Soilman

Have been pondering Matt Appleby’s excellent post about the Chelsea Flower Show.

Now as you know I don’t ‘do’ personal, ad hominem attacks. This is an allotment blog, not a fish market.

So what follows is out of character. But I’m moved to say it, because I’m… well, moved. The RHS Chelsea Flower Show is an annual wanker-fest that sums up everything that’s wrong with the RHS. In my humble opinion.

Bolly-gobblers

I’m sick of the bandwagon-jumping, expenses-claiming, braying, Bolly-gobbling, name-dropping, royalty-fawning, sleb-spotting, arselickan bullshit of the jeunesse (and vieillesse) dorée who frequent this annual wank tank horror show.

It’s a parvenu’s dungheap. A social collective enema masquerading as a horticultural event. To ‘get it’, you need a Babel-fish ear translator with ‘Universal Translation’ turned off, and ‘Pure Tosser-ese’ selected.

Gibbet on the lawn

Lest you think the Flower Show has any kind of appeal to anyone under the age of 40 with a normal working cerebellum, consider that this is an event that rates Diarmuid Gavin an ‘enfant terrible’.

Er, hello? This is not Geiseric the Vandal we’re talking about. Gavin’s a mildly paunchy, chirpy, middle-aged bloke who happens to like a sequinned gibbet on his patio. If this is dangerous and ‘risqué’, I’m Russell Brand.

Look, I want to love the RHS. I really do. I’m a serious and committed gardener. I massively admire the RHS’s gorgeous gardens and respect its staggering and incomparable wealth of expertise. We should have much in common.

Proctologist

But my name isn’t Apricots, Godfrey or Kenneth. I don’t live in a thatched house outside Tonbridge Wells, a footballer’s mansion in Cheshire, an über-chic Soho studio or a converted beach hut in Brighton. I hate Werther’s Originals. I don’t require regular, clandestine whippings to get off. And even if I could afford the several hundred quid required for a Chelsea ticket, I wouldn’t buy one.

Why? Because I may be 40 – but I’m not (yet) a mindless suburban drone, a Bufton Tufton fuckwit, a too-cool-for-school TV sleb, a merchant wanker or Paris Hilton’s London proctologist.

And I know most other RHS admirers/members aren’t, either. We’re just gardeners, who want to hear about growing shit. So RHS: Please reduce the price, get rid of the ponces and Ponzis, and give us back our London Flower Show.

PS: If you’re going to the show next week (and don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for), take a note of any prices that send shivers up your spine – refreshments, flowers, whatever. I may be moved to post about this next week so folks can log on here and let everyone know how badly they were ripped off.