WITH MONTY DON, THIS WEEK'S GUEST PSYCHIATRIC PATIENT
MONTY TAKES A STROLL IN THE HOSPITAL GROUNDS
Suddenly, everyone is doing it, hedges, planting them, growing them, trimming them, grubbing them, as we say, up. And when I say everybody I really do mean everybody, the nice people at the Guardian and the BBC all have their gardeners working flat-out and do you know they find it really therapeutic, watching their staff work so hard because it's really on behalf of you, the license payer, who, let's face it, at the end of the day, pays for it all, and you can't get much better than that. But before we come onto hedges I'd just like to share a new composting tip I learned the other day from Alan Yentob and Mark Thompson, my colleagues at the BBC, who very kindly had themselves chauffered down to visit me.
What you do, as Alan, above, and Mark told me, is quite simple, instead of wasting time with all those old potato peelings and lawn clippings you just ask your producer for a large sack of fifty-, or even twenty-pound notes, but fifties are better, you just get one of your assistants to pop them through the shredder and then you take them down to the compost bin, your producer will get you a quad bike if it's a long way to walk and then you just throw the shredded money in the compost bin and to activate this most natural of natural processes you just open a case of champagne, I find the hundred pounds a bottle stuff is the best and then you pour it over the money and next year you'll have some really fabulous compost which will be a really organic thing to put on your asparagus beds, if, like me, you just love asparagus pulled straight from the ground by a production assistant and flambeed in Napoleon brandy in the BBC canteen.
But what is it about hedges which so interests people ? Our team of experts (me) answers this most vexing of questions with the help of some celebrity hedgers, providing I don't become depressed and have to go and lie down. With that ginger bint, Alyss, off my used-to-be programme, Gardeners' World. You know, all the rumours about me having to leave the show because my wife put her foot down about me and Alyss always rooting about in the organic veggie bed together and then me pretending to have gone mad with the gardening pressures, none of them are wholly true. But hedging, anyway, and to my first guest:
Lord Crabs: Well my duties as First Secretary and Baron of Everywhere –I was born to govern, you know - include the role of hedgekeeper pursuivant of the royal cottages and I have to say that this quite wears out the knees of my trousers so a jolly good job I have an adequate but by no means generous clothing allowance. Did you hear that they've learned how to clone sperm ? Drink pinta day, that's my message. British sperm for British workers. If they can't get Brazilian. Below a member of the public shares her green thoughts with Baron Crabs.
IS THIS GREEN SPERM?
Sir Matthew Dreary, one the Times’s tame failed MPs, is a keen hedger. One of the great pleasures of my life, simpers Matty - in addition to thoroughly licking clean the soles of Margaret Thatcher’s shoes, like a very naughty boy - is being able to stroll through the hedges of Clapham Common, encounter complete strangers and invite them to ejaculate in my mouth, and the smellier they are the better. Isn't it great, about the sperm? I wonder, do they deliver? Below, Matty, early in his hedging career.
Sir Ron Badger-Davies, former NuLabour Buggery Secretary. Me, too. And preferably with coons, isn't it. We're all human after all. Big black fuckers. I also wander through hedges looking for badgers which are a keen interest of mine. Hedges close to public toilet lay-bys are the best. And if my flaccid organ pops out from my trousers and catches the eye of a passing Rastafarian lorry driver and badger fancier and we exchange hedge notes then where's the harm. I think it's wonderful news about the sperm, do they do it in black, look you, isn't it. NuLabour's Welsh Secretary, below, embarks on one of his "Moment of Madness" hedging expeditions.
President Barack Obama. Why shouldn’t a black man cultivate a mistress, I mean a hedge, just as long as he’s been a good joe and paid his mortgage, why shouldn’t a black man be president ? And one day we will have a nigger president. Only it ain’t me, babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me babe. Definitely a Michael Jackson kinda nigger, me. Yes, we can’t. Our hedges all have brain-dead, crew-cut, psycho bastard mommas boy Secret Service men hiding in them. This is because America is the last great hope of mankind and everybody here wants to kill me. Did I mention that forty years ago my father, Hoosain Abdullah Ali BabaObamalama, whoever he was, wouldna been able to get a job clipping the White House hedges. And now he still couldn’t, fuck me, no. We shall overcome. I have a dream, motherfuckers, I done been up over that mountain top and look down and seen me a nation flowing with milk and honey and repossession trucks as we stand firm behind the banks, stealing all the money offa the dumb fucks. A nation united with itself as its sons and daughters get shipped home in bodybags in ver greater numbers. E pluribus unum, the motto of this great nation, the many support the few. Below is the president's mistress, Vera Baker-Hedge.
Lord Sir Alan Titmarsh. You know, when I were a little lad, living underground up Yorkshire, I never dreamt that one day I’d be t'nation’s favourite hedger, and novelist, and broadcaster and –cheeky, boyish twinkle – lover. I never dreamed that one day I'd live above ground and stand on't stage of Royal Albert Hall amd mek a reet cunt a mesen, talking aboot Perms, like, or is it Proms, 'appen yer right, led, 'appen yer right. The BBC ? 'sbin good to me like, 'as it bin good to you? Below, Lord Alan, eating royal compost.
Mr Gordon Snot, departing prime minister of England, aka The Nutter With The Stutter, The Mucus-Muching NightMare, The Horrible Fucking Bastard and other affectionate terms. You know, as I travel around the country, meeting homeless families and small goneoutofbusiness businesses they often mention their hedges but I don't care, all I care about is being in charge and telling people what's the Right Thing To Do For The Country. Just take our initiative on sperm, for instance, people living in maNses up and down the country have been dreaming about sperm for decades and now they can have as much as they want. Below, Mr Snot in Downing Street's Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Garden with two lesbian friends, one of whom works part-time as his wife.
SARAH-GEORGE AND I HAVE AN OPEN MARRIAGE,
ONLY IT'S NOT OPEN TO ME.
ONLY IT'S NOT OPEN TO ME.
Next week. Monty Don reveals how to milk the BBC for millions of pounds. As if we didn't know. But from this week's Hedging News, goodbye.
DUE TO AN ADMINISTRATIVE ERROR THIS POST HAS APPEARED PREVIOUSLY IN A DIFFERENT FORM. IT'S THIS BASTARD BLOGGER WHAT'S TO BLAME AND NOT ME. FUCKING THING HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN. I FUCKING HATE COMPUTERS. ALL I EVER WANTED TO BE WAS A PAMPHLETEER. AND NOW LOOK AT ME. WHAT THE FUCK IS HTML? HOW'M I SUPPOSED TO KNOW ALL THIS SHIT? BORN OUT OF MY TIME, THAT'S MY PROBLEM. SAVE AS FUCKING DRAFT, MY ARSE. ANYWAY, I DUMPED THE OTHER ONE AND KEPT THIS ONE. AT LEAST I HOPE THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED. WON'T KNOW UNTIL I PRESS PUBLISH POST, MAYBE THE WHOLE FUCKING LOT'LL DISAPPEAR. ME, TOO. AND YOU.
ANYBODY THINKING OF TAKING UP BLOGGING, DON'T FUCKING DO IT. GO DOWN THE LOCAL SHITHOUSE INSTEAD AND SCRIBBLE ON THE FUCKING WALLS. MAKES MORE SENSE THAN THIS. DO YOU KNOW THERE WAS A BLOKE ON HERE FOR EIGHTEEN FUCKING HOURS THE OTHER DAY, EIGHTEEN FUCKING HOURS, MUSTA READ EVERY FUCKING PAGE ABOUT TEN BASTARD TIMES AND LEFT WITHOUT SAYING A FUCKING WORD. IS THAT FUCKING RUDE OR WHAT? FOREIGNERS, THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE LIKE.