THE ALLOTMENT by ANDY SANSON I’ve alluded in the past to my brief period as a horticulturalist courtesy of The Boss, and his sidekick, Rubbertrap, wherein I was required, as part of clauses in my Indentures printed in invisible ink (ie – 95% of it), to tend the gardens and greenhouses of the above, usually in my ‘spare’ time. More recently, I’ve mentioned Horace, the flame-thrower-wielding patron of my local public house and his dissatisfaction with the demeanour and appearance of the emergent generation, in particular my insistence on growing my hair to what he deemed unacceptable lengths. It never crossed my mind that these two unrelated aspects of my life may one day intersect but, in the manner of all things, they managed to eschew expectations, or the lack of, and combined together to afford me yet another useless addition to my somewhat meagre CV. Horace, although disapproving of my lifestyle, took it upon himself to take me under his wing. He perceived it his duty to educate me in those matters he felt were important and discourage me from wasting my time in unhealthy and unproductive pursuits such as listening to ‘Guru Music’ and riding powerful motorcycles. I pointed out that he’d been in the Military during the Second World War, as a consequence of which he would have been exposed to music, albeit of a different genre but nonetheless anything but quiet, and, by his own admission had ridden a 1930s Triumph motorbike which weighed thirteen tons and boasted a top speed of 35 miles per hour. He said that was different and I should shut up and listen to him. Sitting about in pubs for hours on end, evidently, was excused Waste Of Time status, probably because of precisely the reason that it could have advantages such as integration into the local community and meeting people who, by virtue of their greater knowledge and experience, might enhance and ameliorate the lives of those less fortunate. And, in his case, being one of those people. Anyway, I was telling him about my gardening experiences over a pint or two one evening. He suggested I might like to apply for the allotment next to his, which had just become available due to the present incumbent curling up his toes and therefore, quite reasonably, not requiring it any more. I imagined the sorts who spent their time pottering about amongst brassicas and horse manure to be cut from a certain cloth - primarily geriatric and doddering, so it came as something of a surprise when I learnt that the gentleman in question had expired on a long weekend to Amsterdam under circumstances which had led to a prolonged International Police investigation and his removal from the list of revered members, past and present, of the Rotary Club. Normally, I was told, there was a waiting list, but Horace, with his connections, would be able to swing it and all it would cost me would be a pint or two of dark mild and an introduction to Grandma, who accompanied me to the pub occasionally for a small glass of whisky – for medicinal purposes only, of course. Grandma, upon hearing of this apparent infatuation, responded with her stock reply, “Daft old beggar!” So, with all that out of the way, I set about gathering together spades, rakes, hoes and all manner of accoutrements I felt would be necessary for my new venture, most of which I found at the back of the shed, and took a trip up to Percy Thrower’s Garden Centre where I spent a king’s ransom on seeds of every form of edible plant life from the humble garden pea to Great Spotted Triffid, piled everything into my Dad’s wheelbarrow – the one with the flat tyre and bent handle - and trundled it all the half mile round the corner to the allotment gardens. I confess to a measure of surprise upon my arrival. Having been warned by Horace that I would be required to exhibit the utmost care and dedication in order to comply with the bylaws and not infest my fellow ‘allotmentees’’ patches with weeds and bring down the standards, I was immediately struck by the rather meadow-like appearance of much of the area. Were there a prize, at the Shrewsbury Flower Show, for the tallest thistle or most extensive take-over by wild mint, I feel there would have been little point anyone else entering. I recognised a number of chaps from the pub, Horace’s chums to a man, sitting about in what was evidently a communal area, talking about football and dominoes, smoking and sharing a large bottle of Vat 69. I approached and introduced myself, which was a waste of time because they all knew me already but I felt it would be rude not to. “You tekken over ol Sid’s patch, ‘m, yer, Mon?” enquired a venerable rustic with a face like a melted Wellington boot, a gentleman I knew only as Tom, and who, from what I could make out, spent his life wheeling a broken down pedal cycle, which looked as though it may have originally been one of those used by J and his cronies during their ‘Bummel’, around the town. I never ever saw him mount the thing and came to the conclusion that he had it with him purely for support after closing time as he wound his weary way home. I confirmed that I had indeed so done and was looking forward to getting it all up and running and producing some magnificent specimens with which to grace the table. “Arr! You dunner wanna bother with all that bludder rubbish, Owd Lad” said Tom, as he belayed his pipe against the door of a rotting pile of twisted planks which gave the impression of having been a shed sometime in the Oligocene, “Come an’ ‘ave a drink an’ dunner b’s’ daaaarft.” Over the next few weeks I discovered that, far from being the fertile collective described by Horace, the allotments were in fact a refuge for gentlemen of the Last Of The Summer Wine ilk to get away from ‘The Missus’ for a few hours and guzzle vast quantities of strong liquor. Little in the way of cultivation took place; the ground was what would in racing be termed on the drier side of ‘Firm’ and might have been better used for selling off to construction firms as hardcore and, in any event, would have needed several goings-over with a tractor and plough before one could find room to plant a spring onion. Two weeks after I signed up I was served with an eviction order before I’d so much as taken a spade to the place. The Council had sold the land to a developer so that ten thousand ‘Ideal Starter Homes’ could be built. Ah, well, at least they’d find a use for the hardcore.
Posted on: Fri, 02 Aug 2013 20:43:46 +0000
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