The Idiot Gardener

WARNING: This site contains information on gardening, brewing, curing meat,

building shit and hunting, all done in a piss-poor manner. It is not suitable for the

feeble-minded, the weak and lame, those of a nervous disposition, vegans and

vegetarians (and those other ones that only eat fish and the occasional bacon

sandwich - I think they're called 'hypocrites'), those who practice any

manner of folk singing or dancing, people named Colin or fans of Barry Gibb.

Bloody boring gardeners? Think again!

Now, this post has been inspired partly by Is at Tattie Bogle (who has to prepare a speech on gardening), and partly by the fact that I went to a local horticultural event, and realised that I’ve had more fun allowing my Mexican dentist to rip out my bloody teeth! Now, I accept that for some people, gardening is a competitive sport. I also accept that for a few, it’s a high brow past-time to be shared with vicars and dried-up husks of old ladies. However, for the rest of us imbeciles, it’s a bloody hobby, something to do between life’s drunken escapades and our inevitable deaths.

Thinking about it, when gardening events occur, there’s not much in the way of “kick off your shoes and have a beer” entertainment. There’s a lot of judging, much pontification, and a generous serving of pomposity, and the general public (that’s us lot) turn up, pay the entrance fee, and generally mingle with a mixture of ignorance and expectation. So, what’s wrong with also chucking in a bit of light entertainment? What’s wrong with a few laughs? Why don’t we have … a bit of gardening comedy?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Paddy O’Furniture!

Trust me, if you think that’s a really shit joke, you’d best log off right now! Also, some of the following “act” might contain rude words – very very rude offensive words – or references to sex, or both, so if you’re young and impressionable, what the bloody hell are you doing reading a blog about gardening? Why aren’t you out in the fresh air, taking drugs, drinking cheap cider and having unprotected sex? Honestly, when I was a lad…

The real decision, naturally, is whether Paddy O’Furniture will tick the boxes of the horticultural community. I’ve included a little flavour of the proposed act, and if you’d be kind enough, you can tell me whether I should present it to the RHS to see if they’ll give me a spot at Chelsea next year.

Ladies and gentlemen, now it’s time to kick off your wellies, leave your forks at the door, grab a beer and relax. Let’s give a big RHS Chelsea Flower show welcome to the man who put the Tit into Titchmarsh; it’s Paddy O’Furniture!

*

Good afternoon, one and all. I hope you’re enjoying Chelsea flower show. I was going to have a show garden, but I didn’t get it ready in time. I spent too long hardening off in the cold frame. Still, that’s what pornography does for you.

Talking of pornography, have you noticed that gardening is a bit like masturbation? You spend a long time working at it until your muscles ache, and before you know it everything has gone to seed! There you go; gardening, much like wanking, only it’s slower, you do it outdoors, and sometimes your family watches!

Talking of sex, my wife went to an Anne Summers party the other night. When she came home she got dressed up in stocking and suspenders, and called me into the bedroom. I asked what she wanted. She handed me a strip of silk, and said I should blindfold her. I did, and then asked her what she wanted me to do next. She told me to look in the Anne Summers bag. It contained some pink furry handcuffs, and she told me to tie her to the bed. I did, and then asked her what she wanted me to do next.

She replied, “You can do whatever you want!” So I fucked off down the allotment and dug in some manure!

Down the allotment, there’s a bloke on the next plot to mine, and he’s a bit short-sighted. The other day he mistook a can of pesticide for sugar, and after a morning cuppa, he turned blue and was rushed into hospital.

The nurse telephoned in his wife and called her in. When she arrived, the doctor sat her down and said, “Mrs Jones, your husband has sustained severe organ damage, but with a stress-free life and plenty of care, he’ll be fine for many years to come. What you must do is every morning, cook him a good breakfast, a big fry-up with all the trimmings. Then take him to the allotment and let him potter about. It’ll be good for him. At lunchtime, take him a hamper with his favourite foods, maybe a few cold beers too. After he’s eaten, let him rest for a while. If he wants any … sexual favours … then grant them immediately. Whatever he fancies, he gets, okay? Pick him up from the allotment when his dinner is ready, then let him sit back and have a few beers. Again, at night, any sexual favours, let him have what he wants. Don’t ask him to cook, clean, shop, anything. He needs rest and relaxation, and he’ll live a long and full life.”

The wife then collected her husband and drove him home. On the way home he said to her, “What did the doctor say, darling?”

She looked at him, sighed, and replied, “He said you’re going to die!”

The bloke on the other side of my plot was planting out some leeks, and as he bent down to pop a seedling into its hole, a dog spied him, got hold of the seat of his trousers, pulled then down, and quick as a flash he was up and humping the man up his back passage. Eventually the gardener managed to beat the dog off with his shovel, and the mutt takes off through the allotment.

The gardener quickly pulled up his trousers and gave chase. At first the dog hid amongst the bean wigwams, but the angry gardener soon spotted him and charged forward, shovel waving angrily. Next the dog tried to hide behind a cold frame, but again the gardener soon spied him and the chase was on once more.

For nearly an hour the dog fled from one hiding spot to another, across the plots and back again, with the angry gardener giving chase. Eventually the dog rounded a shed to find another elderly gardener sat in a deck chair, flat cap on his head, reading the paper. The dog snarled and barked, and the elderly gardener jumped up, dropping the paper, and ran off, his cap falling from his head as he went.

The dog, thinking quickly, picked up the cap and popped it on his head, grabbed the paper and settled into the deck chair. Eventually the angry gardener ran up. On seeing the figure in the cap he asked, “Have you seen a dog go past?”

The dog replied, “What, the one that bummed the gardener over by the leek beds?”

The angry gardener dropped his shovel, and sobbed, “Oh no, is it in the papers already?”

A few short ones for the older gardeners out there.

What do call a man with a rake up his arse?

Alan Titchmarsh, if he comes anywhere near my garden!

How many RHS committee members does it take to wallpaper a room?

Depends on how thin you slice them!

So, Father Murphy decided to grow a few vegetables in the corner of the churchyard, and he’s out pulling up some parsnips when Bob the grave digger walks by. The parsnips are huge, and Bob exclaims, “Father, look at the size of those fuckers!”

Father Murphy turns to Bob and says, “Please, I’m all for a bit of familiarity, but remember that I am a priest!”

Bob, thinking on his feet, replies, “Oh no Father, it’s them parsnips. That’s what they’re called, a special hybrid called a Fucker.”

Father Murphy apologises, and takes his crop into the priest house. There is a knock on the door. It’s the Bishop. They go through to the kitchen where Father Murphy makes tea, and then he sees the Bishop looking at the parsnips. With pride he says, “Bishop, I grew those Fuckers!”

The Bishop is taken aback, and interjects, “Father, I understand your excitement, but please watch your language. I am, after all, your Bishop.”

Father Murphy calms him by explaining, “Oh no Bishop, it’s the parsnips. They’re a special hybrid called a Fucker.”

The Bishop apologises, and rolling up his sleeves, washes then peels the parsnips. There’s another knock on the door, and the Mother Superior from the local Convent arrives. Father Murphy takes her into the kitchen for tea, and then he sees her looking at the large parsnips. His pride takes over and he says, “Mother Superior, I grew those fuckers!”

The Bishop adds, “And I cleaned the fuckers!”

Mother Superior takes a deep breath, and reminds the Priest and the Bishop that she is both a lady and a nun. Father Murphy calms her by explaining, “Oh no Mother Superior, it’s the parsnips. They’re a special hybrid called a Fucker.”

Mother Superior apologises, and sets about cooking the parsnips. Eventually the dinner is ready, and they’re all about to sit down to eat when there’s a knock on the door. The Priest opens it, and to his shock there stands the Pope. Father Murphy falls to his knees and kisses the Papal ring. The Pope smiles and says, “I am traveling to a specially convened Synod, and am tired. May I rest here for a while?”

Father Murphy ushers the Pope in, and enquires if he has eaten. The Pope says he hasn’t, so a place is laid for him at the table. First the meat is carved, then the potatoes served, and the cabbage. Then the pot of parsnips is opened. For Father Murphy, it’s just too exciting, and he blurts out the words.

“Your Holiness, I grew those fuckers!”

The Bishop adds, “And I cleaned the fuckers!”

Mother Superior bellows, “And I cooked the fuckers!”

The Pope looks first at Father Murphy, then at the Bishop, then at the Mother Superior, and then he says, “You know, for Catholics, you cunts are alright!”

Thank you, and goodbye!

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17 thoughts on “Bloody boring gardeners? Think again!

  1. Kyna

    I am going to have a VERY long day at work today. On one Tuesday each month, I have to change around my entire department, which I loathe. I loathe it so much, it takes away my sense of humour. Thanks for making me laugh to start it off Paddy, I mean IG 🙂 Because there porbably won’t be another smile cracked until I get up tomorrow.

    Reply
  2. Britta

    At the beginning of your blog I thought of my innocent experience with a garden show in Salisbury, were I was quite surprised as a Bishop offered me to kiss his ring, after a sweet pea contest – but I didn’t – and then he showed me (and my sister, I was young, but not alone) his collection of African Bishop cloaks. But when I read on, I thought: well, IG can’t be topped – so I save my breath, at 34°C in Hamburg today 🙂

    Reply
  3. Bub

    Have had a long day out today (collecting pamphlets amongst other things…), came home, read your post – cheered me up no end.

    However, I think if you were to present that act to the RHS, your balls would be well and truly blacked. But what the hell, go for it!

    Reply
  4. Is the Wiz

    Are you free in November?
    Meantime, I was thinking that Edith Hope should do a show for the Edinburgh Festival, with you taking the very important role of J., her faithful gardener, I reckon you’d be the toast of the town.

    Reply
  5. debsgarden

    Well, IG, thanks for stopping by my blog and commenting on my Southern Garden Party post. I am thrilled to hear you are going to host a garden party at your place. Count me in! It should be unforgettable.

    Reply
  6. TS

    I garden in the Stepfordish suburbs of Washington DC and would like to book you asap to thrill, horrify, and shock the locals into realizing that true gardening is always done with irreverance and humor. YOU ARE THE BEST!!!

    Reply
  7. kilbournegrove

    I see a new career on your future! As you travel the world and your demanding public clamour for your every word, we will be able to say, we knew you when you were just an idiot.

    Reply
  8. ursanz

    Hi, Idiot Gardener!
    You are a funny guy. I don’t know much about gardening so I can’t comment on whether you’re an idiot or not.

    I discovered you when I was trying to see if my own blog had got anywhere on search engines. I was calling myself The Idiot Gardener too but on reading your blog I see you’re a better idiot (I hope you take that as the compliment it is meant to be) and have renamed myself “an” idiot gardener.

    I look forward to more idiocy from you 🙂

    Reply

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