The Art of Extreme Gardening

Occasionally when the mood takes me I can be seen dashing around our garden at high speed, dragging palm fronds from here to there, chopping, hacking, occasionally pulling and generally tidying up what nature seeks to untidy at a pace that is distinctly un-gardening-like. The neighbours must think I’m slightly potty.

Gardening seems to be regarded as a gentile occupation, mainly for people who like to wear woolly jumpers when its a bit nippy outside, and retired people with far too much time on their hands. I seek to redress this image… at least around my own garden anyway.

Here’s my thinking… I see people jogging on the street, cycling in chattering packs, working out in the gym, and yoga-ing until their yin fully is yanged. I don’t have time for all that. I have to combine my exercise regime with the practicalities of directing all that energy into something useful (in addition to all that healthy mind, healthy body stuff)

So Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce to you the Art (and Sport of) EXTREME GARDENING.
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Pop Stars I Have Met

Have you ever met any real pop stars? You know, the ones that you thought were the absolute bees-knees of pop perfection during your peak music consumption teeny-twenty-something years?

As a youth, pop music ranked alongside soccer as something you must be into. I never liked soccer that much though as I only ever seemed to reach the position of ‘substitute’ on the infant school team. I never scored any goals and I was better at fouling other players by kicking them than actually kicking the ball. I never kicked any pop stars though.


No, I loved pop music, and even wanted to be a Pop Star, but never seemed to find the time to do anything about it, though I did write many songs and developed a musical style reminiscent of a monotone Pet Shop Boys, complete with 80′s st-st-st-st-stuttering ssss—ssss—samples. (n-n-n-nineteen anyone?).


I’m glad I’m not one. I’ve read many pop star autobiographies and while the bit which involves going on stage and playing a gig in front of 100,000 screaming fans seems fun, the road to the top and back down again seems altogether too smelly, unsavoury and filled with people who would induce anyone to become paranoid (with or without the seemingly obligatory hard drugs). So, when it comes to the pop world the nearest I have got is standing or sitting next to some now reasonably famous people.

Vince Clarke
I once stood alone at the Uni Bar next to Vince Clarke of Yazoo, Depeche Mode, and Erasure fame. I wish I had said hello. I was a shy youth.

Stephen Duffy
I met Stephen Duffy twice (of 80′s Tin Tin and now Robbie Williams co-song writer fame). He signed my record and I snuck backstage after the gig for photos. For a long time my photo was on his website. My fashion sense of the time though was sorely lacking and shall for ever more be etched in internet history. I also interviewed him once for the ‘Friends of the Lilac Time’, but I was too worldly naive to impress him with my interview technique and he disappointed me by being just an ordinary person with an extraordinary ego. I can’t blame him for that. Artists never match up to perfection of their artistic creations. The interview never saw the light of day.

Mark from ‘Take That’
I sat next to Mark from Take That once outside a solo promotional gig, after Take That had split. He was busy fuelling an unhealthy habit. I always wonder how people who live unhealthy lifestyle can even make it out of bed on a morning, never mind expend massive energy on stage. I guess that’s why the unhealthy habits start in the first place.

The (EX) Prime Minister of Australia
So that’s about it for Pop stars I have met… Apart from one. Even though he’s not a pop star, in the Australian media his persona sometimes takes on the aura of one. I gave Kevin Rudd a hug (now of ‘I am the (now EX) Prime-Minister-of-Australia’ fame) when he popped into our church. Its a very huggy church, and no-one was hugging him, so I went over and made him feel welcome. He was mildly surprised. I forgot his name and said “welcome to the church PHIL” (temporily confusing Kevin Rudd with Phillip Ruddock). Later that year he became Prime Minister (Kevin, not Phil). I don’t think the two events are related but you never know; a butterfly flaps its wings here and an earthquake is triggered on the opposite side of the world.

Update! Poor old Kevin is now no longer the Prime Minister. He has been usurped by the Ginger Ninja Julia Gillard. I don’t expect to be giving her a hug any time soon. I promise though that if I ever meet her I will endeavour to get her name wrong too.
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Bananas In The Back Garden

There are bananas in the back garden of our home. It’s true. Right there on the banana trees. There are lots of them.

When I was a kid, bananas came slightly blackened and over-ripe. We squished them up and put them in sandwiches. I liked banana sandwiches a lot. I ate a lot of them. My bones are probably built from one third banana sandwiches, one third milk, with the rest being made up of liver, onions and mashed potato.


When I first saw bananas ‘in the wild’ I could not believe they were actually real bananas. I guess its the same kind of disconnection that some people feel between a cow and a steak. I’d never seen a banana tree before. Now there are lots of banana trees in the garden. I had to move countries for this to happen though. There are also paw-paws (came in cans as a mysterious ingredient in fruit salad when I was a child), pumpkins (only seen in American Halloween trick or treat references on imported movies), lychees (they grow in chinese restaurants don’t they?) and Custard Apples (a freak of nature never seen in my native UK). There are also lemons, limes, oranges and mandarins (only ever seen in a christmas stocking previously).


Its a race to eat them. You see, where I live the animals also have an eye on the garden. To me, its a wonderful compendium of exotic fruits for my delectation. To them its just lunch, breakfast and tea, and they seem to have a knack of grabbing things off the tree the instant they become in any way edible, or, more annoyingly just nibbling a little bit of the end, so that you don’t really want to eat it yourself.

There are bananas sat in front of me as I type this, lined up in a row, ripening on the front deck. About 10 bunches. My wife makes great banana cakes with them. You see the problem is they all get ripe at once, and eating 100 banana within the space of 4 days is not really possible for me, much as I like them, and much as the novelty of chopping them out of the tree with a machete never wears off.

My wife tells me that we have Monsterio tree somewhere in the garden. I’ve never got the hang of those. Maybe its the name. Who would want to eat a monster fruit?
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