer. I've shivered, got sun burn, been dry, been wet, been partially wet and partially dry, and once I nearly set my trousers on fire - whilst wearing them.

There have been good times too. When I ate my first home grown salad, I was like a dog with two dicks. I thought there was no one on earth that could garden quite like this idiot. That notion was smashed when my cucumbers died, but for one short day...

My carrots were the most carroty carrots I've ever eaten. My parsnips were sublime. As for the chard; both Mrs IG and I are pure chard freaks now. I grew so much rocket we bathed in rocket and goat cheese soup. French beans dripped off the shoots. Turnips came out globular and sweet. Patty pan squash? I was knee-deep in the bastards.

In my freezer are so many vegetables that I have saved. A pack of this, a pack of that, so my Christmas dinner will be from the garden. We haven't purchased a potato since 1963! Well, that's how it feels.

As a garden hater (and a gardener hater too), I will freely admit, I've turned the corner. I now covet people's garden space. I lust after their veggies (Mrs IG frowns upon me lusting after their wives and daughters). I get that heroin-cocaine-speedball buzz when I see a seed catalogue. I am high ... on gardening.

It's been a mixed year, a year of ups and downs (mostly falling down holes I've dug). I have spent hard earned money on mud and manure. But do you know what? No? Well, I'll bloody tell you what. I've loved every fucking minute of it. Excuse the language, but that's the way it is. (By the way, if you are a child and reading this, swearing IS big and it IS clever - and why are you reading a gardening blog when there's drugs and beer and girls in tight t-shirts out there?)

So, there you have it. One year on, and I did grow some shit!

P.S.: Tomorrow is one year on for the blog - when I started gardening I decided to record my efforts, mainly for myself. I intend to celebrate that fact, but how? Let me tell you how. I'm having an awards ceremony. That's right, put on your clean knickers and have a shave - and the men can tidy themselves up too, because you're invited to the TIGNOGs (The Idiot Gardener's Night of Gongs). Who knows, Paddy O'Furniture might even do a turn. Christ-on-a-fucking-sledge, it's going to be awful!

Soda bread for Kyna

2010-11-28T02:43:00.001-08:00

During my last post (the last entry on this blog, not an episode of bugle-playing on some far and distant battle field), I mentioned home made soup and soda bread. Kyna at the brilliantly readable Crystal Coast Gardener left a comment that she hadn't had soda bread since the time in Edmonton when Father O'Malley tried to hush up the "look at my sausage" incident (or something like that; I know the Irish were involved), and asked for the recipe.

Having had the ignomony of an Irish upbringing in London (we were forbidden to be Londoners, instead having to say a daily novena to St Jude, patron saint of the hopeless, beseeching him for the day we could return to the bog under the shadow of Ben Bulben), I've eaten soda bread all of my life. It's not nostalgia that brings me back to it time and time again; it's the taste and the texture.

Of course, it also helps that when I fancy a big bowl of thick winter soup, I can rattle up a loaf in under thrity minutes, from inception to eating! One of the joys of soda bread is a lack of yeast, which means no proving, plus the fact that even those folks with girly stomachs can eat it straight from the oven without any ill effects. Steaming soda bread with a glob of melting butter is a real treat. In fact, I don't eat butter on any other bread, preferring my loaves dry, but soda bread makes the butter sing.

I have played with various recipes and types of flour, and the following is my preference. I like my soda bread quite heavy, as I usually eat it with soup. Also, I tend to make multiple small loaves. If you want to make bigger loaves, play around with the baking time. I know the timing is right on this recipe for loaves of about 250 grammes!

I tend to use a mix of white and wholemeal flour. It's not just any flour, though. The best flour I have found is very strong Canadian flour made from red spring wheat. If you live in Hingerland, Waitrose sell it. If you don't, well I can't help you, but it should be available from all good food stores (and even from a few bad ones). If you want it heavier, increase the wholemeal ratio, while more white makes it slightly lighter. You can use a lighter flour if you don't want a heavier soda bread (best for girls and those with a preference for all things pink)!

Heat up the oven to 200 degrees C. While that is happening, decide how many loaves to make, and then multiply the ingedients. I am giving the amounts here for one 250 gramme loaf.

Chuck 250g (per loaf, make as many as you wish) of flour in a bowl. Make it a big bowl, because if it's a small one you'll have to mess about on a work surface later, and that just means cleaning up! You can sift the flour if you like, but it'll just be a waste of time. As I always have some wholemeal content, there's no point.

Then add 5 grammes of salt and two teaspoons of baking soda (per loaf). Shove your hand in the bowl and give the ingredients a mix. Don't use a spoon or any crap like that; it only adds to the cleaning up, and let's face it, no one likes cleaning up.

Once well mixed, add 150ml of milk (per loaf). Mix the ingredients up using your hand. It might seem slightly dry, but fear not. Just split the lump of dough and use the moist inside to mop up any dry flour. Now, while it is still in the bowl, sort of halfheatedly knead the ball of dough for about two minutes. Don't overdo it because you'll break down the gluten, and the bread will rise from the baking soda anyway, so why put in effort that won't be rewarded?

Split the lump of dough into however many loaves you have made, and roll them into balls. Then sort of flatten them a bit. Here's a vital part. Take a very sharp knife and cut a deep cross into the loaf. Don't cut right through, but go as close as you dare. Then dust a baking tray with flour, put the loaves on it, dust them with wholemeal flour, and put in the oven.

Bake for 25 minutes, then remove. Tap the bottoms and they should sound hollow. Job done; get it eaten. It is beat eaten warm. When it goes cold it gets a touch cakey, which is why you should make smaller loaves.

Now, bugger off and make some bread. Whoever makes the best loaf wins an all-expenses paid holiday to the bog, under the shadow of Ben Bulben.*

* Terms and conditions apply, such as you paying for your own flights, travel and other stuff. I'll supply the cold rain and peat bog, and I'll give you a map showing where my uncle buried the donkey.

Perishing potatoes and shivering salads

2010-11-26T07:23:00.001-08:00

Following my last post and the comments, it seems there is a bit of interest in just how I wooed Mrs IG. After some thought, I decided to tell all. As the Father used to say, "Give the people what they want!" Mind you, he also used to say, "I've just seen a bear with a step-ladder. I reckon he'll be after the pineapples." Now, if you don't think that's insane, remember that we didn't have many pineapple trees in North London in the 1960s. We didn't have many bears either. Come to think of it, step-ladders were as rare as rocking-horse shit too!

Anway, I decided to tell all, and then something happened.

Now, many years ago, I had to go the Las Vegas for work. I found the place dull, and ended up looking for a way to kill time. The result was that I went to a craps lesson. Ever since then I've been hooked on it, which is bad because craps isn't an English thing. The few casinos that have craps tables play a very slow and reserved game, which robs the very soul of the beast for me.

One of the most important lessons I ever learned was to know when to quit. Whenever I play (which is only when in certain parts of America), I always start on low bet tables, just to get back into the swing of things. Then, once my head is in the right mode, I gear up and move on to the higher stake tables.

Last time I played, fresh off the plane, I found a $2 minimum bet table and started getting the feel again. I played a cautious game, but in ten minutes I was around $100 down. I walked away, had a beer, chatted to some rednecks, and decided to leave. As I passed the craps table there was a whole new crowd, so I decided to have one more sniff.

The table was bad, no one was holding the dice, no one was winning. I decided that I'd leave as soon as I had shot the dice. The guy next to me crapped out very quickly, so it was my shoot next. Then a man stepped into the gap between us, and he got the dice.

He asked how the table was, and I told him it was cold. He laughed, and said he was on a week long losing streak. Then he started. He must have held the dice for about an hour, regulary hitting the outside numbers. It was edgy, and few other people had faith, but I went along with it. By the time he passed the dice to me, I was about $700 up, and he had over $1000!

I crapped out quickly, and then gathered up my chips. My new friend seemed shocked, and pleaded for me to just wait until he got the dice again. He reassured me he had another run in him. I tried to explain that you get a run like he'd just had once in a blue moon, and you just don't get two on the same night! He wouldn't listen. I saw him the next day. I lent him a few dollars to get a beer. He'd blown the bloody lot.

Knowing when to quit is something I have rediscovered. At present, it's a bit cold in the UK. Think Ice Station Zebra, then think Ice Station Zebra only wearing your underpants while Jack Frost sprays chilled liquid nitrogen over your private parts. Not only is a touch cold, but the cold has arrived a touch early. There might be better times ahead, but I'm going to cash in my chips. It's time to call it a night and gird my loins for another day.

These are my Christmas potatoes. They spend the night in a shed, and by day they come out for the light. When they came out this morning, they were healthy, vibrant and sturdy. At 2pm today, we hadn't got back above freezing. I figure all I can do is hack off the greenage and hope they last another month.

This is the experimental winter salad. It's deteriorating fast. What can I do? Make a bloody salad, that's what! There is so little light at present I can't see the crops recovering, so it's time to call a halt and enjoy this year's last home-grown salad.

The leeks, chard, cabbage, cavalo nero, carrots and turnips all seem to be loving the cold, although the spinach is looking like it's just about hanging on in there.

Mind you, look on the bright side. Winter means more soup...

...with home made soda bread!

How long until spring arrives?

How you've changed ... inside

2010-11-21T23:17:00.001-08:00

Even as a young man, I was never very good at chat-up lines. Any girls I did meet was usually a result of accidental events or just generally being around. I could never seem to find the right words when standing next to a young lady at a bar. Friends would ask, "Did it hurt ... when you fell from heaven?". I'd watch intently for the moment she'd laugh in his face, but the girls usually swooned and my mates got lucky. Me? I just didn't find the right words.

It wasn't that I was tongue-tied. Far from it! I just said the wrong things. I did have a friend who successfully won over many women by telling them, "You don't sweat that much for a fat lass". They lapped it up. Another used the line, "I'm not a gynacologist, but I'm willing to have a bloody good look" with great effect. Me? I just used to speak and the girls would edge away nervously.

I remember once meeting a girl who had her eye on me. A mutual friend was nagged by her to introduce us, so I was on to a sure-fire winner. She was gorgeous, so I decided to say something funny. What came out of my mouth? This. "You're so cute, I'd like to chop you up and sprinkle the bits around my basement." Needless to say, I went home alone. The irony is I didn't even have a basement.

I did, however, date a fairly plain looking girl for a very short while. Her confidence was low, so she was often fishing for compliments. One night she said she didn't understand why I wanted to go out with an ugly girl. I told her she wasn't ugly, to which she replied, "For some, beauty is only skin deep, but you look deeper, inside me."

I replied, "Well, I'll have a look inside you tonight when I get you in the basement and fetch out my surgical kit."

Dumped by an ugly girl; that stings, and I still didn't have a basement either.

So, what stirs this memory? Well, having been ill, and with the physio on my shoulder injury not working, I've been a bit off form. The Trombonchino donkey pizzle courgette has been knocking around the kitchen, and I didn't feel like trying to make its hard green tasteless flesh taste nice. So I've been ignoring it. Mrs IG threatened to take it off me as I'd been using it to make endless knob jokes, so I decided to cook it. What did I find? It had changed ... inside.

It was, like the ugly lass, a thing of beauty once you split it in two in the basement. It had turned orange, soft and juicy. I stuffed the bell-end with pork and onions and roasted it. It was bloody delicious. Then I peeled the shaft (ooh err Missus) and used it along with some sweet potatoes and chillis to make a soup, served with fat greasy lardons of smoked bacon.

Okay, I did say I'd never grow Trombonchino again, but I'm thinking maybe ... just one ... perhaps.