Liquid Gold

As June drifts gently into July, thoughts on our allotment turn to the yearly awards for the best turned out vegetables. For many years, our members have entered a great deal of competitions in the area and I am pleased to say that our trophy cabinet is the envy of every grower for miles around.
We have managed to corner the market in giant vegetables with particular attention being focused upon our impressive marrows, pumpkins, cabbages and leeks. Such is our success, that several companies involved in vegetable production on a mass scale have approached us for advice. I have had to carefully sift through the various letters we've received in case they breach our strict code of practice regulations, as financial or other incentives contravene rules 59, 60 and 76a.
A certain company, who I am afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge the name of, was very interested in the success we've had with courgettes and I willingly agreed to conduct a trial using various fertilisers.
As you can see from the picture on the left, the three courgette plants are of differing sizes, yet they were all put in the ground at the same time on the same day.
The plant at the top of the picture has been fed with an organic fertiliser available at most garden centres.
The next one down has been fed with a chemical fertiliser also widely available.
The plant in the foreground has been fed with Mystic Veg soil improver™ .
Clearly, the one in the foreground is the largest (and it has nothing to do with the camera angle before anyone mentions it) showing that the methods employed on our allotment are far more successful than those using commercially available products.
Naturally, the unnamed company were desperate to know more about our courgette success but they were more than a little surprised when I told them how it was done.
Using knowledge passed down from my ancestors in ancient Egypt, I regularly 'water' the plants with an 8:1 mixture of water and urine. Before you all rush off to piss on your plants, I think it is important to point out one or two things.
Firstly, it only works with male urine. I've no idea why but it may have something to do with aiming.
Secondly, whatever liquid you've been drinking makes a great deal of difference also. It appears that tea, coffee and soft drinks aren't suitable but a decent bladder full of best bitter is ideal.
Finally, you need to direct the liquid to the roots of the plant which I do with a plastic bottle with the end sawn off (right).
The commercial growers were so keen to see this method in action that they erected a small bar on the allotment and we packed them off to the nearby Poachers Brewery to keep us in supplies.
I'm not sure if the experiment was a successful one or not as the growers and their bar had disappeared when I woke up amongst Joe Branston's celery this morning.
Still, we were all more than happy to have helped in a scientific experiment and I have been urged to point out that the flatulence produced after a lengthy session on Hopshackle Special Bitter does wonders for tomatoes grown in a polytunnel.

Wordless Wednesday

A rare sighting of someting the cat didn't manage to drag in.

Lost

I'm not the best of travellers. I listen with interest to those who recall their trips to far flung shores but when it boils down to it, a caravan, forty miles away in Chapel St Leonards, with enough sound proofing on the roof to enable conversation to take place when it's raining, is good enough for me.
It's not really worth travelling far if you're going to be worried about your veg being neglected but I was persuaded by Mrs MV that a six day trip to France would not signal the demise of my carefully tended crops.
My hectic lifestyle and social calender is such that I must occasionally slow down and relax so I accepted an offer to join Bill and Dick on a 'writing' holiday in Bergerac. I have no desire to relate the full story of the disaster that befell me for Bill cunningly got his version in before I arrived home but needless to say, as I sat in the cafe adjoining Bergerac airport for two hours, that caravan in Chapel St Leonards was inviting indeed.
I would go so far as to say, that the shed I was forced to shelter in from the rain whilst Blunt was miles away meeting the wrong plane had its merits and I did consider spending the next five days in a hermit-like state under its roof, if only to avoid the Pastis-fuelled grovelling apologies from Blunt.
It would be pleasant at this point to announce that all ended well but my torment was to continue when I attempted to return to these shores.
It appears that a certain airline is happy to cancel flights at the drop of a hat (or in this case a whiff of fog) and leave their customers to their own devices. Once again, dear reader, I was forced to study the architectural majesty of Bergerac airport for several hours and share my concern at the lack of Health and Safety measures of the men working on the new extension with my fellow, abandoned passengers until I could return to the UK some 12 hours later than I intended.
It was an anxious Blunt who spoke to me as I prepared to board the train for the last leg of my journey home after I'd told him of my latest setback.
His only concern I suspect was that I may have had problems 'smuggling' the three packets of seeds into the country that I purchased in the beautiful village of Issigeac.
I had no such problem as I am well versed in hiding a variety of objects on my person from my days as a 'mule' for the Oldham Cactus Society.
I have recovered from my ordeal you will be pleased to hear and the only thing that keeps coming back to haunt me is a song. One that I'll probably not forget in a hurry.

Brooooce!!

I think you will agree that it is relatively unknown for me to stray from the world of vegetables but I will make an exception just this once to share news of a rare night off I had this week. Regular readers will have realised by now that my twin passions are the allotment and Oldham Athletic, so it would no doubt surprise many of you to learn that I found myself outside the home of Manchester United during the week.
Normally, if M********r U****d were playing in my back garden, I would close the curtains and let the dog out but I was at Old Trafford for an entirely different reason. Thirty-odd years ago, I heard Bruce Springsteen's 'Born to Run' album and I have harboured plans to see him perform live ever since.
Just as those jobs you always intend doing get done eventually, my appointment with Springsteen was kept on a rainy, windswept (is M********r ever anything but rainy and windswept?) evening. Sat in the car park eating our sandwiches, (I had no desire to sample a Rooney burger or whatever) it soon became obvious that the average age of the audience was going to be in the mid to late fifties.
This suited me just fine, as teenagers high on cider and pot noodles tend to spoil the listening experience for us older rock 'n rollers.
I did think that many of the audience looked like they might grow their own veg but the almighty hike to our seats in the clouds at the top of the North Stand meant that any attempts at conversation once we got there were impossible.
I didn't know every song Springsteen played but I can vouch for the fact that he put his heart into every number. A true professional.
One of my favourite Springsteen songs is 'Hard Land' which begins with the line:
"Hey there Mister, can you tell me what happened to the seeds I've sown"
Bruce Springsteen has an allotment? I wouldn't be surprised.

Where's Popeye when you need him?

Those of you who have followed my progress in attempting to educate the local youngsters to embrace the joys of growing veg are due an update I feel.
I have been squeezed into the school timetable on a Friday afternoon and I'm pleased to say that the number of children who would rather weed the school garden than tackle prism's and parallelogram's shows no sign of waning.
I still have to answer a variety of questions, most of which have nothing to do with gardening and I have also been educated on the complicated world of computer gaming but I feel I am now suitably knowledgeable about the difference between a Nintendo DS and an XBox 360.
I have been impressed that the school encourages the children to drink plenty of fluids during this hot weather but it does mean that they continually need the toilet. I've lost track of the number of times the children have said "I want a wee".
The garden is filling up with plants fast and I decided to introduce some vegetables that the children may not have tasted before. A packet of spinach that I've had lying around for ages was the obvious thing to try and I wondered if the kids would find it as disgusting as I did at their age. Remembering my youth, I asked one group today if they knew who Popeye the Sailor man was. I was met with 4 blank faces.
"Surely you know the song?" I added. It appeared they didn't and I felt it was my duty to give them a version of the classic song.



They were unimpressed with my singing voice and seemingly less impressed with Popeye, who I had to point out was not a Super Hero, Ninja Turtle or Power Ranger.
If the children of today spent less time swimming, playing football, cycling and running around and more time in front of the TV watching the likes of Popeye, the world would be a better place I'm sure.

Rhubarb

I stopped buying newspapers the day after the blatantly biased match report of Oldham's narrow 7 -1 home defeat by Cardiff in the South Wales Tribune and Herald in March 2002. By all accounts, I haven't missed much and knowing that I would be unable to give a positive answer to "Did you see that story in the paper?", my good friend Bill often drops me a line to draw my attention to any gardening related stories he thinks I might want to cast an eye over.
The latest missive from Bill concerned a story in The Independent who have jumped on the 'grow your own food' bandwagon in a big way.
Alarm bells should have rung when I saw the headline 'Grow your own veg - you'll dig the savings' but I soldiered on and was stunned to discover that Kate Hughes, the writer of the piece, claimed that 'a standard allotment can yield about a ton of vegetables'. Now I don't know what size allotment the lass had in mind but unless you're growing giant pumpkins around the clock, on a plot the size of a football pitch, you're not going to need industrial-sized scales.
I stopped reading when she suggested readers might try growing wheat in order that they could make their own bread. I believe that a letter from a reader the following week asked how a threshing machine could be operated in the confines of an allotment, so I was pleased to discover that I wasn't the only one who thought it was a daft idea.
I treated the family to a weekend in London recently and we hit the usual tourist haunts including Covent Garden. Amongst the stalls selling scented candles (they're bloody everywhere) was a 'working allotment' which was the centrepiece of the Spring Renaissance Festival.
I am not normally impressed by such blatant attempts at 'going green' but there were plenty of people showing a great deal of interest in it and a young woman, sat by the shed, apparently willing to offer growing advice to anyone interested.
I dutifully waited my turn, which is more than several European visitors were able to do, and decided to quiz the young lady about the current state of my rhubarb.
I'm afraid to say, despite my high standing in the allotment movement, that my rhubarb has created a certain amount of mirth amongst the plot holders.
Unlike everybody else's, my rhubarb has decided to flower several months early.
I do have a rough idea as to why this has happened but I thought I would get the advice of a fellow 'expert'
I was not prepared for the answer she gave me when I told her that the rhubarb was trying to flower and it must have shown in my face.
"Wow, fabulous", was her answer.
Now there are a lot of things in life which are 'fabulous', Andy Ritchie's injury time equaliser for Oldham in the Littlewoods Cup quarter final against Southampton in 1990, obviously springs to mind straight away but flowering rhubarb doesn't come halfway close.
Knowing my reaction in similar circumstances, I was bundled away by Mrs MV and it is true to say that I was a little bit lost for words. If Jocasta (which was probably what she was called) had answered "You're a pretty crap gardener then", I would have taken it like a man but I couldn't get her words out of my mind for days.
I have decided therefore to widen my campaign net to rid the world of the scented candle, feng shui decorators, decking 'experts' and now Patsy Stone imitators in dungarees. You have been warned.
Incidentally, if your rhubarb is flowering early it is likely that infertile soils and extreme drought may cause a flower stalk formation. Age may be another factor. Old plants tend to flower more than young ones.
Regardless of the reason, flower stalks should be promptly pulled and discarded. Plants will be less productive if allowed to flower and set seeds.
Either that or you're a crap gardener.

Another pretender to the throne

My views on TV gardeners are well documented. The people (and they know who they are) who are responsible for 'decking' should be banned from ever setting foot in a garden centre again. Acres of rainforest has probably been cleared so that Vince and Marjorie can 'entertain' the neighbours with their gas barbecue once there's a break in the clouds.
For me, there was only ever one gardening guru and that of course was Percy Thrower. Percy didn't need the help of horsey women in low cut t-shirts or feng shui advisors. His advice was accurate, helpful and innovative at the same time and there wasn't a obelisk in sight.
I fought off any ideas my allotment members had of inviting TV gardeners to our site. The insurance premiums go through the roof when Titchmarsh calls round and the Health and Safety issues associated with cameras, lighting and equipment are a nightmare.
I thought I had avoided any further mention of 'celebrity' gardeners but it appears one or two of the members, contrary to Association rules, have invited Radio 2's Terry Walton to pay us a visit. For those of you who don't know who he is, Walton is an advisor to the BBC programme Coal House and gives advice about growing vegetables on the Jeremy Vine show every week.
I decided to tune in to hear what he had to say and if you can put up with his Welsh accent, he is worth listening to.
I was particularly impressed with an answer he gave somebody who asked if April was too late to sow onion seed.
"Boxing Day is the day you sow onion seed" he replied, giving him instant kudos in this neck of the words, not only for the fact that he expects the excesses of Christmas to be finished by then but
for his no nonsense reply to a daft question.
I have decided to let the obvious breach of our rules pass this time and have invited Mr Walton to pay us a visit on May 17th around 3 pm.
I know this time clashes with Cardiff City kicking off in the FA Cup Final for the first time since 1927 but I am sure that Terry knows where his priorities lie and I've also informed him that he is more than welcome to bring along the barrel of beer he's got his foot on.