Leslie James Clow

Today would have been my father's 63rd birthday. He died almost 4 years ago of a heart attack, long before the world had had enough of him. We were as close as any two men have ever been and I think about him every day. I don't want to be morbid or mawkish, but to celebrate him by sharing some of the things he taught me, (and anyone else who stood at the bar for long enough to listen).

• Life is far too important to be taken seriously.
• Have another drink.
• Try not to litter your life with prudish and narrow-minded people; it's almost always because they're not getting laid and there's probably a good reason for that.
• Preparation method for cucumber; thinly slice, marinade in lightly seasoned vinegar for at least two hours, discard the cucumber and then throw away the vinegar.
• Have another drink.
• A man's toy box is never full.
• Everyone enjoys judging others and hates to be judged.
• Sex is a fascinating dichotomy; it's simultaneously important and trivial, serious and silly. Don't analyse, practice.
• We're here to make babies and look after the place.
• Fancy another drink?
• If you're searching for God, try looking in Yorkshire. It's fairly certain that's where he came from. And why would he have moved?
• Take time out to talk to animals and listen to what they say in return; it will be the most rewarding conversation you'll have all day.
• Always ask. It's surprising what you can get away with.
• Don't trust the seriously rich; it's almost impossible to get wealthy without screwing someone over along the way.
• Playing is better than not playing. If you play, you'll lose more often than you win. Learn to enjoy losing.
• Don't fear death; it's not the worst thing that can happen to you. The worst things are caused by your own fears.
• Ready for a drink yet?
• Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll have something to do until the pub opens.
• Never let your dingle dangle in the dirt.

If you knew my old man, raise a glass and remember. If you didn't get the chance to know him, raise a glass and think about what you missed. Cheers.

Self-improvers

I've always been a 'self-improver'. It started when I was a kid and it doesn't seem to be showing any sign of slowing down anytime soon. For most of my life, it's been a blessing. On the other hand, there are plenty of occasions when I wish I could just flip the switch and turn off the whole self-improvement thing. Just lie back and reflect on the need to do absolutely nothing of any value. But I can't. It's not the way I'm made.

What do I mean? It's hard to define exactly what 'self-improvement' or 'self-improvers' are all about. It's pretty easy to spot them though. They (we) are always on 'courses', or in the library, or trying to perfect a new trick, or learning a language, or training for the marathon, or...You get the picture. It's not just about being obsessive. There are loads of ways to be obsessive without aiming to achieve the slightest benefit; most 'avid collectors' or warriors in the 'World of Warcraft' fit this last category. No, this is something more specific than mere fascination and nerdiness. This is about facing up to the idea that you are never 'finished'. Harking back to the glory days of the great 'Amateur', pursuing the notion that the best things in your life are the things that you do for yourself and that this pursuit deserves all of your attention.

I've obsessively developed more tricks and skills than I can count. My life is peppered with certificates and half-abandoned apparatus, the things that chart my apoplectic progress through many fields of bizarre human endeavour. I may even request in my will that our loft is left untouched after my death, just to confuse future archaeologists to buggery. I wonder what strange religious practice they could surmise for a juggling club, a flipper, some harmonicas, a tripod and a compass?

Not unusually, I've just finished another course. No certificate though; shame, I could have put it with the other ones in the loft. The latest improvement, (over 8 weeks in evening classes at the local college), is in my 'Photoshop Skills (beginners)'. As usual, I enjoyed it thoroughly. I was thinking about the other 'improvers' on the course, while I was running on the treadmill in the gym at 6.30 the morning after, with a different set of 'improvers'. What did they all have in common? On the face of it, not much. In fact, there was quite some social distance between the old woman in the sweatshirt emblazoned with 'Dog Person' and Max the DJ, or Sam the ceramicist, (I think that means 'clever potter'). Their reasons for being there seemed to bare no real similarity either. The point of convergence only really emerged at the end of the last session, when the Old-Dog-Person-Woman announced that she'd discovered a class for 'Photoshop Skills (Intermediate)' at a college twenty miles away. Everyone agreed, we'd all see each other there in January. Failing that, there is always 'Conversational Italian' on Tuesdays. The simple fact of it is that doing something useful, however irrelevant, is always better than doing nothing. Now where did I put that Italian dictionary? Oh yes, I remember now, it's in the loft with the others.

Still a pity about the certificate, though. I could always make myself one in Photoshop.

The 'Why' Factor?

I'm not usually one for ranting and moaning about popular culture, but this has been building a head of steam for some time and now and I just have to vent. It's more than an irritant; I really believe that we should start to fear the end of creative self-expression and freedom of choice as a monolithic threat that is already hurtling towards us. What's the creeping culture-cancer? 'The X Factor', that's the life-threatening disease to all we hold dear. There, I've said it. I assume that the moment this blog is posted, Simon 'smug' Cowell's cyber police will start to hunt me down as a deviant sociopath, revealed as the latest obstacle on his superhighway to world domination through light entertainment manipulation. So be it. Bring it on, Dark Lord Cowell. Some of us will not go gently into that bland night. I've said it and it feels better already.



What's my problem with the 'Vex Factor'? It assumes we're all mind-numbed sheep, incapable differentiating real talent from media-pap. It plays to the lowest common denominator in order to sell the most units of the least challenging rubbish to an unquestioning majority who have long since forgotten that there are alternatives. None of this would ordinarily cause me a moment's concern. You probably assume (quite rightly) that I spend my Saturday nights doing something improving and edifying, so why the dumbed-down TV paranoia? My problem with it came into clearer focus on Saturday night, while I was watching David Ford perform at the Boardwalk in Sheffield. For those of you who haven't yet had the pleasure, David Ford is one of Britain's most talented singer/songwriters, who plays a vast array of instruments and records them as loops into a sequencer to create a one-man-orchestrated wall of sound. His playing is phenomenal and the quality and integrity of his songs are doubtless; he sings well-crafted songs about things that matter. Good on him, and you're probably assuming that David Ford is bound for stardom on the gilded road to riches. Far from it. Two years ago, David toured as a three piece band. Now he is on his own, because he can't financially support anyone but himself. Sure, some of his adverse fortunes are due to the recession. But most of them are due to the market for good and original live music in small venues being in decline. Meanwhile, the album sales of Vex Factor wannabees keep climbing, as do the ticket allocations and prices of 'stadium entertainment'. Trust me, there is no comparison between the raw talent of David Ford in a small room for £12 and the over-produced 'experience' of sixty-somethings Fleetwood Mac 100 yards away for £80 a go.

Another personal favourite, Thea Gilmore, (undoubtedly the best female singer/songwriter working today), has even gone to the lengths of launching a whole new 'business model' to help her stay afloat. Thea has asked the core of her fan-base to subscribe to her annually, for which they will receive downloads of material and access to gigs that non-subscribers will never get to enjoy. Real talent shouldn't have to try this hard. Not at the 'business' of show business, anyway.

If you have a mind to, support David or Thea and catch them as they tour this autumn. If you don't have a mind, just stay in and play Saturday night 'Simon Says', where he will try to convince you that musical talent equates to covering tired ballads with over-wrought vocal pyrotechnics. If you believe him, then I guess your 2-CD collection of Mariah Scary's greatest hit and Whiney Houston's golden great will suffice. If that's you, then maybe you shouldn't venture out at all. I wouldn't want you to get frightened, confused or hurt on my account. I have to go now, I think I just heard the Dark Lord's troopers knocking at the door.

Dog daze

I am in love and his name is Woody. My wife Lynn knows all about it and she's been very understanding; she loves Woody too. I whisper not of that love that formerly dare not speak its name. Woody is a bit of a disco cowboy (as the picture clearly shows) but not the kind you remember from the Village People. The love of which I speak is that which an Englishman naturally has for his dog. Because Woody is a 4-month-old Miniature Schnauzer puppy.

Why the name 'Woody'? As a family, we wrestled for weeks before we could agree a name. First, my son Robert wanted to call him something a bit 'gangsta', until we reminded him that this particular breed was about as 50-Cent as gingerbread. Then Robert and I wanted to call him 'Dave', you know, after Rodney. My daughter and Lynn tried to make sense prevail, worried about the attention they may get wandering the streets shouting 'Dave'. In the end, our thoughts were crystallised as we learned that his proper Kennel Club pedigree name is 'Dreamstars Cowboy'. We debated cowboy names, dismissed 'Clint' (a strong front-runner for a while) and settled on 'Woody'. As with all names, in no time at all the strange becomes the familiar and all the rejected options forgotten. Although in my opinion he still looks a bit like a Dave from the back.

I am really trying to fight my tendencies to treat him like a spoiled child, constantly reminding myself that he's 'just a dog'. I used to pitty those poor saps who designer-dressed their dogs, fed them from the best china and only went on holiday to places that poochie chose. God forbid that it should ever become so, but I now know how that madness can begin. Even Robert wants to dress Woody up as Yoda for halloween; I don't mind the canine fancy dress so much, but what's scary about Yoda? I've told him to stop being so ridiculous. Woody Kruger is a much better idea.

I fear that we have unwittingly fallen prey to becoming a stereotype. No one wants to get too Freudian about these things, but it would appear that Woody is a classic baby-substitute for two soon to be empty-nesters. We have tried to convince ourselves that we bought Woody because Robert has always wanted a dog. I am struggling to explain why we have waited until Robert is 17 and close to leaving for college. Maybe we just can't bare the thought of a house without something smelling vaguely 'funky' sprawled across the lounge or peeing on the carpet. In these regards, Robert's work is done now, apprentice Woody can carry the mantle from here. Come to think of it, Woody is naturally better at that sort of stuff. I can't remember when Robert last chewed my slippers in a cute-and-endearing way.

Whatever the deeply subconscious motivations for getting him, Woody is here to stay and we're all soppily devoted. I'm out scoopin' poop with the best of them and wondering what I did to fill my time before wrestling with squeaky toys became my primary focus. And I wouldn't have it any other way. What do you think, Dave (sorry) I mean Woody?

Sorry for the silence

Sorry, folks. I know I've gone quiet on you for the last few weeks. I haven't been struck down by terminal shyness or rendered catatonic by writers' block. I just needed a little time to gather my thoughts, fight a few demons and plan a couple of projects that I'll be telling you all about before too long. A fuller blog and some new pictures will be out in the ether this week. I'll make up for not paying you enough attention. I promise.

Grass is greener

So we're back in rain-lashed Blighty and we've managed to turn the battle tide of weeds that had massed troops across the plains of P28 while we were in sun-ravaged Crete. It really is good to be back. I know that makes me sound like an ungrateful and spoiled tourista, (especially at a time when lots of folks don't want to commit to holiday spending in the new economic dark ages), but it's the truth. We all need to chill out and a little 5-star grown up couple time is always welcome; Lynn and I have certainly supped long and deep at that particular cup during the last two weeks, and the batteries are full again. But for me, one of the most important reasons for holidaying is to remind you why you love living at home. I strongly suspect that the first time I stay in some far-flung destination and don't want to come back to England's green and pleasant, will be the time I Google for the emigration forms. Beautiful as Crete is, I won't be visiting the website of the Greek Department of Homeland and Settlement any time soon. The reason's a simple one. In the inimitable words of Cole Porter, 'It's too darn hot'.

Those who know me will testify that I love the sun. I was born fairly olive skinned and it only takes two days of baking to turn me into a good facsimile of a local almost everywhere we've been. Granted, if we ever make it to Tanzania on that safari Lynn bangs on about, I may not be able to pull off my tanning camouflage trick quite so easily. Fact remains that it's worryingly easy to get a tan in Crete. Our first Sunday of the holiday was reportedly the hottest day in Crete for 20 years. It topped-out at well over 40 degrees that day. Nearly every day approached 40 degrees and it's only the gentle sea breeze that makes the heat bearable. My presence and the thermometer-busting temperatures were not a coincidence. If you fancy the Cretan deluxe loved-up romantic experience, you'd better get onto it in the next few years, because global warming is going to take away your options.

Every local we talked to confirmed that we were lucky to live in England where we have weather. All Cretans seem to love London; shopping, cold, rain and snow were the trip-advisor essentials they quoted for their destination of choice. Irini, our favourite Maitre D', longs to take her children back to London. In her own words, 'It's too hot here. The sun melts our brains.' Our gin supplier and purveyor of local wisdom for the fortnight was Kostas. Now in his 60s and recovering from a quadruple by-pass operation, Kostas has the neighbourhood supermarket and cafe scene pretty much sown up. But Kostas is most proud of his garden; a gargantuan spread of 5000 square metres devoted to fruit and veg growing. Allotmenteering cuts across all language barriers, and we were soon swapping veggie-based advice. I moaned about the weeds and rain. Kostas moaned about the lack of water and the cost and effort of watering his plot every single day. Crete has had 5 days rain this year and it's becoming more like a sub-Saharan Libya in terms of what Kostas can grow. It will only get worse for Kostas and we resigned ourselves to agree that allotmenteering has a future in England, but not on Crete. I promised him that I'd put in a good word down at the Plots if he ever needs to join the Attican diaspora in search of cooler and wetter ground in the north. The whole experience was a stark reminder and I left wondering how long it would be before P28 had lemon trees.

And so to home. I still have to buy the lemons, but it's a small price to pay for some kind of temperate growing future. I'm even appreciating the weeds a little more; they are, after all, part of what makes it green and pleasant. Of course, those of you who have followed the link on this page to the hotel we stayed in will still think me ungrateful and quite mad. But you know what they say, 'You can take the boy out of the shed...'

Come share my lettuce

I know it's been a while. I can't claim to have been overly busy or side-tracked in any way, but it seems to be turning into the kind of summer I remember from my childhood. One filled with interesting little diversions, friends, long hot late evenings outside and cricket. Since I left the long school holidays of 'playing out', I can't recall being so aware of the season or the weather; and it's all down to P28 and the creak and groan of growing plants and swelling veggies. The good stuff is starting to hit the plate thick and fast now. Last night I managed to make a curry that had almost all been grown on the plot and it was all the better for it. But the biggest and best use I've found so far for all this greengrocery is a simpler one...to give it away.

You're probably thinking that I've completely 'hippied out' and it's only a matter of time until I crochet my own kaftan and found the allotmenteering commune, but that's not where this is going. I didn't realise until now just what a huge part sharing has to play in the whole allotment thing. The fact of the matter is, that for every one parsnip I can dig up and bring home, I'm just as likely to be offered two by my neighbours on P1 to P60. And just like them, I've been madly introducing my growing colleagues to the wonders of Swiss Chard and the taste of my shallots. Why all this give and take? The answer is one of pride in achievement and the sure and certain knowledge that none of this can be owned, just enjoyed...and shared.

A high point for me so far has been the chance to share P28 with my main Aussie homies, Nick and Meg. I love them to pieces, but the main reason it's been a high point is another reciprocation; another sharing thing. When P28 and I first became acquainted, (me a not-so-green-fingered-greenhorn and P28 a wasteland of brambles and nettles), Nick and Meg were the first folks who came down to see it. I've never known anyone be as enthusiastic as Nick about the back-breaking prospect of a summer's digging, even if it is your mate that's got to dig while you fly back to a New South Wales spring spent on the beach. This wasn't anything as mean-spirited or everyday as mere schadenfreude. This was the genuine joy of knowing what was to come and that your mate is going to share in that knowledge. Before he'd landed in Sydney, I'd received my Amazon gift-bound copy of a guide to Permaculture. Over the months of toil and grind, I couldn't help thinking about Nick and Meg and how much I wanted to please them when they came back to Blighty. It's the little things that keep you digging in the pissing rain.

And so it came to pass. A couple of weeks ago we all went down the plot and sank a few bevvies, nibbled on a few peas and grinned. We'll do it again next week, before they fly off again for another NSW spring on the beach. This time I've promised a bit of shed-cookery. We'll take some photos and maybe a little video too. You know, so that you can share too. 'Veggie Porn', that's what Nick calls allotment photography. Maybe it's not such a healthy obsession after all. Still, too late now. Anyone want to share these broad beans?

School's out...For ever

Yesterday, I signed off on what will almost certainly be the last academic thing that I do in my life. Most people walk away from school or college with a big smile on their face and I'm not saying that I'm unduly saddened to leave it all behind. It's just that I've been doing it for so long that it's kind of become a part of what I am, and letting go of a part of your identity is a different matter entirely. At the moment, I'm still an External Examiner for Huddersfield Uni, but yesterday was the last exam board that I need to attend. The report's written and emailed, hands have been shaken and students and lecturers congratulated or chastised accordingly. Job done. Now I'm left to reflect on the fact that it's been 26 years since I first walked into a university and now (apart from (hopefully) my kids' graduations) I have no real reason to go back through the doors of those cosy ivory towers and I think I'm going to miss it.

It seems like only yesterday that I was wandering round Oxford with Nick after an entrance interview, trying my best to have my socialist principles appalled by every hooray I met. Or going up north with Chris, when the snow made my train 3 hours late into Durham and I slid on my arse in my best suit and pitched up like a drowned rat. They still made me an offer though.

For the record, I've had the genuine pleasure of attending 5 universities. York, Lancaster, Durham, Hull and Huddersfield. In that order. I've finished triumphantly and barely, wasted my time and been wasted, packed it in and struggled on through undergraduate degrees, diplomas and certificates, masters, M Phils and PhDs. Tasted the chalk dust, man and boy, for 25 years. I've examined and been examined, all the vivas and dissertations, the essays and presentations, the notes cards and late nights have all been and gone. I've had papers published and experienced the arcane thrill of being made a Research Fellow; there's something fantastically old-school about being a 'fellow' of anything. I think it makes you think of 'for he's a jolly good, etc...' And now, like Mr. Chips, I can see the hundreds of faces file past me through the mist. Unlike Mr. Chips, most of those faces come with bad 80s hairdos and drug-addled and bloodshot eyes.

Looking back, what do I think? Was it all worth it? No-brainer. Of course it was. I wouldn't have missed any of it for a minute, even the crappy stuff. Because deep down, I have always believed that the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake is an important and beautiful thing. Sitting around destroying your braincells with like-minded and interesting people is also an important and beautiful thing. All those who can, should. But they should have the chance to do it the way it was back in the day. Before all the fee-paying and the 'Mrs. Thatcher's-brave-new-world-self-development-for-money-and-career-status' rubbish that students have to put up with nowadays. I do like being around students, they're a breath of fresh air and a reminder of what it was like. Lynn can't stand them though and never could. She thinks they're all feckless and need a dose of work to sort them out. That reminds me. Alicia, have you tidied your room up yet?

It's odd at SCUBA-school

I have a new obsessive hobby. Those of you who know me well will have seen all of this before. You'll recognise all the signs of the usual cycle of the autistically obsessed. I have read 2 textbooks (exhausting Swinton library), I have enrolled on a training course and now I'm already contemplating the necessary research before I make my first (all-important) equipment purchase. The focus of this new romance? SCUBA diving.

It started with Lynn and I looking for a holiday that would give Bob something to do while he was tagging along on holiday with us. SCUBA seemed a great choice, because Bob and I have done a fair bit of snorkeling together in different seas around the world. So we were all good to go (to the Maldives as a matter of fact) when Bob decided he didn't want to come! Turned us down flat and prefers to stay in sunny Swinton with his mates and tool about on BMXs for his 10 week summer holiday. I know, it doesn't make any sense to me either, but there's no point in trying to interpret the workings of the 16-year-old male's brain; from what I can remember it's all driven by the promise of girls and illicit drinking and not even the Indian Ocean can compete with that heady mix. So instead, Lynn and I will go it alone, to be pampered in adult luxury in Crete. The trouble is, having thought about becoming a SCUBA diver, I can't shake the idea from my head. The upshot is that the Cretan holiday will involve some diving, at a PADI diving school in the hotel grounds. And to make sure I squeeze the most out of it, I have enrolled at my local diving school, where I have already passed some theory exams and had my first lesson. If you've never done it, I can heartily recommend it as a genuinely weird way to pass an hour or two. Maybe the weirdness was caused by the fact that I was discovering the fabulous underwater world that is Chapeltown swimming baths. Fairly short on sharks and coral is Chapeltown.

I can't wait to be exploring the wrecks and sunken Minoan cities of the southern Med. I still can't believe that Bob's not wanting to get into something this technical and ripe with the opportunity to spend hours browsing online equipment stores. Just like his old man, Bob loves to spend a day price-comparing top-end-specification nonsense to satisfy his latest obsession. At the moment, Bob's obsession is BMX frames and pedal cranks. Way to go, son. Now, where did I put that wetsuit brochure?

Getting there

It's been a really big fortnight down at Plot 28. I don't know how many hours I've put in to sculpting the land during the last two weeks, but if I'm expecting to be repaid in vegetables, then it will take years of produce-stuffed laziness to offset the effort I've expended. And I haven't toiled alone; Lynn and Mike have both done their share of the graft too, so the theoretical wages bill really is stacking up. None of this griping matters though, because a tremendous thing has happened. I have eaten my own home-grown food for the first time. Spinach. Fabulous spinach, (Compania to be exact), and no spinach ever tasted so good. I can safely assert that it was the smuggest salad ever consumed. Everything is growing beautifully and it won't be long before my spinach-based diet will have a little more variety. I say everything is growing, but I have had my one (and so far only) failure this month. My butternut squash has given up the ghost on being planted out. Despite the tenderest care in hardening it off in the coldframe, it has withered and died. In life, isn't it always the ones that crave the most attention that prove the biggest disappointment in the end? In future I shall treat 'em mean and keep 'em keen.

Plot 28 now has significant infrastructure. A greenhouse and a shed have been lovingly erected and now I have somewhere to store all the useless rubbish that people shower on me nowadays ('because it will come in useful for something at the allotment') and my tools. I can't wait for it to rain, just so that I can hide in my hut and not have to stand out in the deluge like some 50s dissident sent to the Gulag. The shed is 'recycled'; that means it is old and fairly ramshackle, but it oozes authenticity and integrity and I wouldn't have it any other way. The shed and the railway sleepers on which it stands were given to me by my mates down at the allotment. They have also found guttering and a water butt and they reaffirm my faith in my community every time I meet them. The greenhouse has been designed and hand crafted from wood and transparent corrugated plastic sheet and (if I say so myself) looks the b****cks! Mike and I built it on my deck in the back garden, before disassembling it and re-erecting it at Plot 28 over three days in the pouring rain. Poor Mike. I'm going to have to feed him up on produce just to get his strength back. It is already stocked with 16 tomato plants, 8 peppers (all grown from seed)and 2 bought aubergines plants. I have to go to open the greenhouse door at 6.00 am, before the gym each morning, and go back to water and close up each night. It's a real commitment this allotmenteering lark! Still, more than worth it though. More spinach anyone?

Festival Fever

At this time every year I feel really tempted to crawl into the loft, find my old tent, dust it off and head for the nearest music festival. They tell me that festival business is booming and Britain will stage over 500 festivals this summer. Not that many years ago there were no more than a dozen to choose from and I did more than my fair share of crusty festival-going. Reading, Glasto, Stratford, Leeds, I've waived my lighter at all of them. I wasn't just going to festivals, I was being paid to go to festivals. One of the few perks of working with teenagers for a living, was that I got to ferry them to festivals and make sure that they came safely home again; dazed, confused, oddly different in a new-worldly sort of way...but safe. Onerous as such duties were, I still managed to find the time to see every band that I had on my list. And that was the kind of list that any serious self-respecting Q-reading muso would have. It was a long list. I even saw bands that were woeful, just to tick them off the list; Bjork, American Music Club, Ice Cube, Hole...I'll never get that wasted time back. My only real regret was missing David Bowie, who played while I was stuck in a two-mile-12-hour traffic jam just outside Stratford. The pain of lost opportunity has only recently subsided.

Time is the great healer. It's also the great deceiver. When I get festival wander-lust, I seem to forget the discomfort, the standing up for 12 hours each day, the queues, the warm expensive beer, the sweatiness, the toilets (OMG the toilets!) and the tripping over tents in the dark. I conveniently forget that my last festival experience culminated in a moment of shocking revelation. It was 1998, I was moshing in a dance tent to Shed 7, when it suddenly appeared to me that I was the oldest person there; including the band. It was an epiphany and I couldn't reconcile myself to the jarring reality that all the other 30-something musos were at home, probably listening to Gram Parsons on Denon hi-fi systems with cold beer in hand. I haven't been back. But every year I ask myself the question, 'One more time?'

This year, the answer will still be 'No'. But it's worth noting that this year's Saturday night Glasto headliner will be a 59 year-old Bruce Springsteen. Sunday will be topped by the 63 year-old Neil Young. So maybe there's a chance for us all to go back. We'll be throwing a bit of a party to watch the Boss from the comfort of the lounge at Clow Towers; a few nibbles and cocktails, 3-course dinner, clean toilets and then, when it's over, off to a real bed. Much better than the real thing. Anyway I saw Springsteen live in 1985 at St James Park in Newcastle. Neil Young was ticked off the list at Reading in 1994, (or was it '93?) Now where did I put that list...?

Allotment wisdom

As some of you know (and others will have guessed) I'm still a relative newby to the whole allotmenteering world. But that really shouldn't stop me offering up my hard-earned wisdom for those who wish to follow the way of the dibber and spade. In fact, I'm convinced that novice status bears no relation to the quality of the advice you can give in gardening circles. Some of my neighbours down at plot 28 have been 'tendin'' for years and most of their words of guidance have proved to be a load of old manure, (although their encouragement is always welcome). From this I have deduced that either their allotments are growing despite their interventions, or they're keeping all the real trade secrets to themselves. Either way, the only determining factors in passing on gardening wisdom successfully are the grave sincerity of your demeanour as you impart advice, (preferably in hushed bluff Yorkshire tones), and a solemn nod to the grateful recipient. Some of my compadres have perfected this method to the stage where they no longer need to use language; like Yorkshire Jedi, they can just nod and scowl meaningfully; those in the know will nod and scowl back.

So for what it's worth, here are the immutable allotment lessons learned in my first year.

• Gardeners can control the weather. Go to dig and it will be baking hot, go to water and it will rain.
• Everything is genetically programmed to try to survive. Kindness is the biggest killer, especially too much water or light.
• All allotmenteers are paranoid and consumed with envy. Over the fence, your neighbours' plants always look like they are bigger, prettier and greener than your own.
• Quantity surveying does not come naturally on the allotment. A patch of digging will take three times as long as you guessed, multiply the barrow-journeys by a factor of 10 from your worst estimate and a small pack of seeds contains 6 months worry and work.
• The world is full of evil unseen enemies that exist to starve your family. Slugs, bugs, birds and rabbits, give them no quarter. They are your mortal foe, so put away all childish thoughts and plot against them, as they so surely conspire against you.
• The bigger the seed or plant, the easier it will be to grow. Trees are fantastic; carrots are a nightmare. Learn to enjoy big food.
• Try to introduce small amounts of weeds to your diet. If you can evolve your gene-line to thrive on weeds then your descendants will eventually populate the globe. Weeds grow everywhere, faster than everything and when all the useful plants have been nibbled by slugs, there will always be a pristine crop of nettles to rely on.

Fellow Jedi take heed and welcome to the green-side. Here endeth the first (but probably not the last) lesson.

Twenty Years

Today is one of those days when I just can't stop myself getting lost in thought. In fact, for the last few days I've been more than a bit contemplative. The cause of all this self-reflection is simple; today my daughter, Alicia, is 20 years old. The plain fact of the matter is that I have a child who is no longer a teenager. So far, everyone who has become aware of this has responded in the same way; a smile, a shrug and a gentle acknowledgment that it signifies inescapable evidence that middle-age has set in. Advancing age has never been a difficult issue for me, but I am starting to take exception to those folks who insist that it's always a bad thing.

I have always regarded the day of Alicia's birth as the most significant sea-change moment in my life. At 5.20am on April 28th 1989 I became an adult. A proper responsible grown-up. So in many ways, today is my 20th anniversary of adulthood, and I can't help thinking that most of my life is much better than it was back in the day. OK, so I finally have to accept that my eyesight isn't so hot and reading glasses await me. Granted, the old hair is more than a little grey at the temples, but at least it's still all there. And it's true, if I party past midnight nowadays, there's every chance that it will take me two days to recover. But is all this that important? On the positive side, most people think I'm more patient and considerate than I was back in 1989. I'm certainly more content in the realisation that I don't have all the answers and that saving the world isn't all my burden to carry. Physically, I've never been so fit or strong and I'm in much better shape than I was when Alicia was born. I have a great and fulfilling career that was completely unknown and uncharted territory for me back then. Most importantly of all, Lynn and I are still together in the same way we always have been, (even if that makes the kids cringe from time to time).

So what's the big deal? Bring on the dancing girls and celebrate I say. Just to be clear what I mean by that, Alicia will rave hard until about 5.00am tomorrow and I'll have a curry and an early night. After all, I'm not getting any younger.

Work and work

Today I went back to my day-job, after my customary fortnight's holiday at Easter. Nothing remarkable in that; the emails have stacked-up, staffing issues have flared-up and died down in my absence and my staff team have done their usual stirling job of keeping-on perfectly well without me. Just another post-holiday return to work. Except, for me, this one feels very different.

The difference is that for the past two weeks I have been toiling down on Plot 28 and busying myself raising plants from seeds...and I've really enjoyed myself. Now I really understand those self-sufficiency wannabees who claim that they are too busy to go to work. Sitting at my desk and pondering the memos and draft accounts, I keep wondering how the carrots are doing and whether I should be mulching the raspberries? Nothing is going to be the same as it was before I saw the first green leaf appear from the first seed I sowed. I don't want to sound all 'born-again' about it, but it is a real everyday kind of magic.

For the record, and for those of you who are keen to eat the goods later this year, plenty of progress has been made. Strawberries, apples, cherries, raspberries, blackcurrants, parsnips, peas, carrots, beans, onions, shallots, garlic, spinach and chard all in and doing well. The potatoes are chitting nicely and will be ready for planting in the next 10 days. Tomatoes, peppers, chillies, squash, sprouts and leeks adorn all our windowsills and will be in the ground when they are ready. Unfortunately, I was too enthusiastic with the courgettes and, like an over-pampered and spoiled first child, they are too 'leggy' and can't support themselves. I'll try again.

On a final note, I have scrounged a glass door from a skip and built the biggest cold frame in the Northern hemisphere. Who said my woodworking skills weren't up to scratch? Oh yes, it was my woodwork teacher as I recall. That's probably why I've been flying a desk all these years. Back to the day job then.

Time to play fair

OK, so MPs have been outed again playing fast and loose with their expenses and maximising their take-home by defining their domestic arrangements in any way that suits. Perhaps, in these most cynical of times, we should not be surprised that the Home Secretary would include a claim for a bath-plug (cost 88p) and some dodgy porn for her husband, in an attempt to max-out her £23,000 per year allowance for her second home, (which is, in fact her first or 'real home' if we accept that she doesn't really spend most nights sleeping on her sister's couch).

Don't get me wrong, I believe in public service and I appreciate the effort of everyone who puts themselves in the firing-line to deliver difficult public-sector jobs. By and large, I've always found public sector workers to be 'in it' for all the right reasons, and doing thankless work for much less pay than their private sector counterparts. But appearing to be relatively clean in comparison to reckless 'snout-in-trough-not-my-problem' investment bankers just isn't good enough.

I work in the charity sector, where we accept all of the 'private sector' risks that competition brings, but we face those risks with a set of ethics and an openness to public scrutiny that is unrivalled by colleagues in other walks of life. If city bankers had to account for their businesses like I have to present charity accounts, we wouldn't all be having to bail them out with our grand-children's inheritance. If a Labour Home Secretary looks like she's on the take, is it any wonder that the likes of Fred Goodwin show no remorse in getting away with being bad businessmen and still expecting us to provide them with the comfortable old age that they've denied to millions of others?

Seems simple. Run your business like it was a charity and manage your investments as sustainably as you would tend your allotment.

Spring at last

This weekend, Plot 28 was filled with the sights, sounds and smells of spring. The sunshine on Saturday afforded me my first opportunity this year to get my dibber out and I didn't waste my chance. It does an allotmenteers heart the power of good to see his dibber glinting in the early spring sunshine. Thanks to Chris and Elly's stirling efforts at Christmas, I can safely assert that I now have the biggest dibber to be found anywhere in the County.

I wasted no time in planting two beds with onions, shallots and garlic and then I passed a happy afternoon preparing a new trench for the raspberry canes that should be with me this weekend. Sunday was given over to mulching; a strenuous and solitary job, but none the less enjoyable for it. Plot 28 will be filling-up thick and fast in coming weeks and I'll keep you up to date with my progress.

For those of you suffering a twinge of dibber-envy, remember this; it's not the size of your dibber, it's how you fill the hole. Happy dibbing.

A conspiracy of plots?

In a comment on an earlier post, my good Antipodean friend Nick Galvin has alerted me to the fact that I have competition in the Plot 28 world. An alternative flagrant claim to the Plot 28 brand can be found at www.dougmartin.co.uk You may want to pay a visit to the competition, but I wouldn't advise it; I've been and it's about as interesting as watching your borlotti beans grow. (Sorry Doug).

There are dark forces at work here, because a Blospot site of the same name used to exist, but like an overgrown and forgotten allotment, has long since been abandoned. Perhaps this was just Doug up to his old tricks again, but could it have been another conspirator who is still out there harbouring delusions of a claim to my birthright?

If that wasn't enough to convince you of the existence of an unsettling underground movement, there is an even more shocking piece of evidence. Go to www.plot28.com and you'll discover that someone has ill-advisedly made a bad Spanish movie of the same name. The film's themes? Unnerving coincidences, subterfuge and illegal claims to the property of others. Spooky, eh?

It's never too late

The Italians never fail to amaze and surprise. Falling onto the welcome mat this morning came a letter from the Municipal Police in Florence, advising me of my failure to observe a traffic restriction in downtown Florence...in August 2007. Apparently, it's going to cost me 108 euros to clear my name. For anyone who has had the dubious pleasure of driving in Florence, my discretion will come as no great shock. Before you can enter moving traffic, you must first shake a 6 to start. Any attempt to move around the city requires you to recreate the chase scene from the Italian Job. That's why I don't doubt that I could easily have contravened some sneaky Italian law and the Florentines must be congratulated for the technology that has captured my transgression; pity the same technology hasn't been used to let me know about it in the intervening 18 months. Opening the post from now on is going to be a much more exciting experience. I wonder if they've discovered the time I went the wrong way down a one-way-street in Corsica in 2002? What about that freak rickshaw incident in Bali in 2005? Anyway, it doesn't pay to be bitter about these things. One thing's for sure though, I'm definitely going to be shouting for the Welsh against the Azzuri in today's rugby. Unless they've uncovered the time I double parked in Rhyll last year...

Not-so-comic Relief

OK, so it's Red Nose Day again. I know it makes me sound like an old killjoy, but it's probably the least funny day on the calendar. Everywhere there are people straining to be amusing and force-laughing at folks in their pyjamas. Don't get me wrong, I totally get the need for national children's charity appeals (for two years in the 90s Comic Relief even paid my wages) but must we insist that we are entertained before we will part with our cash? And another thing, they must get rid of the whole red nose theme. The only people associated with red noses (apart from alcoholics) are clowns. Laurel and Hardy were funny. Clowns are just a little sinister.

Exercising evangelists

In the gym this morning I met an american evangelist. She was reading a book that promoted the idea of 'choosing to be chaste'. I couldn't help thinking that there is little wonder that the church has no point of contact with young people. Perhaps that's the solution to our teenage pregnancy problem; find God, stop having fun, go to the gym to work out your frustration.

New to this blogging lark

Maybe it's a sign of middle age that I should decide that I need to share my thoughts on a blog site. I'm not sure of my motivation and I don't really care to analyse it too much. I just really want to find a better way to stay in touch with my friends than a round of mindless posts on Facebook. Anyway, the blogging will let me upload photos and videos to entertain my mates and excruciate my family. As I work on this thing, let me know what you think.