Remembrance Sunday

The biggest day in November has to be the 11^th.  At 11am the nation stays silent for two minutes.  These two minutes are particularly poignant for me; I know what it’s like to worry about a family member in the armed services.  I remember very well the first time my young brother left for active duty in Afghanistan.  Waving to him as his car drove away, not knowing if that would be the last time I saw him, was tough.  A tour of duty is usually six months; it feels like six years.  Every time you hear a radio report or see something on TV about casualties, you tense up. 

His involvement with the army has meant I have more empathy with soldiers and their families and it’s that empathy that made my recent experience so moving.

A few weeks ago I visited somewhere I’d been meaning to visit for ages, the lovely National Trust house and garden, Polesden Lacey.  What a treat it is.  The views alone are enough to make it worth a visit.  I sat on one of the benches right up against the house with my wife, while the children were running around on the lawns. Through the window we could hear someone playing Debussy on the piano, it was perfect.

The lawns by the house are terraced with quite steep grass banks, which of course the children were enjoying to the full.  As I stared at the view, in a way that only parents of young children know how, I could see a small group of men and women doing some sort of exercise on the grass banks.  I was curious; what were they were up to? The banks are steep but they aren’t that challenging.

Before I had a chance to investigate further, my 4 year old son gave me the answer.  He was playing near the group and shouted at the top of his voice “Daddy why has that man got robot legs?” Oh the joys of parenting.  As usual he was saying it like it is; the man did indeed have robot legs.  How do you answer that?

I simply looked at the man, smiled and said to him “I feel a glittering career in the diplomatic corps awaits him” pointing to my son.  I think he could sense my anguish and luckily he laughed. 

I went over to the group and started chatting to them. Two of them had lost both legs and another had lost his legs and an arm, and yet here they were walking around trying to master what we take for granted. Simply walking up a steep slope; it was truly inspiring and humbling.

One sees servicemen with missing limbs on TV but to see them up close makes it more real. I'll certainly be attending the local ceremony at the war memorial in Thames Ditton this year, and if those guys I met at Polesden Lacey are reading this; I’ll be thinking of you.

London Symphony Orchestra; tested to the limit

If I were a concert pianist I’d definitely have floppy hair. It's crucial for adding drama. During the energetic parts, when you're really putting your back into it, the hair flies all over the place; which looks great. The brilliant young pianist Daniil Trifonov is clearly in agreement with me; his is perfect. I saw Trifonov recently playing Tchaikovsky with the London Symphony Orchestra at a brand new venue in Guildford. 

The hair, I could do; it’s the genius piano playing I might struggle with.  What I could do, however is the cymbals. Now there’s an instrument I could master to the standard required of the London Symphony Orchestra. 

 As I sat listening and watching this magnificent orchestra I couldn’t help noticing that the whole team were working hard, except one.  The conductor was flapping furiously, the violins were working up a sweat, the pianist nearly falling off his stool with activity and then there was the guy at the back with the cymbals.  Every now and again he’d drag himself off his stool, take the cymbals off their stand and bash them together on cue. Then he’d sit down again for another 10 minutes. I reckon I could do that.  

You could imagine him at dinner parities couldn’t you... “Oh you’re a musician with the London Symphony Orchestra, how marvellous” and then they’d ask the killer question “what instrument do you play?”.... Ah.

Despite my obsession with the cymbals guy the music was quite incredible, the pianist looked completely at one with his instrument almost not aware of his surroundings with his eyes rolled, just showing the whites.  Which was just as well because right at the part of a particularly dramatic crescendo all the lights in the concert hall went out plunging us all into total darkness. The musicians couldn’t see their music or the conductor and yet they didn’t miss a single note.

Was this supposed to happen? No.  I had to fight hard to resist the urge to shout out... “never mind a doctor, is there an electrician in the house?”  There was at least 5 agonising minutes of music in the dark before the first light appeared on stage. One of the lady violinists somehow produced a small clip on light to illuminate the music in front of her.  Quite where she was keeping it in that dress is a mystery. Then there was the unmistakeable scuffling sound of stage hands squeezing past musicians carrying whatever lights they could muster from backstage.

I don’t know how they managed it but they continued to play out the first movement until the interval.  At which point the audience roared with admiration for the sheer professionalism of the musicians.

Trifonov however then decided to do a ‘Cliff Richard’ and started up an impromptu recital to entertain the audience who were all still sitting in the dark.  If it had been me, I’d have chosen something easy, but no.  So again without music or light he played a brilliant rendition of Listz’s minute waltz.  Not a single soul left the auditorium to rush to the bar; they were all transfixed by this brilliant 20 year old pianist playing in the dark.

The gremlins however were not ready to give up just yet.  When finally we all shuffled into the bar for a drink, the lights went out in the whole building amid screams of panic.  Why do people scream when lights go out? Luckily, this being middle class Guildford there was no looting.

Up to this point the ‘management’ had been very quiet, so no-one knew what was going on.  Were we under attack from extremists? or had they simply not paid their electricity bill?

Eventually there was a quick explanation but the second half of the concert was carried out with the house lights on rather than the stage lights, which wasn’t quite as atmospheric.  At this point I was rather glad my tickets had been free press tickets.  Had I paid the £41 ticket cost I might have been a bit irked.

At the end of the concert the management however, pulled out their trump card to smooth any ruffled feathers and announced there was a complimentary drink in the bar for everyone after the performance. Nothing like a free drink hey, everyone has their price.

I blame Jeremy Clarkson

There are certain events and people in a young man’s life that will never be forgotten. Three of the big ones for a teenage boy are: first car, first girlfriend and the day you pass your driving test. For me, these three were all connected with disastrous consequences. 

If I ever get invited on to BBC TV’s Top Gear, I’ll have one hell of a story for Jeremy Clarkson’s ‘car history’ line of questioning.  I see it going something like this.

Clarkson: So Nick...First car?

Me: *claps hands together smugly* 1972 VW Beetle.

Clarkson: Oooh something for the cool wall, very nice....Top speed?

Me: About 69mph...I never got caught speeding.

Clarkson: *laughs out loud and asks me to present the next series with him*

For a 17 year old boy a VW Beetle was uber cool.  I saved all the money I’d earned doing my gardening round and bought it for £150 when I was just 16.  Even all those years ago this was still a good price; needless to say it needed some work.

I spent the next six months bashing out dents, welding on new parts and generally making it roadworthy.  I took my driving lessons in it. I passed my test in it.  I loved it. The other boys were green with envy.  The summer of 1988 was one of the best for me, I used to swivel the windscreen washer points around so that when I drove past cyclists I could squirt them with water.  I was 17 and not only had I passed my driving test but I had a car ready to go.  As is often the way in life, just when you think you’ve got it sorted...you know the rest. 

I wonder what the Guiness world record is for ‘the fastest time between passing your driving test and being involved in a road traffic accident’. I think I might be a contender for the title. I took my test at 9.00am in the morning. By 9.50am I was listening to the words every young man wants to hear “That’s the end of the test; you’ve passed”.  By the time the rest of the school was out on their morning break; my car had crashed into a concrete post.  Not just any concrete post, but the post that held up the school gates and what’s worse...I wasn’t driving it.

We’ll call her Claire, shall we!  She had been on my radar for a while; all I had to do was ask her out; something that would be infinitely easier, if I was driving my super cool car. As soon as I passed the test I drove straight up to school to ceremoniously remove the ‘L’ plates from the car bumper and lap up the praise.  A small crowd gathered and a few of the girls climbed inside.  Claire pleaded with me “Oh let me take it out for a spin; I’m a really good driver”. “I didn’t realise you’d passed your test”. I said.  “I haven’t yet but I’ve had loads of lessons; I’m really good”. I can’t believe I fell for such an unsubstantiated claim.

 So off we went, a small convoy of the chosen few who had cars went out to ‘hit the town’. It wasn’t a good decision. However in my defence, it was made by my ‘other’ brain and they’re not as good at decision making are they.  I was sat in the passenger seat and contrary to her claims of ‘I’m a really good driver’, I found I had to change gear for her as she ‘hadn’t mastered that bit yet’.  This was alarming.

After what seemed like an eternity of driving around the local high street, squirting cyclists and beeping horns we headed back to school. The school was on a busy main road which meant a right turn. 

I can still see it today. We approached the turn too fast, swerved across the other side of the road, up onto the pavement *loud scream from Claire* and straight into the school gate post...which we knocked down.  All this happened while the rest of the school was out enjoying their morning break; far too many spectators for my liking.

Luckily no-one was hurt.  There was of course the trifling matter of: she hadn’t passed her test, she wasn’t insured and we didn’t have ‘L’ plates on the car. I did what any other 17 year old upstanding member of the community would have done...I sped off as quickly as I could. If I remember correctly, there was some cursing on the way home. 

It took all my powers of persuasion to calm the situation down. The worst bit for me however was not having to face the music with the headmaster or the police but having to walk back to school.

Crippling Fashion

I can’t believe it’s happening so soon.  That thing I swore wouldn’t happen to me, well it’s happening already. It must be my age...I’ve started looking at what young people wear and asking myself; “what the hell are you wearing?”

I was in the outdoor cafe in Richmond Park the other day and I could see a wedding reception being held in a sectioned off area. It’s a beautiful location with a great view so unsurprisingly it’s popular for weddings. Although sectioned off, the guests are still very much in view to the general public.

There’s something intriguing about seeing guests arriving at a wedding and clearly the rest of the cafe were enjoying the relaxing art of ‘people watching’. The guests at this particular reception clearly had money.  Money yes, grace and style...err, no.

It was a warm day so fake tan and skimpy dresses were everywhere. They all seemed excited about the big event. Then a car pulled up and out got a very beautiful girl.  She was helped out of the car by what I assume was her gallant husband and she started walking across the car park towards the venue.

I immediately took pity on the poor girl; I could only see her head and shoulders but from the way she was walking she looked as though she was recovering from a bad accident that had rendered her without the use of her legs for a while. I naturally assumed the poor thing was still undergoing intense physiotherapy as she gradually learnt how to walk again.

“Good for you girl” I heard myself say, I admired her pluck amongst all the glamour pusses. However when she cleared the car park and came into the open the full horror of her ailment became clear.  She wasn’t in fact wearing callipers or correction shoes or anything of that nature.  Her hobbling gait was completely self- inflicted by the most ridiculous high heels I’ve ever seen.  She presented such an obscene spectacle that everyone in the cafe stared at her as she painfully walked by. She had all the grace of someone walking barefoot on a pebble beach.

Initially I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt; there’s always one who doesn’t quite get the whole fashion thing and takes it too far but then even more girls showed up wearing exactly the same heels.  They were all hobbling along with their expensive dresses and their fake tans, it was quite a sight.

For the record I’m not one of those men that likes women to look like they belong to the Amish sect; I love to see a woman in high heels; they’re as sexy as hell.  But surely the point of high heels is for the wearer to look and feel sexy, beautiful, graceful or elegant; take your pick from any of those.  These things make women look anything but.

What I don’t understand is before they left their homes’, they must have looked in the mirror and thought they looked great. How could they have missed such a massive flaw in their appearance? These girls were obviously under immense peer pressure.  

As a society, how have we arrived at such a ridiculous state of affairs, where young attractive women will wear something that forces them to walk like cripples just to fit in? Why did none of them question the fact they could barely walk, never mind how fashionable these shoes are.

The designers of these shoes appear to be missing something.  When they first trial them on the catwalks around the world even the models fall over and they are people who walk up and down for a living; they’re paid to do it, they’re professionals.  You’d imagine they would be experts at walking and yet even they can’t work out how to walk normally in them.  And yet still these shoes go into production, do the shoe designers not care about the people who are going to buy their products?

I know a lot of women have a ‘thing’ for shoes but isn’t this entering into ‘emperor’s new clothes’ territory?

Prince Edward....is that you?

My brother works for a very rich family.  Part of his work involves attending high profile social events, especially horse racing events.  A few years ago he was asked to drive his boss to the races.

He dropped him off at the royal enclosure in a convertible Bentley and was told to meet him back in a few hours time.  However while he was waiting around chatting he noticed a couple stop and stare at him and start discreetly gesturing over to him. He thought this was odd but didn’t pay it any more attention.  I should point out at this juncture that my brother bears more than a passing resemblance to Prince Edward.  This was during the time Prince Edward was dating Sophie Rhys-Jones so media interest was higher than usual as they were speculating on the couple's possible engagement. 

My brother knew he would have a few hours to spare before he needed to collect his boss from the royal enclosure so had pre-arranged to meet his girlfriend in a posh nearby restaurant for lunch.  When they arrived they were shown to their table and while having a quick drink he noticed the couple he’d seen at the race course come into the restaurant and sit at a nearby table.  “What a co-incidence” he thought, “there’s the couple from the race course who were staring at me earlier,” he said to his beautiful Italian girlfriend.

A few moments later the mysterious couple discreetly took out a camera and started taking photos of him and his girlfriend having lunch.  Finally the penny dropped; convertible Bentley, royal enclosure at Ascot, Prince Edward resemblance; this couple had followed him to the restaurant thinking he was Prince Edward and were now alarmed to find him not meeting Sophie Rhys-Jones but an Italian beauty instead. 

Knowing he was being watched, he realised he could have some fun so furtively looked around and then gave his girlfriend a kiss.  He could hear the camera clicking frantically as he did it.  He then summoned over the waiter and asked him to pass a note he’d written to the excited but very indiscreet camera clicking couple.

The note said – ‘the waiter who delivered this note is one of my bodyguards and the couple to your right are members of MI6.  I saw you take those photos and I’ll ask you to relinquish the film before you leave, if you refuse, they will be forced to take action.’

He folded the note and the waiter took it over to the table.  As soon as they read it, their faces plummeted and they anxiously looked over their shoulders for the MI6 agents. It only took a few moments for the fear to start working and they humbly came over to the table where he was sitting and immediately apologised in broad American accents.  The lady even attempted a curtsy.

“Oh your highness, we’re so sorry.  We were just so thrilled to see y’all and the lovely Sophie, we hope you two get together you’re such a lovely couple.  We just wanted a souvenir photo to show the folks back home”

When he realised they thought his girlfriend was Sophie Rhys-Jones, four words popped into his head... Lambs.To.The.Slaughter. He immediately adopted his best Prince Edward accent and said “Oh yes of course, I completely understand – it’s just one has to be so careful, there’s so much media interest in one at the moment”  he then gestured to his pretend MI6 and royal protection officers ‘everything is fine, no need to take action’ and said “Just called off the dogs, so to speak, don’t worry you and your husband are quite safe”

“Oh thank you your highness” and with that the Americans bowed and curtsied their way out of the restaurant, looking anxiously over their shoulders the whole time.

Never give up hope

With the doom mongers still enjoying the upper hand at the moment, I thought I’d share a cheery story with you about never giving up hope.  I learnt it from a goldfish.  A few months ago I was chatting with a friend in his kitchen, when right in front of our eyes a huge heron swooped down into the garden. For a moment we stood admiring this magnificent creature, until we noticed that in fact it was eyeing up the handsome goldfish in the pond.  Before either of us could get out there to shoo it away, quick as a flash, its head shot forwards into the water and emerged wrestling one of his prized specimens.

We both instinctively ran out of the kitchen into the garden. I don’t know why; what did we think we could do? The minute we got outside, with a cursory look towards us, it flapped away.

However, all was not lost because we could still see the fish sticking sideways out its beak.  It hadn’t quite managed to get a proper grip on the fish and was still trying to manoeuvre it into the right position to swallow it.  As it jerked its head backwards and forwards, it lost its grip and dropped the fish.

Under normal circumstances this might have been our chance to put in a daring rescue attempt but you see, when it flew off, it had landed on the roof of a neighbours’ house.  We both looked on in horror as the fish rolled down the roof, hopped over the guttering and plummeted down into the neighbour’s front garden.

Again, I don’t know why, but we both ran across the road into the front garden where it had fallen.  Dispensing with the usual drills one learns in first aid, of first talking to the victim to see if there’s a response, I picked up the fish and ran back over the road towards the pond.

Gently I lowered the fish back into the water, fanning water over the gills as you’re apparently supposed to do and I’ll be dammed the little thing swam off to tell its friends of its adventure.  Then three seconds later, it told them again.

When I was on Steve Wright in the Afternoon

A few years ago the BBC Radio legend Steve Wright started one of his shows a bit like this... “I was standing outside the studio the other day when this bloke came up to me in the street and said, bold as brass “I’d like to come on your show and talk about gardening with you.” He seemed like a nice bloke so I chatted to him for a while and he talked me into it.  So here he is...”

The bloke he was talking about was me.

I was running a gardening business at the time and a few weeks earlier, completely out of the blue, I was contacted by BBC Radio 4 to talk about a gardening issue on their lunchtime programme. 

Ever since I was a boy I’d been listening to Steve Wright in the afternoon.  His shows were brilliant.  Every show made me laugh.  Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I’d get to meet him, let alone be on his show.  He was one of my heroes; and normal people don’t get to meet their heroes do they?

On the morning of the Radio 4 programme, I went up to broadcasting house near Oxford Circus and went into the studio.  The programme went well and afterwards one of the production assistants showed me out.  However, the building is a veritable labyrinth and the door I came out of, was not the one I came in through.  The excitement of having just been live on national radio had given me a sudden rush of blood to the head and I was momentarily lost.

Across the road I could see the entrance to the other broadcasting house building so I went over to ask for directions.  Outside the entrance were two men leaning against the building, smoking cigars.  I didn’t recognise either of them.  I asked one of them for the directions and as soon as he started speaking, I knew who it was.  It was Steve Wright, large as life giving me directions to the tube station.

Although I had listened to him many times on air I had never actually seen what he looked like and after a while I decided I didn’t want to know. That was part of the magic. I had already built up my own image of what I thought he looked like. So the man in front of me was just another member of the public as far as I was concerned, until he started to speak.   

Anyway, I don’t know what came over me but in a moment of bravery and opportunism, after he’d given me the directions I said to him “I’ve just been talking to your producer about coming on your show to talk about gardening”. 

To say this was a fabrication of the truth is an understatement.  I had been thinking about contacting his producer and had got as far as finding out her name. This however was just enough crucial information for me to sound confident.

“Yeah, Julia and the team are all really keen for me to come on but she says it’s up to you” I smiled enthusiastically. He looked at me, paused and said “Ok but I have to let you know, I hate gardening!” “Well if you hate gardening you must be doing it wrong” I chirped.  Luckily he laughed. We chatted some more and fortunately we clicked.

“Ok I’ll have a chat with Julia, see what you want to talk about and I’ll get in touch. Have you done any radio before?”  “Yeah loads". Again not quite accurate but I was on a roll and I'd got an ace up my sleeve. "I’ve just been on ‘You and Yours’ programme across the road” I said pointing to the Radio 4 studio.  “Oh right, so I can have a little listen." He said. "Ok friend let’s see how we get on.”  We shook hands and he went back inside the building to chat to Julia.

Two words; excitement and fear. I quickly phoned his producer Julia and told her ‘I’d just been chatting to Steve and he’s keen for me to come on the show, I hope you’ve received my emailed ideas about the feature and the gardening factoids?’  Unsurprisingly she hadn’t.  “Ok don’t worry I’ll send them over to you again. Steve is keen and he’s on his way now to talk about it.”

Amazingly my ruse worked and two weeks later I was sitting in the studio recording a programme with Steve Wright, Tim Smith and The Old Lady. Sometimes dreams do come true. They must have liked me because they asked me to come back on two separate occasions.

Penis envy...

I was listening to the radio the other day in the car, when Gardener’s Question Time came on.  This made me chuckle to myself.  It reminded me of the time when I went along to one of their recordings and asked ‘the panel’ a question with a difference.

Have you ever been to a BBC radio broadcast?  It’s quite exciting but completely without glamour. The outside broadcasts are usually held in some obscure village hall, where the local gardening society or Women’s Institute fills the room with plastic chairs, silver hair and diseased plants.  At one end of the hall there’s a table with a green ‘snooker style’ cloth over it.  This is where the panel of experts sit. 

When the crew arrives with all the recording gear there’s a noticeable difference amongst the audience, nerves start to tingle and the sight of the equipment causes a buzz of excitement in the hall.    

This set up process also does something extraordinary; it makes the people in the audience regress to 1950’s England. If you’ve ever heard Gardener’s Question Time you’ll know what I’m talking about.  Everyone in the audience is obsequiously polite.  They all suddenly speak with clipped ‘BBC’ accents and they roar with laughter at the weakest of jokes from the panel. 

The members of the audience that get to ask a question go even further, just as the microphone approaches, you can see them nervously twitching and then on cue they revert to a language not heard since the days of black and white TV...“I recently purchased a flowering cherry tree...!” Purchased....there’s a word I haven’t used since, well the 1950’s frankly.   

Most of the audience are posh women, keen to show off their gardening knowledge by using as many Latin plant names as possible.  However because they are posh they like to pronounce those names in a slightly different way to the commonly accepted pronunciation.  At the recording I went to, there was a very proper lady with pearls and a squinty eye, who asked a question about her Scots Pine tree.  Being posh, she of course used its Latin name of Pinus sylvestris. However she pronounced it as Penis sylvestris.  It went something like this... “I have a magnificent Penis sylvestris but it's leaning to one side” She didn’t even flinch.  Nor did the rest of the audience; I damn near wet myself.

This pronunciation tolerance got me thinking and immediately a plan hatched in my mind.  I had brought with me, two plants with diseased leaves and I was hoping the panel could tell me what was wrong with them.  I knew what they were called but they didn’t know that. 

When the next question opportunity came along I shot my hand up and managed to get the attention of the man with the microphone; sure enough he came straight over.  “I’ve been given these two plants as presents but I’m not sure of their correct Latin names” I said loud and clear through the microphone.  “The friend that gave them to me says they’re called Biggus dickus and Sillius soddus but I wanted to know, is this correct?”

This was met with polite titters from the audience...well it was Gardener's Question Time; anything else just wouldn’t be cricket what, what!

Twitter biogs...what the fuck?

If you’re signed up to twitter, you might remember what it was like when you first joined.    Once you’ve registered your name, which of course isn’t your actual name but a bastardised version because someone else has already registered your name.  It’s then straight down to business...write something....hhhmmm.  What the fuck shall I say? 

‘Twitter’ kindly offers the advice of... start following people.  Terrific; who? Unless you already know someone on twitter the first port of call is your favourite celebrities. This gives you confidence; you actually get to read what people, whom you admire, are talking about.  You feel part of their inner circle.  So you dip your toe and write a few tweets; really whacky, crazy stuff like... ‘I need coffee’...or ‘is it wine o’clock yet’. Hilarious.  Then it dawns on you, they don’t actually read your tweets because they’re not following you back – why would they? 

If you want people to follow you, you have to trawl through ‘the no-bodies’. You obviously don’t want to follow a psychopathic killer, which you suspect some of them are, so you need to ‘find out’ about them first. That means reading their biogs.

When you write your biog, twitter gives you only 140 characters to sum up your entire existence.  Who you are; what you do and somewhere in there you have to get in a pitch for people to follow you as well. This is tight. Your biog is your big chance to hook as many new followers as possible.  It’s fair to say that these 140 characters are pretty important so why the fuck do people write such banal, crap for their biogs?  You must have read them yourselves; you know what I’m talking about right?

From those I’ve read; there seems to be several recurring themes; one of them is the ‘I’m totally mad’ theme.  “Yeah I’m mad me, huh huh, I’m so crazy and interesting you must follow me, it’ll be great fun!  What that actually says is ‘I’m so dull I have to pretend to be ‘mad and crazy’. Surely those people that are genuinely ‘out there’ never say so. ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know, was not something Lord Byron said of himself

Another common theme is to mention how much wine you drink.  Remember when you were about 16, the big thing was to tell your friends how much alcohol you could drink.  It was boring then and it’s a story that doesn’t improve with age.  Again how many interesting eccentric drunks tell people how much they drink...they don’t need to, they’re too busy being eccentric and interesting.  ‘I’m mad me and I drink too much wine’ are the two things that say exactly the opposite of ‘what it says on the tin’. 

The one that really puzzles me though and seems to pop up all over the place is this; ‘cat lover’. Am I missing something with the whole cat lover thing?  Is it some secret underground club more powerful than the Freemasons?  You’ve only got 140 characters to do the job of selling yourself, if your choice of pet is that high on your priority list...you need to get out more.

And don’t write some philosophical quote from someone who was interesting but is now dead – that doesn’t get you off the hook and it doesn’t make you as interesting as they were, it says I have no original thoughts of my own.

I beg you twitter users, make your twitter biog; funny, interesting, or original.  The human eye reads fast and 140 characters is not long enough; the reader will have imbibed some of the banal, crap before they wince and move on.  By this time it will have soiled their minds and a constant drip feed of crap biogs can’t be good for anyone. Do you follow?

Sexy bikini in the garden

This week the UK officially goes gardening mad, as the TV cameras, celebrities and royalty all flock to the RHS Chelsea Flower Show.  The last time I went to an RHS Flower show, I saw something that had me giggling for days afterwards.  I know we’re not supposed to laugh at other people’s misfortune, but this was irresistible.

It was the first day of the show, which is when all the judging is done, so only the press, celebrities and royalty were allowed in.  I was strolling around the show, when one garden in particular caught my eye; not because of its horticultural excellence but because there was a half naked girl sitting there.  She was wearing only a tiny bikini and had obviously been ‘hired’ to attract attention to ‘the garden’. Judging by the gathering crowd, the stunt was working.  As it turned out, she got more attention than she bargained for.

I stood there smiling to myself at the shouts of “over here darlin’, give us a smile” from the dogs dressed as photographers, and I noticed the wooden bench the girl was sitting on.  It had obviously been hand-made and the legs had been carved into something resembling sea shells.  While this bench looked beautiful, it didn’t look altogether stable.

I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed this fizzing little scene and an icy chill ran down my spine.  In stark contrast to all the excitement in front of me there were a group of sombre looking ‘suits’ approaching; the RHS judges.

What followed was both pure comedy and pathos.  The judges came nearer, the cameras clicked; the girl looked as sexy as she could, but then made the fatal error of repositioning herself on the bench.  You know those moments when you feel yourself beginning to lose balance; you think you’ve got it under control but then a split second later and you’re past the point of no return. You know you’re going down. Yeah, that. 

Nothing wipes away a false smile quicker than a dose of fear.  As the girl shifted her weight the bench first wobbled and then rolled on its shell shaped legs.  In a flash she tumbled clumsily over the back of the bench, arms and legs flailing wildly in panic.  A quick scream and the bench had dumped her unceremoniously into the neatly coiffed plants.  All that remained of the previously enchanting scene was a pair of legs sticking up in the air. Dignity vanished.  The photographers witnessed the whole thing and so did the RHS judges, she was all over the papers by that evening.

I hate it when emotions fight against each other, it causes such inner turmoil. On the one hand I wanted to throw my head back and laugh out loud and on the other I felt sorry for the girl. Everything had seemed to be going so well, right up to the point where one of the beautifully designed objects was tested, and it failed.

I’m afraid my empathy was overpowered by stronger, darker forces and I had to walk away, head down; whole body shaking with laughter. I hadn’t realised flower shows could be so much fun.    

School sports day:even the teachers were shocked by this stunt

One of the biggest events of the school year for me was sports day.  The whole school would turn out to cheer, the teachers set up a loud speaker system and there was a great buzz for the day.  For a 16 year old boy it was also a great opportunity to impress the girls.  I was always a fast runner and so every year ran the 100m sprint; arguably the sexiest event of the day.  When I say I was a fast runner, I mean I was before the other boys grew taller than me. By the time my last ever sports day came along I was the eighth fastest in the school.  Not bad...just a shame I had to race against the 7 other faster boys.

Coming last in the sexiest race of the day wasn’t an option.  So I devised a plan; and it was a beauty. I may well come last in the race but I would be top of the ‘cool list’ when it came to impressing the girls.   

Like other schools, each year was split into 4 ‘houses’ and each house had to select 2 runners for the race.  Myself, and my good friend were selected to represent our house.  We both knew, no matter how fast we ran, we would cross the line in 7^th and 8^th place.  If my plan was to work, I needed a co-conspirator so I shared my plan with him and he readily agreed to it.

The weather on the day was perfect, the girls looked great in their little gym skirts and they were starting to gather at the edge of the track en masse. The announcement over the loud speaker arrived and the 8 fastest runners in the school assembled.  We drew lots to find out which lane we would run in; we got lane 1 and lane 8.  Damn, this interfered with the plan; we had to be in lanes next to each other for maximum effect.  Luckily we knew the boy in lane 2 was easily corrupted (I think he later went into politics) so we bribed him to swap with us.  We were set.

We all stood at the starting line.  We needed to show we were serious athletes, so we started some dramatic stretching exercises, jumping up and down on the spot and some of that leg flicking, you see professional athletes do before a race. We both knew we would probably be in trouble after this stunt but it would be better than going red in the face with exertion, only to cross the line last.  If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime, was our motto.

This extra fear was intoxicating; only two people in the entire crowd knew what was about to happen, and that was a lot of fun.  “On your marks, get set...BANG” As anticipated the other six runners quickly surged ahead, we on the other hand adopted a new, innovative running style. 

Our heads went right back, eyes up to the sky, arms stretched out in an exaggerated fashion – just like that bloke in Chariots of Fire....but all in slow motion and with the Van Gellis soundtrack playing inside our heads. It took us a while to reach the finishing line.  Our approach scored high on appearance, but low on ground speed. We did the facial expressions and everything; we even stretched our chests out and flung our arms back as we crossed the finishing line.  We looked ridiculous. The crowds loved it.

No-one had ever attempted such an audacious stunt. To mock the Holy Grail that was the seniors 100m race, was sacrilege but no-one could stop us – even the teachers were shocked.

After the race we felt like The Beatles arriving at an airport, the crowds flocked, even the ‘cool’ kids came over to worship at our altar.  We had come last in the running race but first in the race to be cool and rebellious. 

Needless to say a short while later we heard the announcement over the tannoy that we were to report to the headmaster’s office; although I’m sure I detected a wry smile on his face while telling us off.

"Err...there's a problem with your passport sir"

A few weeks ago my brother was listening to Ken Bruce on radio 2 when he heard him ask the listeners to email the show with any stories they had about passports.  He promptly emailed a story about something I had done many years ago. Ken obviously found the story funny because he read it out on his show, to great guffaws.

When I was a student I spent a few weeks of my summer holiday one year staying with my friend Mike in Kent.  One morning we received a post card from two of our other friends who were travelling around Europe in a VW van.  Not a camper van mind you, this was simply an old VW van.

It was the early nineties, so pre-mobile phones. This meant a post card was the only way they could communicate with us to let us know how they were.  From the sound of the post card they were having a great time, whilst we were stuck in boring old England.  At the end of the card it said ‘tomorrow we’re catching a ferry from Italy, so by the time you get this card we’ll be in Corfu’.

Feeling spontaneous I suggested that we fly out to Corfu immediately and surprise them, how cool would that be? We didn’t know where they were staying of course because they were in a van and hence ‘of no fixed abode’ we also couldn't let them know we were arriving but we thought ‘how hard can it be to find them, Corfu is surely only the size of Worthing with a few donkeys wandering around isn’t it?’  We immediately booked ourselves on the next available flight, which was set to leave in three days time.

After booking the flights, I realised there was a flaw in our plan.  I didn’t have my passport with me; it was at home, so I phoned my brother and asked him to send it to me in the post. Luckily it arrived the very next day. I put it to one side never thinking to open it and have a look.   

To say we travelled light was something of an understatement.  We had no hotel booked, we had no campsite booked, we didn’t have a map nor did we have a tent but hey, who dares wins, right?  In fact we had little more than hand luggage. 

On the morning of the flight we got up ridiculously early and arrived at the check in desk at Gatwick by 6.30am.  We went over to the passport control and I was first in line to show my passport.  However I wasn’t prepared for the reaction of the passport control woman.  She took my passport, opened it at the photo page and immediately burst out laughing.  This wasn’t just a snigger you understand, it was a proper throw your head back belly laugh.  What the hell was she laughing at? I know passport photos don’t exactly make you look your best but I didn’t think mine was that bad.

Wiping away her streaming tears the passport woman said “in all my years working here, I’ve never seen anything like that before, that’s brilliant” and handed me back my passport. I immediately looked to see what was so funny. 

Before sending my passport to me my brother had cut out a magazine photo of Sammy Davis Junior and stuck it over my photo. It fitted perfectly; his face and beaming smile, on top of my shoulders.  

Incredibly I travelled to Corfu and back to England using this passport photo, every time the passport controller roared with laughter.  Not one of them checked to see if it was actually me underneath the Sammy Davis Junior photo.       


PS Even more amazing was that we bumped into our friends the next day walking along the road - the look on their faces was priceless!

The undiscovered diary of Jesus Christ

Recently a diary, purporting to be that of Jesus was found in an undisclosed desert location.  It gives an insight into Jesus the man, showing a side to him you won’t see in the bible.  This extract is from the days leading up to what we know as Easter.

Maunday Thursday

I thought we’d get the weekend going early and have a slap up meal, just me and the lads.  As usual the missus, Mary, was on at me about coming along too – she knows girlfriends are not allowed at these all boys get-togethers but you know what she’s like, nag, nag, nag... Holy Grail... that girl can go on.  

Eventually she comes up with the hair-brained scheme of dressing up as a man and sneaking in.  I told her she’ll never get away with it – long hair, no beard but hey what can you do. So after a lot of nagging I finally agreed to it. Hopefully the others will be too pissed to notice.  But between you and me diary, I think it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth, one day someone is going to rumble us, I just hope some genius  doesn’t get a picture of us all.

Boy did we enjoy ourselves; anyone would think it was our last supper.  After a few hours some of the lads started flagging so we all went into the garden to get some fresh air.  I thought this might perk them up a bit, but no.  They were all dozing off.  It’s not as if we’re old or anything, not sure about the others but I’m only in my early 30’s.  Bloody lightweights. 

Anyway, I’m out there trying to gee them up a bit with some stories, magic tricks, bit of juggling - but they weren’t having any of it; even that fucking cockerel crowing didn’t disturb them.  Actually that’s not strictly fair, Peter was still awake – he’s a true mate, in fact you couldn’t shut him up. He was having a great time winding this guy up – he kept telling him he didn’t know me.  He must have said it three times at least – he’s a card that one, he’ll go far.

 The next bit is a bit fuzzy but from what I can remember, some soldiers showed up asking for me.  I didn’t think we were being that noisy.  What I want to know is how they knew what I looked like, so much for mates, bloody Judas’s, the lot of them. 

Friday

Woke up this morning and thought; “Good..... Friday!”  As it turned out, there was nothing good about it at all.  I had a terrible day.  Everyone was really rather nasty, especially that Pontius Pilot, I even said to him “don’t you know who my father is.”  To cut a long story short; got arrested. Put on trial – what a joke of a judiciary.  It then went from bad to worse.  By the end of the day it was all getting beyond a joke and to top it all, it started bloody raining.  Definitely not a day I want to be reminded of in future.

Saturday

Feel pretty rough today.  Not going to write much, think I’ll just lay low.  Just wanted to say...those guys!  Such jokers, not only have they left me in some sort of cave wearing only a sheet, but the bastards have rolled a huge rock in front of the door.  How do they think I’m going to get out, I’m not a miracle worker.  On a more alarming note I seem to have sweated so much in the night that an image of my face and body has rubbed off onto the sheet I’m wearing.  I’m not usually that much of a sweater.  Must make sure I get rid of that, don’t want it getting into the wrong hands...

Sunday  

So...me and the rock blocking the door... luckily I found a fire exit (thank god for those health and safety blokes, I’m not usually one for making predictions but that’s an industry I can see will do well in the future.  If I hadn’t seen that little green sign on the wall I’d have been in a bit of a pickle). Anyway saw a few folks this morning – they all looked pretty miserable until I showed up, I said to them, “cheer up, you look as if you’ve just seen a ghost”

He's going straight to hell for that one...

I know we’re not supposed to laugh at other people’s misfortune, but this was the funniest thing I have ever heard a 5 year old boy say.  It was also the most irreverent and by far, the most audacious.

As a boy, I went to a catholic primary school in a middle class area in Kent.  The school was attached in some way to the local church and was run by a lovely nun.  Although the catchment area was predominantly middle class, there were small pockets within the catchment area that were, how shall we put it, a bit rough around the edges. 

Being a ‘church’ school we often had the local priest show up to say mass.  This meant the whole school getting together in the assembly hall, along with teachers and any parents that wanted to attend. 

On this particular occasion there was a good turnout of parents and the hall was full to bursting point.  The priest that showed up was known to be very much a ‘straight’ kind of man, no jokes; not many smiles.  As usual there was always a bit of a build up; the hustle and bustle of ferrying 200 children into a school hall, a few words from the head-teacher, then us children singing hymns with the accompaniment of the decrepit old piano teacher.

Then in comes the priest in all his ceremonial wear.  I’ve never really understood why priests, vicars, bishops etc. wear those long flowing robes, more importantly nor did one little boy, let’s call him Derek.  He perhaps hadn’t attended too many church services in his short life, as his grasp of the proper etiquette was somewhat lacking. 

Anyway, in walks the priest. He says a few words of welcome and then pauses for a moment of contemplation.  The entire gathering is silent.  That’s when 5 year old Derek, from one of the slightly rougher parts of town, chose his moment to ask his genuine question.  His comic timing was a thing of pure beauty.  If memory serves me correctly, I believe I’m quoting him verbatim...Derek, sitting cross-legged on the front row, shouts out: “who’s the fucking cunt in the dress?”

A few gasps, some muffled sniggers and Derek was escorted from the scene...

Sold to the man with the mullet haircut!

When I moved into my current house, my wife and I were thrilled to finally have some more space.  We could start doing proper grown-up things like inviting people over for dinner. As soon as the boxes were unpacked we arranged a long boozy weekend lunch with some friends.  Then we realised; we had the space but not enough chairs. 

Having just gone through the expense of moving, we certainly didn’t have any money left to go out buying furniture and I’ve never really liked Ikea. Our house is more ‘shabby chic’ than that – well...we’ve got the shabby part; still working on the chic bit. We were in a bit of pickle until my brother suggested I try the local auctions.

I’d always associated auctions with rich people buying paintings for the price of a 3 bed semi in the Midlands.  How wrong I was.  As you drive deeper into the Surrey countryside, near Ripley, there's a huge ‘Ewbank Clarke Gammon Wellers Auctions’ sign on the side of a building.  Although I’d seen this sign many times, I’d never actually been in.  The idea of going to an auction was a bit daunting – I didn’t want to look like a novice but I had a deadline, so I went along.

There’s something fascinating about watching people walk into an auction room.  As soon as they cross the threshold, in their minds, they become antique experts.  The hands are tucked behind the back and the chin struts out ever so slightly. They pick up an object and inspect it closely through an imaginary pair of spectacles perched on the end of their nose. It all felt a bit earnest.

This presented me with a problem. I’m rather fond of a bit of mischief, especially in formal situations like these. I’ve been like it all my life; sitting in church as a boy was particularly testing.  All these de facto antiques experts milling around, was like a red rag to a bull.  I was in dangerous territory.

Anyway, there were a few chairs with guide prices of £30-£40, so I went to the sale day to bid for them. The atmosphere here is very different – this is the part where money changes hands at speed. As the auctioneer works his way through the lots, and the one you want approaches, your heart starts racing and you start to squirm around in your seat.

Thankfully, when ‘my chairs’ came up there wasn’t much interest and I managed to steal them away for the princely sum of £5 each.  I’ve never had as much fun buying furniture, as I did at this auction. 

When the hammer came down and the deal was done, I was so pleased with my bargain buys that my resolve cracked and my sense of mischief got the better of me. I held up my registration number card and when the auctioneer asked me my name, with a huge grin on my face, I simply couldn’t resist answering ‘Lovejoy’...