The Idiot Gardener

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By the pricking of my thumbs… the Smallholding saga continues!

Readers of my last post will know all about the Smallholding A versus Smallholding B conundrum. Well, here’s an update. I was wrong. No, I was right, but I was wrong. Let me explain…

I was right that something was wrong. I was wrong about what was wrong. But something was wrong, so I was right. Follow? Good. Then let’s get to the point.

In true Cluedo style, I suspected Farmer Giles, in the Farmyard, with a Grudge. However, whilst there is still some suspicion over the credibility of Farmer Giles, the real rat in the barrel was actually the vendor. Okay, when I call him a rat, that might seem a bit steep, so let me rephrase that. The lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick was the vendor. Old Gilesy was just his side-kick, no doubt turning a blind eye in some mutual Planning scam.

Not 15 minutes after making that last post, the phone rang. It was the lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick’s Estate Agent. My query about various planning issues had raised some hackles. What followed was a speech from the Agent designed to make the vendor appear like a slightly confused angel. However, nothing really added up.

No, he confirmed, there was no change of use permission for the tennis court. Neither was there planning permission for the barn. The stables were a grey area, and the extension on the house and garage didn’t have building regs approval. The planning for the latter two wasn’t mentioned. The building regs was being addressed, but the vendor wouldn’t do anything about the planning issues because they were covered by the four year rule.

I explained, quite politely and calmly, that the four year rule applied to structures, not change of use. Oh, said the estate agent. Then he said the immortal words, ‘I doubt the vendor will do anything unless you’ve exchanged, because his solicitor seems to be happy with it.’

‘Really?’ I replied. ‘Then tell his solicitor to buy the fucking house!’

So, here’s the rub. The vendor (the lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick, in case you had forgotten) will not deal with Planning Control until I’ve committed to buy. Of course, I’d have to make that commitment in full knowledge of the situation, so couldn’t then pull out. He could, if he was on the level, pay £385 to cover things with a Certificate of Lawful Use. However, he won’t.

I can only guess the reason is that any Planning Officer would have a field day once on site. I suspect that a lack of Building Regs indicates a lack of planning permission on parts of the house, the tennis courts are definitely not covered, and despite claiming the barn is temporary, a quick glance at Planning Directives for agricultural land shows he’s flying a kite on that one too. What a prick. But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?

Of course, Farmer Giles is still under suspicion, and you have to wonder how many of his developments might also be spotted if Percy the Planner came a’calling.

The Estate Agent, desperate for a slice of my hard-earned, even suggested that I approach Planning Control to see if I could instigate a visit via an act of subterfuge. I told him to fuck right off. He did soften, and told me that he’d even told the vendor that know he was aware of the facts, he was obliged to pass that information on to any future viewers. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a new uninformed agent handling the property soon. I may even make a call if that happens!

So, what did I do at the weekend? I went to see Smallholding B once more. I’m not one to tempt fate so I shall remain tight-lipped about my plans. But here endeth the first lesson. If your gut is screaming foul, listen to it.

If he looks like a lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick, and he walks like a lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick, and he talks like a lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick, then he probably is a lying deceitful conniving  scum-sucking bullshit-faced prick. Him, and his fucking farmer mate!

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