Just stuck to the wall,

Like an amateur abseiler,

Scared he might fall,

I’m so tempted to prod it,

To stir it to life,

Or to blow on it, flick at it,

Stir up some strife,

But I don’t, I’m not mean,

I’m a nice kinda guy,

I’ll watch out the corner of

My crafty right eye,

He’s off now! A scamper,

He’s over my bed,

I’ll peek up ab…

Ah! He’s Dropped on my Head!

Where do you think you will go for a break?

France or to Spain or Japan?

Maybe a tan on a Mexican beach?

Checking out skirt in Milan?

Some folk will tell you to go to Dubai,

Praising its wonderful views,

Others have taken a trip around Oz,

Travelling on kangaroos.

Good grief! Oh no! I will not go,

Why not suggest Bobcageon?

No, no I think I’ll go instead,

To the Kwangsi-Chuang Autonomous Region.

Yes the Kwangsi-Chuang Autonomous Region,

That’s just the place for me,

There’s room for 40 million,

It’s where I long to be.

An administrative division of South China,

Such romance to the ear,

Yes it’s the Kwangsi-Chuang Autonomous Region,

Fare thee well with a song and a tear.

Ta Ta!

Hello dear readers. I wonder if I might take up a few moments of your time to talk about Durbie – a loafer, parasite, vagabond and miscreant and probably my greatest friend. How to describe him? Have you ever met a moody beaver, King Street West and Spadina? Oh sure, you probably just put the moodiness down to beaver disgruntlement at the lack of cost effective devices to control objectionable flooding in local wetlands. You would be mistaken however. You did in fact see Durbie, his face all screwed up in the manner of a disgruntled beaver, round shouldered and hairy, shuffling along the street, probably going home to his mama. Yes he still lives with his mama. And she lives with her mama who lives on her own except for these two.

He comes around a lot for dinner. He always brings a gift. Last night he brought a lava lamp. Sadly it had no plug. But this did not put a dampener on the fun as my wife Nicvarlexzcaka and I listened in awe as Durbie described in detail ‘a doughy-like material at the bottom releasing blobs like dough balls that rise and float away, almost like lumps of dough wasting tax payers money when released by astronauts in a space capsule.’ The image was powerful. Nicvarlexzcaka wept.

Dinner was served. We all gorged ourselves greedily on Bumsy’s (my nickname for my wife) Moldavian winter stew. A colon-choking mix of raw goat, potato peelings, carrot shavings, onions, bacon fat, onions, all boiled to death in a pan of water. With a garnish of onions. Bumsy informed us that it was best to eat it quickly ‘before the body know’ and that we aid in its descent with a glass of vodka ‘for flavour.’ I have to admit I have not adjusted quickly to Bumsy’s culinary delights, although I have adjusted my trousers to deal with the quick exit to the washroom.

Durbie, however, delights in Bumsy’s cooking and while chewing and gasping he would expound on a number of topics – love, family, sex, his feet and always posing perplexing problems-

‘They say that love is like a toilet roll. So what is marriage?’

‘A plunger?’ I volunteered.

‘It is an anti-bacterial wipe is it not?’ barked Bumsy with a rasping bass vibrato, like a tank struggling up a dirt bank.

‘No.’ Announced Durbie. ‘It is clearly the toilet chain.’

He was of course right and we had to bow to his wisdom.

After he had shown us his bare feet (he always does after dinner) we retired to the recliners for more conversation and vodka and Pepto Bismol. Durbie has opinions on everything and they are invariably original and astonishing. Here is just a little taste of his many and varied opinions.

On cars – I loathe all cars, all of them, except perhaps the green ones.’

On politics – I trust politicians less than I trust a raccoon to guard my cheese collection.’

On cheese – Soft cheese is the best as the hard stuff adversely affects my extravagant dentals.’

In this way hours passed like minutes and before we knew it we were all laughing so hard I thought I was going to have a breakdown. It was Durbie who started the chuckle. I followed on his tail and Bumsy, reluctant at first, was teased gently in until we were all rolling around the floor in paroxysms of pleasure. We picked Durbie up, put his coat, socks and shoes on and lead him laughing to the door and out onto the street. We shut the door behind him and wiped the tears from our eyes.

She looked at me. ‘Why the laugh so hard?’ she barked.

I stared back, then shook my head sadly. ‘I…don’t…know.’

We hugged, long and hard. Then, exhausted, we plodded wearily upstairs to bed.

Now you may ask -Is Durbie a hopeless individual? Yes. Is he totally lacking in attractive qualities? Indubitably. Is he a loafer? I should say so. He may be all these things and more, but even with all these bad points you have to say that…uh…well…he’s also got terrible feet.

Oh well. I guess I just feel sorry for him really. If life was a bowl of cherries he’d be a pip that sticks in your throat, or maybe a small brown stain on the bowl. Either way, he’s back tomorrow night…

Why me, dear readers, why me?

We go this week to a leafy, tranquil hamlet in the Cotswolds. The hamlet has the rather poetic name of Titchyneesthorpe. Where better to meet with the legendary poet, sculptor, bee-keeper and chin-reader – Arthur Loopy? Now an elderly man in his late seventies he was once much younger. Through independent means he has been publishing his poems to raging reviews. We meet him in his quaint country cottage as he prepares for his weekly poetry reading at the local social centre for the hamlet – The Mangy Whippet.

(He walks down a garden path and taps on the door. It opens.)

Interviewer Good afternoon, sir.

Arthur Hello. Seem to have lost my slipper. Come on in. (The interviewer steps past Arthur into the house.)

Interviewer I’m sorry to hear that. Was it dear to you?

Arthur It will be when I stub my toe on a table leg. You know it reminds me of a poem I once wrote about slippers. (He clears his throat and pulls himself up straight. He’s still in his p-jays with a dressing gown.)

‘See my slippers, slip slip they go,

Slip slip on my feet, slip slip on the floor,

Ten pounds ninety nine from Marks,

Can’t be bad.’

Interviewer How very charming. You’ve been writing now for a long time.

Arthur Too long to remember.

Interviewer Really?

Arthur Certainly longer than seventy years.

Interviewer Is that right? But you’re only seventy now.

Arthur Hmm. My memory is worse than I thought.

Interviewer I wonder if I might ask you a little about your writing process. Can you explain it?

Arthur It’s a fascinating subject. I live in a world of poetry. I simply cannot stop thinking of rhymes all day long. The flow out of me like…

Interviewer The cascading torrents of a mighty waterfall?

Arthur I was going to say a tap. I have only to look at an object and I can feel poetry welling up, like a well. Let me give you an example. Look at the table in the middle of the room. I can make a poem up about that. Listen – (thinks for a moment, then…)

‘Did once a tree in some great forest foretell a future so grand?

Did the Gods look down upon thee and whisper, oh so gently,

“A table shalt thou be. And there to rest a cup of tea.

Maybe a pie.”

Not bad, eh?

Interviewer Staggering. How did you discover this wonderful facility with words?

Arthur Good Lord! I remember it being at a very young age. I was young, innocent, fresh faced with an imagination that knew no bounds. I was in my pram, being pushed by mother. It was a glorious summer’s day, as I recall, and then suddenly a butterfly landed on my nose. I was still barely fifteen years old- precocious. As soon as I saw the butterfly I let forth with the following –

‘Sitting in a pram, I watch your wings flutter on my nose,

I’m cross-eyed with joy.

Reflections back to my auntie’s fan,

Gaily coloured, whooshing

Violently in her hand.

Hot flushes.’

How about a cup of tea?

Interviewer Thank you, yes. So that was one of your earliest introductions to poetry?

Arthur Indubitably.

Interviewer Very nice. Now it’s true, isn’t it, that you are a self-published man? Every major publisher has consistently turned you down for over fifty years. Why do you think that is?

Arthur I was, and am, ahead of my time.

Interviewer Still? After fifty years?

Arthur Well you see fifty years ago I was ahead of my time. And then it turned out that I was ahead of the time I was ahead of. Perhaps even beyond that, too.

Interviewer I see. You’re saying that you’re ahead of the time that’s ahead of the time you’re ahead of?

Arthur Uhhh…Yes, that’s right. Now how about that cup of tea? I saw a tea bag around here somewhere. I had to let my last housemaid go after only a week when she refused payment in uhhh….

Interviewer  Cash?

Arthur No, teabags. I thought everyone appreciated a good cup of tea. Clearly not. She muttered something about a ‘bum face’ and I was forced to fetch my hunting rifle. She zig zags well.

Interviewer Yes. I, uh, hope you don’t mind me asking the next question then, I , uh…

Arthur Oh Good Lord! Have no fear. I’m a terrible shot these days. I haven’t actually shot anybody successfully since I caught the postman gazing in a longing manner after my wife.

Interviewer Oh! You were married?

Arthur No. She was my house cleaner in fact. I called her wife out of a term of endearment really. I don’t think she liked it much to be honest. It aggrieved her husband somewhat as well. When you have two men at a civil function, a wedding or a family reunion, both addressing the same woman as ‘my wife’ it can create not a little discomfort in the room. She left me after a short time. (Gazes off)

‘Her hair was black and her eyes were blue,

She’d a pale complexion of a Celtic hue,

She was unlike me and certainly you,

She was my ‘wife’ and her husband’s too.’

(There is silence for a moment. The interviewer shuffles from foot to foot . Arthur comes back from his reverie.)

Sorry. I was lost in poetry for a moment, again.

Interviewer Perfectly understandable. Hearing your poem and the mention of Celtic reminds me of something I read which said that you have, in the past, translated some of your works. What languages do you speak?

Arthur I have a good understanding of French and a smattering of German, learned mostly I must admit, from television. But it did allow me to compose my brief poem ‘Achtung!’ in its original German form.

Interviewer Can I hear it?

Arthur Well, it’s been a while. Let’s see now. Ah, yes.

Achtung! Was ist das?

Ist meine fraulein, swinehund!

Heil! Fraulein!

Und Volkswagen!

Interviewer What inspires you to keep writing?

Arthur Life, my friend. Life inspires me. I see poetry everywhere I look. Just the other day I saw my cat walk in and kill a rat. I was immediately inspired –

Cat flap,

Slap

Slap

Rat

Slap

Rat

Flat.

Interviewer  Interesting. Finally then, it seems you’re still very popular locally for recitals. You’re performing tonight in the ‘Mangy Whippet’. What will you be selecting for tonight?

Arthur I will be reciting some of my favourites and one or two new ones I have recently put together, which are of a darker hue. I won’t deny that sometimes I get a little down. My life has not been a complete success. I think I was a disappointment to my parents from the moment they realized I wasn’t John Wayne, and this comes out from time to time in my poetic outpourings. Just recently I wrote ‘Kaleidoscope of Ugly’ in a midnight hour.

Pink are my thumbs,

And yellow my teeth,

Brown are my toes,

And black are my teats,

Blue are my eyes,

And green is my nose,

It’s hell when I try,

To match all my clothes.

Interviewer I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you will get the kind of applause your poetry deserves this evening in the ‘Mangy Whippet’. Thank you very much for your time and poetry Arthur.

Arthur It has been excessively pleasurable.

Interviewer I wonder if we might finish with one more final poem. Would that be possible?

Arthur Of course, sir. I like to say that my poetry is like wine. Today we have drunk some of the body of my wine of poetry, yet still there remains to lick the bottom.

Interviewer  Are we to lick the bottom now?

Arthur Not today. In fact, you will probably not have a chance to even view my bottom, my poetry’s bottom.

Interviewer Let us not try then today. How about one more offering?

Arthur Granted. This one relates to my mother and is called, ‘No peas for me please’.

Will you not have one on the side of your plate?

Oh mother, no peas for me please.

How about just one, just there in your pie?

Now mother, no peas for me please.

What if I just leave it on the side, by the ornamental dog?

That’s fine, but no peas for me please.

Put one in your pocket and save it for later,

Oh no, no peas for me please, I’m sixty-two!

Not even one?

No!

Interviewer Arthur Loopy, thank you.

Arthur An honour. Now, how about that cup of tea?

The End

The Interviewer meets the band ‘Casterbridge Boys’ rehearsing in the upstairs of a pub. They are a group of Westcountry old boys. Arrr!

Jack Stop! Stop! Stop! Fred, don’t forget to hit that big E chord with the doodah below when I sing ‘with lovely withers’ okay?

Fred I’s doing thart, Jack. I’s doing thart. Doodah an’ all.

Jack Alright, easy Fred.

Roly Rog Jack, is there room in this ‘un for my armpit solo?

Interviewer Hello all. I wonder if I could interrupt at this point.

Jack Please do.

Interviewer Thank you. Now, I believe you’re rehearsing for a show tonight, is that right?

Jack Yes boss, that’s right. We’ve a regular gig down at the ‘Dog’s Dinner’ pub. It’s a weekly spot that we always enjoy doing about once…

Interviewer A week?

Jack Yes, that’s right. So, anyway, it’s a bit of fun for us. We get quite a mixed crowd.

Roly Rog And reception.

Jack It’s the young ‘uns you see. They ask for ‘Smack my bitch up’ you know, stuff like that. Well I refuse point blank.

Interviewer I understand.

Jack I don’t condone violence against animals.

Fred I keep tellin’ ‘im it’s not an RSPCA rallying song. He won’t ‘ave it though.

Interviewer I see, but I imagine…

Jack The older folk, though, appreciate our particular brand of music, a mixture of folk/country/pop and old time religion. I’ll never forget, a wonderful story this…

Roly Rog Here we go.

Jack It were ‘bout two week ago, a Saturday night.

Fred Friday night.

Jack No, it were a Saturday. I remember it distinctly cause Marge didn’t have her green cardie on. She never wears her green cardie on a Saturday, she likes to dress up. So she takes off her green cardie. Anyway, we had just come to the end of one of our regular numbers – ‘Martha’s zip won’t go’ – a beautiful ballad about frustrated love. And at the end, lovely moment this, an old man walked up, must have been, what…75?

Roly Rog Older I reckon. He’d struggle to look 75 in the dark.

Jack Anyway, he came up, you know, and he leaned up to me, sort of staggered actually and he said into my listening piece, he said, ‘You know, that was probably the best thing I’ve heard since my wife told me she fancied an early night and I told her I’d try not to wake her when I got back from the pub.’

Interviewer Ha! Delightful Westcountry humour.

Jack Eh?

Interviewer So, Jack, would you say you were the leader of the band?

Jack I’m one of the founder members with Fred. I wouldn’t say we’ve got a leader as such, but I make the decisions.

Interviewer And how did you get into music?

Jack My mother really. My father died before I was born, you see.

Interviewer Really?

Jack Yeah, about a year before. So I was brought up really by my dear old mother. Wonderful woman. All the men in the village said so. She owned a B&B and they all said how accommodating she was. She had beautiful auburn hair, wild like woodland bracken and a laugh like a tractor backfiring. She smoked a lot. But she taught me the rudiments. She was always singing. All the time. People used to say she could have been the next Audrey Figgins.

Interviewer Audrey…?

Jack Audrey Figgins. A local singer, didn’t do much. Expected to be the next Lulu.

Fred No, that were Sally Nibbs. Audrey Figgins was the next Patsy Cline.

Roly Rog No! Not Patsy Cline, you’re thinking of Jenny Bogsdowne.

Jack Jenny! Nonsense. If anything, with her voice, she was the next Dusty Springfield.

Fred Bah! You must be drunk, saying things like that.

Interviewer And so, she taught you how to sing?

Jack Yes, she taught me many folk songs, songs like ‘The Lonely Woodsman’ ‘Please Yourself’ ‘You’ll surely go blind’ and ‘The Dumbstruck Rambler’. Classics.

Interviewer And of course you were a child of the sixties – The Beatles, The Stones, Flower Power. What did you make of that period in history? Did you follow its trends?

Jack Well, we didn’t go for all that tackle round these parts. The Beatles to me were like a Fresian cow – far more attractive to the eye than the ear. We tried to copy their hair style but even as a young man poor old Fred ‘ere didn’t have much hair. A comb over’s all very well but not when the hair’s coming from the back of your head. He went through a lot of chip fat to keep that Beatles look. Didn’t work really.

Fred I still attracted the ladies.

Jack They always came knocking when they wanted chips for dinner.

Interviewer So who were your influences?

Jack Well, I was more a Gumbridge Mumps man myself.

Interviewer Gumbridge Mumps?

Jack Yeah, sounds like a medical condition I know. They didn’t achieve a lot of success outside the Westcountry. But a lovely folky style they had. A combination of guitars, harmonica, drums, cow bells, wood rubbings and foot stomping.

Interviewer Ah yes. The age-old tradition of foot stomping. Can you demonstrate this to our viewers?

Jack A lost art, my friend, a lost art. Bob, how about giving us a touch of ‘Lord Wilbur’s Fancy Balls.’

Bob starts playing the tune on his violin. After a couple of bars Jack starts moving – knee up and down at high speed, moving around the room and as the knee comes up his hand slaps the thigh.

Roly Rog That’s it, Jack! That’s foot stomping!

Jack gets tired and stops, Bob stops playing. The band cheers.

Jack (panting) I tell you, when you get a whole pub with the knees going up and down, palms slapping thighs, it’s a beautiful thing.

Interviewer I can imagine it must be a real eye opener to the uninitiated.

Roly Rog A real eye closer if you’re not careful, knees going up all over the place. Only got to drop something to get bounced about like a nudist’s knockers in a volleyball game.

Interviewer True, true. Now I would love you to play something for me in a minute, but first, could you tell me a little about the formation of the band?

Jack Oh well, we’re all Westcountry lads. Known Fred ‘bout forty year, man and boy. Been with me longer than puberty. Still a miserable bugger. Met bassist and homosexual Dave at a Kazoo Fair in Barnstaple.

Dave I’m not really gay. The only reason they say I’m gay is cause I’m the only one in the band with an indoor toilet.

Jack Soft lad. Hardship is what gives you character.

Dave I don’t think I want the kind of character that comes from having your buttocks frozen to a toilet seat, thank you.

Jack That only happened once…

Interviewer And then there’s Roly Rog.

Jack Well, of course Roly Rog came through an advert.

Interviewer I see, you advertised for a drummer.

Jack No. In fact I advertised for a greyhound trainer for my dog. Thought I could earn a bit if I had it trained. Hopeless thing really. Wouldn’t chase the rabbit. Put a pork chop under its nose, it’d chase that. Not a rabbit. Anyway, Rog came along and it soon became clear he had natural rhythm. He even farts in 4/4 time.

Interviewer And that just leaves your violinist and backing singer…

Jack Barbecue Bob.

Interviewer Why Barbecue Bob?

Jack He came to us with this unusual tan, he looked like a burnt chicken rib.

Bob I’d been living in Spain.

Jack So we called him Barbecue Bob. He’s well travelled is Bob.

Roly Rog Like the plague.

Bob I’m a free spirit. I like to roam.

Jack  That’s true. He moves around a lot, like a flea with an itch. Of course, we used to have a keyboard player. We had to let him go.

Interviewer Not good enough?

Jack No, no, it weren’t that. No, he had a problem.

Fred Damn right he did.

Jack He had that swearing thing you know where you keep shouting rude words.

Interviewer Tourettes?

Jack That’s it, chew-its. At first we thought he was just getting into the music, getting a bit carried away, you know. But then we decided to have a go at that Simon and Garfunkel classic ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ and he spoiled it really. It’s a ballad you see. And when you’re singing ‘like a Bridge over Troubled Water’ and your keyboard player keeps shouting ‘Piss!’ and ‘Sewage Crap!’ it spoils it.

Interviewer Yes, I understand. Now, just before you sing, there’s one other important part of your life as a band to mention – your hit singles! Your breakthrough to nationwide fame in the mid-seventies with that wonderful song, ‘Who was that?’ How did that song come about?

Jack ‘Who was that?’ People still ask for that song. You know, I wrote it in 10 minutes at a pig market. There was a woman walked past me, young and lovely, and there was a glance between us, just a glance and half a smile and she was gone, I lost her amongst the sows. I immediately pulled out my tin whistle and wrote the song. I never saw her again.

Interviewer You created huge newspaper headlines at this time with that chicken incident, leading to the other big hit, ‘Don’t count your eggs.’

Jack It was a difficult period. Whenever you’re accused of egg thievery it’s always difficult. But I was found not guilty, so…

Interviewer And I believe that song has recently been re-released.

Jack In Albania yes. It was released there recently to enormous acclaim amongst the egg community.

Roly Rog They were egg-static about it. We just thought it was wonderfowl.

Fred Oh dear God.

Interviewer And so, to finish us off, I wonder if we could now hear you in action. Would that be possible?

Jack A pleasure. Lets see, how about doing one of our recent compositions lads – ‘Mollie is a cow’.

Fred/Roly Rog Why not? / Ready when you are.

The band get ready and then a drum roll from Roly Rog, the violin starts up and then the guitars and finally Jack starts singing.

Jack   ‘Now Mollie is my favourite,

             Chewing all the cud,

            She walks around the pastures

           Rolls in all the mud,

           Everybody loves her, cuter than a sow,

           But oh no Mollie is no woman,

           No Mollie is a cow.

           (Chorus)

           Mollie is a cow (She’s a cow/ She’s a cow)

           Yes Mollie is a cow (not a woman no no)

           She’s sweet and nice and loves to play

           But when people say,’ Is she a woman?’

           I say, ‘oh no, no, no, Mollie is a cow!’

           (Violin solo)

           (Repeat chorus)

           And all the men ask for a woman like that,

           To love and kiss and give a pat -

           Mollie is a cow.’

The music comes to an end.

Interviewer What a delightful song. Thank you ‘Casterbridge Boys’ for being with me ‘In Conversation’. And so        it’s goodbye from me.

The band starts up another song, it’s the opening chords to their big hit ‘Who was that?’

Jack   ‘She stood out from all the pigs,

            Down at the market,

            She wore wellies and cider droplets on her chin,

            She looked at me and a smile played about her gums,

            Oh who was that? Oh who was that?’

The music fades out.

The End

Interviewer Today’s meeting of ‘In Conversation’ is with one of the recent bloomers of the gardening fraternity. A man celebrated for his TV series and recent book, both entitled ‘Dirty Fingers.’ Using my questions as a metaphorical trowel, I will attempt to dig through the surface, to get down to the very roots of   a man considered by Alan Titchmarsh as being ‘gardening’s equivalent to the atom bomb,’ Jeremy Parky-Bewes.

Jeremy Hello to you!

Interviewer Hello. Now, Jeremy, to start with, tell me something of your background.

Jeremy Well I must say I did enjoy a rather privileged upbringing. My father – Darkly Parky-Bewes was the Earl of Poppetts and as such owned a pretty large estate in the Berkshire countryside. We had servants, large grounds and a beautiful country house that dated back to the 1600’s sometime or other.

Interviewer And it was your father, wasn’t it, who first introduced you to the joys of the garden?

Jeremy Yes indeed. As a boy, my father would sometimes take me with him on his afternoon strolls which took us down the lane to the servant’s quarters and he’d often pause by a certain hedge – beautiful hedge it was, extraordinarily green- and he’d pull the leaves apart and peep through into a garden which fronted the maids quarters. I could see why he had brought me to this spot as there were some quite magnificent sights as you looked beyond the loungers where the maids were sunbathing in their bikinis and onto flowerbeds of begonias, hyacinths, parthinias, sunflowers, a wonderful kaleidoscope of colour that lit up my eyes. I could hear my father grunting his own approval at this very wonderful sight, sweat dripping off his brow.

Interviewer Your father was something of an amateur gardener then?

Jeremy Oh my word yes! I often saw him out on the grounds, one of the maids up a ladder sawing the branches and him underneath her, holding the ladder and supervising. He loved to talk to the flowers as well. He loved that. And I remember sometimes the conversations could get quite heated. I’ll never forget  one argument with a chrysanthemum who he came to believe was querying his belief that ducks make poor travel companions- ‘they just flap about!’ He’d say. I recall him shaking his fist at one point, pointing and cursing the flower for its impudence, ‘don’t shake your head at me you swine!’ It was a real ding-ding.

Interviewer And what was the outcome of all this?

Jeremy Well eventually my father was forced to back down and he conceded to the chrysanthemum that maybe he was being a little harsh on ducks but that he would certainly never travel with a chinchilla. The matter was brought to a successful conclusion.

Interviewer Extraordinary. But isn’t it correct that your true mentor, the man who guided you and taught you the practical side of gardening was the manor gardener?

Jeremy Yes, Oakes. A wonderful man. He has been head gardener on the estate for about the last eighty years. I owe him everything really. I was a boy of fifteen, he a man of eighty-two, but still mowing and pruning and propagating. I would follow him around the estate holding his equipment. He’d stop by a patch of sod and demand a trowel or a fork or a daisy-grubber. He taught me about the importance of light and moisture, wind and bottom heat. But he was a joker too. I remember kneeling by a vegetable patch and asking if it was too moist. ‘At my age,’ he said, ‘it’s always too moist.’ And we’d laugh and he’d go and change his trousers. A wonderful man.

Interviewer And I heard that for his eighty-eighth birthday you got him a very special gift.

Jeremy Yes, a false leg. He only had the one you see, an accident during the war. He was a mine layer and he’d just hidden one in the African desert and was patting the sand down with his foot and it exploded. Tragic. They had a very poor design.

Interviewer And from then on he was a one-legged gardener?

Jeremy For the next forty years or so, yes. But he was a wonderful hopper, he could bounce around the grounds at tremendous speed. And when he wanted to get close to the ground for a little scarifying of the grass he would just allow himself to kind of keel over. He’d start like the Leaning Tower of Piza and just keep going. But after about forty or so years of this toppling over I thought it was about time he had another leg to play with. I had a bit of spare cash on me, the racing had been cancelled so I did what any decent man would do and demanded one for him from the NHS. He moves a little like C-3PO now but he seems happy enough.

Interviewer Still working for you?

Jeremy Oh yes. He’s one hundred and two now.

Interviewer You of course achieved your breakthrough as a gardener with your commission from Lord Halifax. Tell me about that.

Jeremy Hah! Good old Bertie. Yes he commissioned me for a very special project. He wanted his own garden to resemble his wife Petulia’s face when seen from a helicopter. So I worked with him and created the garden to his own specifications. A rather eccentric man, he wanted every one of her features brought out and when it was finished one could make out – at a height of around 100 metres- not just her lazy eye, her nose and rather down-turned mouth -created with Polygonum baldschuanicum- but it was also possible, after six months, to see the sprouting of two warts – thanks to the Escallonia macrantha- and the budding- with a series of dahlias- of her three chins. A dining area was created on one of her chins and it proved a wonderful experience to pass an evening at a summer jamboree or wedding reception on her chin.

Interviewer And did Lady Halifax herself approve?

Jeremy It’s difficult to say. She left rather abruptly shortly after the work was completed and I was never able to get in contact with her to find out her opinion.

Interviewer What a shame.

Jeremy Indeed.

Interviewer So before we bring this conversation to a close I thought it would be nice to hear a little bit of your gardening wisdom. I have here a couple of letters from members of the public asking for your opinions and considerable knowledge. May I read them?

Jeremy Why not.

Interviewer Thank you. The first is from a Mrs Tipple from Knotty Bridge, who says, ‘while my husband and I were recently in the greenhouse tending to our ramondias, he remarked that something was causing a drooping effect and that his pricking out was failing to assuage the situation. I tried to use my dibber but there was no hardening apparent, nor did my working fingers help. What do you think we can do as I’m afraid if this continues it may affect our marriage?’

Jeremy It certainly sounds like a very serious situation. My belief is that he simply needs to do some drainage. Sometimes you think you have drained sufficiently only to find shortly afterwards that more needs to be done. He must not let his trenches overflow as he could well risk saturating the whole greenhouse. Once your husband has soaked away I am sure the drooping will stop, the hardening will return and your marriage will be saved.

Interviewer Some very wise advice. One more letter then. Mr Lards writes from Whimsy in Kent, ‘I recently invested in a Kraps arm support cuff for Easi-Grip trowelling, as I suffer from spasms. But I found that the moment I dug deep into my Bog Plant not only did the spasms start but I also broke both my knee caps, twisted my ankle and suffered severe concussion and ruptured spleen. Do you think there is something wrong with my digging technique?

Jeremy  Well, the short answer is yes.

Interviewer And the long answer?

Jeremy Yeeeeeeeeessssss!!!

Interviewer  (Pause) Well, Jeremy Parky-Bewes, that brings us more or less to the end of this programme ‘In Conversation- With a Gardener.’ It just leaves me enough time to ask- what your plans are now?

Jeremy Well, I thought about going to the toilet. It’s been a while.

Interviewer And then later in the year?

Jeremy Oh I shall probably go before then. Oh, I see! Yes, well, my next big project now that the book is completed…

Interviewer ‘Dirty Fingers’ priced £22.99.

Jeremy That’s right, ‘Dirty Fingers’ priced £22.99. My next big project is my new Garden Hats collection.

Interviewer Hats to wear while gardening?

Jeremy Oh no no no! No no. These are hats made from the garden. I use a felt base and create upon it a top hat structure that incorporates soil and a mini shrub or flower arrangement within it.

Interviewer But won’t the flowers quickly wither and die?

Jeremy Ha! I’m way ahead of you there. I’ve guarded against that by building into the hat a clever sheeting device. Your flowers are waning a little, simply tug down the plastic sheeting from within the hat and you can pour water onto it at any time while remaining yourself, dry as a bone.

Interviewer Marvellous. Well I wish you all the best with that and so it’s time to say goodbye from me as I bring myself to an end- in conversation with a gardener.

Jeremy Toilet please!

The End

Put Your Description Here, Mark!!

And so each night, when all lights went out and mother and father to bed, the dog settled back, on its two hind legs, rocked back its head and smacked its lips, then quick intake of breath – ‘Hawwooo! Hawoo-woooo!’

‘Good heavens above!’ ‘Good grief!’ ‘Was that you?’ ‘Certainly not!’ ‘Was it the fish?’ ‘It was Doopsy!’ ‘Is it dying or crying, in pain?’ ‘For Gods sake, go see.’ So mother went down, in a pink frilly nightie, slippers to match and her hair in a net.

‘Poor Doopsy! Come here!’ She’d stroke him and cuddle him, pat him and baby him (in a rather nauseating way, it must be said) until he thought he must have the finest singing voice on Earth! As soon as she left he thought, ‘I’ll please her some more.’ And away – ‘Hawooo!’ to the moon through the door, which shyly hid itself in the clouds.

The father was not so gentle. Night after night he’d grumble and grouch (‘Hawooo!’) grab his slippers and gown and thud his way to the dog. Bang! Bang! on the door. ‘Keep quiet! Or else! Mother made less noise in labour!’ The dog didn’t like the father and turned his back to the door in a huff.

But Doopsy just loved to sing! It drove the mother to distraction until she decided to take him to the vet. ‘He should figure out what’s wrong, we pay him enough.’ So the vet did all the checks – lights into the eyes and blood tests and heart checks and making him walk around a bit, but all to no avail. ‘I can find nothing medically wrong with your dog. In fact I’m the one suffering.’ He lifted his bandaged hand.

‘Sorry about that, he’s got a thing against thermometers.’ Old Doopsy’s mouth curled upwards at the corner.

So the singing continued (he had by now invented 10 lilting ballads, a gorgeous country tune, two sprightly dance numbers and an unusual polka) and in her despair the mother turned to a dog psychologist! Another audience he thought, and he began his favourite tune, which told of his first love and went something like –‘Hawoo-wa-woo! Woooo-ar-ar!’

‘How terribly sad that sounds,’ said the dog psychologist, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘My mother never loved me you know.’

‘Never mind about your mother, what about the dog?’

‘Well, maybe he’s lonely.’

So they went out and bought him a lady dog, as brown and scraggy as he was, but with longer eyelashes (and worse breath). They called her Hali (short for ‘halitosis’) My God! Thought the dog, a duet! Now he knew the owners loved him. He couldn’t wait to thank them and did so in the only way he knew how- he started singing! He howled and she panted and let out a bark, he ‘arr arr’d! and she ‘arrffed!’ and the two together sounded, well to doggy ears at least, like a symphony. But to the father…

‘Hells Bells!!! This is getting beyond a joke! It’s worse than the death cry of some Apache Indian. Mother, where are my slippers?’

‘You’ve got your hush puppies on already!’

‘I don’t want to wear them, I’m gonna beat out the ‘Anvil Chorus’ on those dogs heads!’

The final straw came just a week later. The two dogs were tied up outside the newsagents while mother and father went in to get the papers.

‘Look at all these people passing by’ thought Doopsy, ‘and this time I’ve got a duet! What a show I could give!’ So guess what happened next folks, yes, the two leaned their heads back, licked their lips and then in unison –‘Woo arrr!’

Well, people certainly stopped at this incredible music/racket (depending on whether you’re a dog or a human) but they were shocked.

‘These dogs are in pain! Look! They’ve just been tied up and left! A disgrace!!! A real disgrace!!!’

By the time the mother and father came out a nasty, angry crowd had formed. The dogs were singing on, eyes shut, oblivious, lost in a world of beautiful music where all was biscuits and walkies and cats to chase. They were rudely interrupted however, dragged away from the shop, a terrible din of cursing and shaking of fists behind them as they were bundled into the Ford.

‘For God’s sake, woman put your foot on it!!!’ There was banging on the roof, slapping palms on the windows and low kicking at the tyres. The two just managed to escape. But it was definitely the final straw…

The next day the dogs were woken by the smell of fresh bacon under their twitching noses. It was the father, leaning over them waving it at them with an expression they hadn’t seen before- he was smiling. They were suspi  —- what lovely smelling bacon!

‘Follow me you two, come on!’ They followed him out to the car. He opened the back seat – more bacon and sausages!!! They leapt aboard. He closed the door and went round to the driver’s side. He drove off.

He stopped at a lay-by, out in the midst of the countryside. It was still early in the morning, a mist hung over the hills. He opened a door and they jumped out. Cor it was a little nippy! A cold dampness hung in the air. They heard a car door slam shut, an engine rev up and their car drive away! First they looked at each other, then at their green and hilly surroundings and then again at each other. Then they started to shiver.

An hour later, a mini came creeping over the hill and the two dogs could see someone peering with their eyes close up to the windscreen. As the car got closer it pulled up into the lay-by. Out of it stepped a little old lady, with curly grey hair, glasses, bent over nearly double, wearing a knitted cardy. She was very old. Lucky she wasn’t a dog, as her age in dog years couldn’t have been worked out without a team of mathematicians and a big calculator.

‘Oh dear oh dear oh dear! You poor little darlings! Oh who would do such a thing? You’re coming with me.’ She put them in the car, rubbed them with a blanket and went to the driver’s side and pulled away from the lay-by.

‘I’d better get a few bits and pieces for you two. And I reckon Gladys will come over if I give her a call. And I’d better make up a bed in the hall. And get the gas heater going. So much to do!’

Doopsy was very happy. He only knew one way to show his happiness, so back the head went once more and ‘Arrrrr- arrf!’ But this time the woman wasn’t shocked or frightened or angry. No, this time the audience was stone deaf! They sung their hearts out and every now and again the old lady would turn and smile at them, so Doopsy would hang back his head and sing some more…

The end

Little Pat, sitting at the kitchen table sees her brother walking in.

‘Hey Pat! Hold the end, I want to stretch it out and see how long it is.’

Pat takes the string, obeying her brother who puts the other end upon the table. Poor Pat lets out a scream! There’s a frog upon the table, the end of the string wrapped round one of its hind legs. Jimmy picks up the loose end and lets it jump around the table as Pat jumps about, goes up and down (much like the frog in fact.) She runs out of the room and Jimmy lets out an evil cackle. ‘What other uses can I put this to?’  What a cruel and naughty boy!

Little Pat sitting in the living room, laughing at the tele (some cartoon on the box.) The door is shut (to shut out her mother’s singing as she has a bath upstairs.) The doorbell goes and Jimmy’s voice, ‘Pat! It’s your friend Alice at the door!’ Pat leaps to her feet, runs to the door and turns the handle and pulls it – but the door won’t open! Naughty Jimmy has tied the other handle to a stair post. He carries on calling,’ Pat! It’s your friend! Come on!’

‘I can’t get out!’ She cries. ‘The door!’ He releases the string and she rushes the door, too late says Jimmy, she’s gone. He roars with laughter as she runs out the door (Alice was never really there.) He’d tied the door and rang the bell himself. So typical of such a wicked child!

‘Heh heh heh!!! Fun fun fun! So… what now?’ My word I could box his ears in! His eyebrows jump about in thought, he scratches at his chin. And then… oh dear! Another plan has crossed his mind. He smiles a gapped-tooth smile and claps his hands with glee. He rushes up the stairs. On hands and knees he ties one end of the string to a hinge on his sister’s bedroom door and the other end to a pipe on the opposite wall. The cheeky devil has a tripwire outside his sister’s room.

From inside the room he cups his hand and cries downstairs, ‘Pat! Your barbie’s broken!’ No answer. He doesn’t know but Pat is out in the garden, helping her mother with a trowel, planting some seeds. The father is cleaning the car with bucket and shammy leather.

He shouts out again, ‘Pat! Pat! Your barbie’s broken! The head’s fallen off! She doesn’t look well!’ Still nothing. Frustrated he stares at the wall in thought. An evil smirk runs across his face.

‘Pat! Pat! Your Barbie house is on fire! It’s on fire! Fire!’ There’s the sound of a door being pushed open, bangs against the wall and thumping hooves charging up the stairs. He giggles to himself and stands back from the door so he can watch his sister charge in and fall flat on her face. But no! It isn’t his sister! It’s his father racing up with a bucket of foamy water slopping about.

‘Daddy!’ Too late! The father leaps forward, trips over the string and hurls the water all over Jimmy, before falling flat on his face.

There is a moment’s silence, then, some growling, a rumbling sound like a starving belly or the distant rolling rumbling of thunder. Jimmy stands, gapped- tooth mouth now agape, mischievous eyes now wide in horror at his father who pulls himself to his feet, red in the face, teeth grit, hands clenched. What fury in his eyes!

Jimmy lets out a scream and belts beneath his father’s legs and races down the stairs crying out for his mother. He runs out the front door and down the street, leaving a trail of froth and dripping behind him from the contents of the bucket.

‘Come here! Come here you little devil!’

‘Ahhh! Mummy!!!’

And so they go, off into the distance, with much yelling and screaming and shaking of fists. Poor Jimmy disappears over the horizon.

And the moral of this tale? It’s simple I guess – Be careful when your fun comes with strings attached.

The End