And the winner is.

“Hellooo”, was his plaintive cry into the cold, dark and empty room, “is anybody still there”.

CLICK (that’s the light switch). Hmmm maybe not, they’ve all bu**ered off and I don’t blame them either.

Apologies for not having been around for a while, I’ve had a bit of blogstipation you could say. You know, when you sit there and don’t seem to have anything say. Then when I started to write, all that appeared on the screen was an endless stream of consonants, I think it was a touch of irritable vowel syndrome (sorry, but the old ones are the best).

The fact that I’ve hardly been down to the plot for a few weeks doesn’t help either, this being an allotment blog and all that, which left me a little bereft of things to write about.

However, not to worry, I made the effort to go down yesterday and take advantage of the lull between Wednesday’s monsoon, and today’s weather prediction that we may see a boat with animals on board floating past the window, some time during the day.

Now here’s a question for the boffins of this world. Why don’t  vegetables grow as vigorously, prolific and disease free as  common or garden weeds do? Can’t you get your ar**s into gear and do some transferences of genes or something?

I’ve only been away for a couple of weeks for God’s sake and the plot has turned into to a bloody rain forest of weeds !!!!. As I’ve mentioned before in these ramblings, I take great pride in keeping the place absolutely weed free, to the point some might say, that a psychiatrist could take a keen interest in my behaviour. So you can imagine my utter horror at the sight that greeted me.

For this session, my objective was to take down the runner beans and canes which had suffered in the recent winds, and were now all leaning over at precisely 45 degrees to the right as viewed from the shed.

It was difficult sticking to the task however, surrounded  by all this weed mayhem, and I kept wanting to just grab a hoe and start some serious decapitating. There was Groundsel and Shepherd’s Purse flowering everywhere and positively laughing at me, where’s that psychiatrist again. They wouldn’t have taken much sorting, but lurking amongst them were some real hard cases like Dandelion and Thistle, that would need digging out, so they all lived to see another day.

Eventually after about two hours, I succeeded in clearing the runners and canes and ended up with four bags of beans to bring home and dry out in the greenhouse, enough for my next years seed requirement and that of all other allotment holders within a 30 mile radius of where I live.

One thing of note that did happen last month, was my attendance at the monthly parish council meeting, to receive my certificate and gardening tokens for Best Kept Allotment 2010.

Admittedly I dillied and dallied about going, not being one for these sorts of things, and anyway, how would I cope with all that adulation and autograph signing. Well I needn’t have worried as all the real gardeners were called out before me, with their Firsts, Seconds, Thirds or Highly Commendeds in the open and closed garden sections, eight recipients in total. Some got to keep a silver cup for a whole year.

Eventually my name was called out as a sort of afterthought, and under the blaze of a digital flash I went up to get my reward. The presenter shook my hand as he handed me the certificate above (now proudly displayed on the fridge), and muttered something like “how the hell did you win it?” but which could have been, “well done on winning it”. He then went on to add “what a wonderful example of allotment keeping it was, with not a weed to be seen anywhere”.

If only he knew !

Give us a kiss.

Though I say it myself my beetroot are splendid again this year, and this is how I like it, on a freshly baked home made bread bun, deeelicious.

Don’t ask me why I have this success as I don’t do anything special to them, and use the cheapest of seeds that I can get hold of, Boltardy @ 49p a packet from our local cheap shop.

Maybe it’s the watering, as I do give them plenty on a regular basis when they are forming. Or could it be, (you organic disciples look away now please) the industrial strength ‘growmore’ I put on them.

Whatever it is, they have come great again, and it hadn’t gone un-noticed as I was about to find out.

No, not by the judges of the Best Allotment Competition, (have I told anyone yet that I’ve won it this year) but by the little old lady on one of the neighbouring plots.

I was down there the other day and had just picked a bunch of bonzers and a big swede to take home, when I heard her plaintive voice directed my way saying, “My beetroot haven’t done very well this year, have yours?”

Well I could hardly say no could I, standing there holding this great bunch, a couple of which that wouldn’t have looked out of place between the back legs of a prize bull.

“They ‘re actually very good”, I said, and seeing her longing look at the ones I was holding, I took the hint. ”Do you want some of mine”, I went on, holding them out to her.

“Oh how lovely, that’s very kind of you my dear”, she said, snatching them from my grasp accepting the offer with glee, “Can I give you kiss for them”.
 
Whaaat, a kiss !!!!!

Now here was a major problem, as I don’t do physical contact with relative strangers you see. Just going to the barbers brings me out in a cold sweat, and God help me if I ever have to see a proctologist.

Purleese, can’t we just shake hands and have done with it, I thought. But I could see her determination as she leant towards me puckering up, with a small dribble of saliva on her lips. The contortions of her mouth were so pronounced, as to put me at a serious risk of being hit by her flying dentures.

What was I to do, I thought?

Luckily she had her eyes tightly closed, and as she got closer and closer I panicked and put the swede I was holding where my cheek should have been.

Of course, I was disgusted with myself for my actions and must have been the same colour as the beetroot when she opened her eyes

I don’t think she noticed though, or if she did she didn’t say anything only that I needed a shave.

My flabber was gasted.

When I started my allotment it was with the intention of keeping costs to an absolute minimum, so that I could see a return for all those hours of labour put in. I wanted it to be in keeping with the old traditional allotment ethos. As a result, I have created a modest plot that is simple but efficient and though I may say it myself, is neat, well kept and stocked to full capacity.

However, I do admit that  I  look around at the plots of some of my neighbours with a touch of envy at times, green of course.

There are those that have taken out small bank loans to buy enough paving slabs to have perfect paths around their plots and between the beds. Whilst others have used their lottery winnings to purchase whole rain forests to make raised  beds.

Some have large new sheds, big enough to live in if their other halves ever kick them out, and made out of the best tongue and groove. Yes I have shed envy. They even have gutters and down pipes leading into not one, but two, water butts. How extravagant is that.

 One has a  lawned picnic area in front of a  shed adorned with beautiful hanging baskets, and a frame over the gate with a rambling rose growing up it. The family who have this plot come down in their droves at the weekend with petrol strimmers and rotovators whining away. They have it all spick and span in no time, and whilst I’m labouring away on my own with my trusty hoe cursing  the caterpillars, they’ll be cracking open the Stellas  at the picnic table and striking up the barbecue.

I sometimes wonder if growing vegetables has become a secondary function of their plots, the first being to impress the neighbours, and also, and more importantly I suspect, the judges of the Best Kept Allotment competition.

In contrast to all this, my paths are just plain trodden earth with  string to demarcate the individual growing beds. My humble shed was bought for the princely sum of £85, and had been reduced because there was a piece missing. It’s 6’x4’ and not big enough to swing a mouse around in it never mind a cat. I don’t have any manicured lawns or flowers, and the bench where I sit to eat my jam sandwiches is a simple plank of wood nailed onto two upright logs.Put it this way, they needed to have no fear of me winning the competition.

Anyway, I got home the other day to find a letter from the council on the doormat, and thinking it was an early bill for the rent, I opened it to see if they’d put it up.

Well you could have knocked me over with a feather, it was informing me with great pleasure that I am the winner of this years Best Kept Allotment in our parish!

Chuffin' eck, would you believe it !!!

The letter has also cordially invited me to the next parish council meeting in September to receive a whole £20’s worth of gardening vouchers and a certificate. I hope they don’t want me to make a speech !

Molluscophobia.

Picked a couple of cauliflowers today, and I was reminded that they were the first vegetables I ever attempted to grow.  Don’t ask me why, as they must be one of the most awkward and I didn’t particularly like them back then, but now I love them.

At the time we were a newly married young couple living in a ground floor rented flat that had no garden at all, only a small patch of bare soil at the back that barely saw any daylight never mind sunshine.

It was when the Good Life was on television, the first time around (God I’m getting old), and I fancied Felicity Kendal was hooked on the series. I wanted to grow vegetables just like they did and be self-sufficient, but I hadn’t got a clue what to do. I diligently dug this tiny bit of earth, bought a packet of seeds, carefully sowed them just as it said on the packet, and waited for what seemed forever.

I checked for signs of life everyday, but nothing happened, then to my surprise after a few weeks, some little seedlings eventually struggled through into what should have been daylight.

Oh how I nurtured those delicate little plants, and as I’d avidly watched Gardener’s World I knew I had to guard against weeds and slugs. There was no need to worry about weeds, as nothing grew there of its own accord, but slugs were another matter altogether.

The backyard where the patch was situated was both dark and damp, with ferns growing out of the wet wall where the guttering overflowed. It was a slug heaven if ever there was one and you could see their trails everywhere. Any stone or brick you turned over would reveal a family of the horrible things living under it and they even got into the kitchen through the air bricks.

Yes we had House Slugs, and more than once I trod on one at night making my way to the bathroom through the kitchen. I once went to get a knife out the cutlery drawer and the handle moved when I grasped it, Arghh !  Oh yes it was, and I developed something of a phobia of the things after that, hence the title above.

We tried, the usual methods like putting salt down, but that didn’t stop them, they just laughed and tossed it over their shoulders for good luck. Someone suggested beer, but they had a party and got pissed on it I think, it would have been better to just drink it myself and not be bothered about them.

So it was a constant battle to keep them off my precious little cauliflower plants, that were struggling for dear life as it was in those pitiful conditions.

Then one fateful morning I found just the stalks left, they had been devastated by a rapacious slug army. Not only had these evil molluscs damaged me psychologically for life, they were now trying to rob me of my inner farmer.

Thankfully I overcame this setback and went on to future vegetable success, but I never got over my fear and loathing of slugs, and I can be turned into a quivering jelly at the sight of just one, especially those big black ones that look like liquorice!!!!!

Divorce !

Well that got your attention didn’t it.


It’s that time of year again when everything seems to come all at once doesn’t it. I know I sound a bit ungrateful but I’ve got potatoes coming out of my ears, cabbages as big as footballs and enough peas to fill a swimming pool, not that I ever did that when I went swimming, disgusting behaviour.

The trouble is, in this season with this weather we don’t have that many ‘Hot Dinners’ as we call them, so it’s a struggle to use up vegetables from the plot. Meals are mainly salady type things or pizzas so I’m very thankful for the tomato crop in the green house, and the occasional curry uses some of the onions up, but the meat and two veg type meals just don’t appeal at the moment.

Last year we gave lots away to family and friends, but you knew they’d had enough when you heard the words, “Oh, another cabbage, thankyou so much”, and half expected it to hit you on the back of the head when you turned to walk away

Then we froze loads, eventually filling a second freezer that we’d invested in to bursting point and Mrs N made lots of cornish pasties that used up quite a bit, which also went in. She became so expert in the art of freezing, that I’m sure if we’re ever stuck for money, she could turn to cryogenics to make a living, if you’ll excuse the pun.

So the other day, it was time to turf out the vegetable freezer to clean it and prepare for this year’s onslaught and I was pleased to see most of the vegetables had been used up over the winter. Admittedly there were some left overs, for example a bag of experimental blanched potatoes that I don’t think we will bother with again, and some forgotten baby carrots that now resembled the mummified fingers of a venerated saint.

However, there were absolutely loads and loads of runner beans left over, and the sight of them appearing from the ice brought back vivid memories of last year. There I would be, returning with yet another carrier bag full, and that forlorn look would creep across her face as she saw me struggling up the drive with them. The neighbours were sick to death of them, we had frozen enough to supply Morrisons, and still they kept coming. What were we to do.

“Can’t we can get a few more in the freezer?”, I tentatively asked.

“What do you think it is, a bloody Tardis”, she replied, “The things full, and besides we’ll never use them in a million years”.

Well we would if it was a Tardis, I thought, you know time travel and all that, but thought it best to keep such flippancy to myself under the circumstances.

So here we were a year on, looking at all those runner beans, and Mrs N with a smug ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

Reluctant to throw them away, I suggested we could make a curry or soup with them, perhaps even brew some runner bean wine?

Her reply I’m afraid, is quite unprintable here, but included something about a divorce court if I bring as many home this year, and that bag of frozen beans could have done me quite a bit of damage if I hadn’t ducked in time.

Karma for Dummies

(Image by BeautifulFreePictures.com)

I was sat at the computer the other day having a nice cup of tea, and reflecting on the irony of allotmenteers being in so much conflict with nature, as you do. After all, are we not the first to appreciate the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and yet wage a constant war with creatures great and small in an effort to protect the fruits of our labour.

Take butterflies for example. Is it not a sheer joy to see a Peacock dancing about in a light summer breeze, or a Red Admiral lazing in the afternoon sun. Yet if I see a Cabbage White hovering near my brassicas, it instantly becomes an angel of the Devil, to be eradicated at all costs.

I don’t take any delight in killing things, and in reality chase butterflies away hoping they’ll hop over the fence onto my neighbour Jeff’s cabbages instead. After all you have to think about those Buddhist principles of not harming living creatures, because they may be the reincarnated souls of the dead. That big fat slug you’ve just squashed that was munching on your lettuces, might have been someone’s grandad once upon a time!

There’s also the Buddhist concept of Karma to take into consideration as well, something about a person’s ‘bad actions’ creating bad results for that individual. Could all this hostility towards nature be having a negative effect on me, I wondered? Is this why I keep getting scab on my spuds?

This one looked a bit more complicated however. I mean if I kill a slug eating a lettuce, it’s bad for the slug but good for the lettuce, right ?

Wanting to know more about Karma I looked it up on Wikipedia, but it started going on about ‘cause and effect’ and ‘volitional’ activities. My eyes started to glaze over and I got even more confused.

Then a Bluebottle with a chainsaw flew in through the open window, to remind me which insect I definitely don’t like, and why I’ll never be on the Dalai Lama’s Christmas card list. I tried hard to ignore it for a while, but the incessant buzzing eventually raised my blood pressure enough for me to have to take some action.

Having developed my own strategy for dealing with flies over the years, I picked up the A4 pad at the side of me and waited for it to land somewhere. I would then bring the said pad down quickly, but just far enough away from the beast, to cause it to take off and fly into the path of the descending weapon of execution. That way you get a clean kill and avoid spreading fly innards everywhere.

This normally works, but here I was dealing with no ordinary fly, I think it was the reincarnated soul of a Kamikaze pilot on speed, and it buzzed around the room with not the slightest intention of landing for the next 24 hours it seemed. It soon became obvious that my usual method would be useless and that I’d have to go nuclear, so I went for the fly spray instead.

Having eventually found it amongst the multitude of other sprays under the kitchen sink, I returned to the room, but the buzzing had stopped. The little bugger had taken advantage of my absence to hide and have a rest. I was sure I could hear it laughing at me but couldn’t see it anywhere.

Then, without warning, it flew straight at me from the direction of the window, at about 12 o’clock with the full sun behind it to dazzle me, and went for my head.

Luckily, I managed to get a shot in before diving for cover behind the filing cabinet, and from the safety of my bunker watched it flying around the room for quite a while, apparently unaffected, as it hunted for me. In fact it seemed to speed up, so much so that it passed through the sound barrier causing a sonic bang. Or was that me banging my head on the damned filing cabinet drawer I’d left open, as it went for me again?

Eventually after about 5 minutes its engines began to falter, and it had to make a spluttering emergency landing on the windowsill. Though it made several unsuccessful attempts to take off again, its time was obviously up.

Next, it did a very strange thing by flipping over onto its back and doing a break dance. I watched mesmerised as it spun and somersaulted in a macabre dance of death, that lasted about a minute, before suddenly stopping. Wondering if it was now dead, I waited a short while before prodding it with a pen.

It then did no more than spring back to life as if miraculously resurrected, and soared high into the air. Before finally, in what I can only take as a desperate act of revenge, it took one last gasp and fell to earth, straight into my bloody tea.

Ah ! now that must be what they mean by Karma then.

Beware of the Gnome

There’s a new Poundland recently opened in town, where Woolworths used to be, and every time we passed it Mrs Netall would suggest we go in, but I obstinately refused.

Being a true Yorkshireman, I’m the first to appreciate a bargain, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go in the place. Call me a snob if you like, but I wasn’t getting run over by one of those mobility scooters, or jostling with Frank Gallagher and his mates in the queue for anything.

Trouble is, I needed a small watering can for my seedlings, because she’s getting fed up of not being able to find her best gravy jug and giving me grief about it. Well we looked all over town but the prices were just so extortionate, I only wanted to water the things for heavens sake, not serve them champagne.

“They might have one in there”, she said, pointing to that dreaded place again as we passed, “They do have a gardening section you know”.

Now that was news to me, and my ears pricked up like a Jack Russel’s at the sound of the word “rats”. I had never thought that they sold gardening things, but then again I suppose even Frank might need some compost for his ‘special’ plants.

So taking a deep breath and casting all caution to the wind I crossed over the border, from Ingerland into Poundland.

Well I must say what a pleasant surprise I got, I didn’t get frisked on the way in, there was nobody selling heroin behind the checkouts, and there were normal people in there buying things.

There were everyday products on sale too with labels I recognised, like the cleaning things Mrs N keeps under the kitchen sink. I don’t know what she does with them, but I dare say if you mixed one or two together you could make a hell of a bang.

In fact I think there is an example of every cleaning thing known to man under there, and wonder if she ought to register with the Environmental Health people in case there’s ever a spillage.

Soon I was pointing out fantastic bargains on shelves to her, and saying things like “Look love, twelve coat hangers, only a quid”, and, “Wow, two hundred cotton buds, would you believe it”. But she just gave me one of those looks that said, ‘Don’t be so stupid, since when did you last use a coat hanger or a cotton bud’.

After passing some very dubious things in the entertainment section, such as the plastic bums and t*ts that were for sale, great for the next barbecue down a the site, I found the gardening products and it was like being a kid in a sweet shop who’s just found a fiver.

Eventually, I ferreted out just what I was looking for, a lovely little plastic one with a long spout, perfect for the job and in sunshine yellow too.

“Well, are you going to buy it then ?”, she asked, after watching me examining it for a while.

“I would if I could find out how much it is”, I replied, forgetting where I was for a moment. I looked underneath, inside, and even down the spout for the price label but couldn’t find one.

“Erm, I think there may be a clue in the name of the shop”, she said, pointing to the large sign just above my head.


I got a little carried away however, and started buying stuff that I didn’t really need but couldn’t resist.

I ended up with some blood fish and bone fertiliser, old John swears by it, a ball of string because you can never have enough string on an allotment, and two garden gnomes called Forest Fred and Fran.

Here’s Fran with her welcome sign, so she’s going near the gate.


And here’s Fred , he’s going next to my shed that was burgled recently!