A fool and his money!

The few fools that have been reading this tissue of idiocy may recall that back when this gardening adventure started, way back exactly two years and two months ago, I hadn't got a clue. What I knew about gardening could have been written on the back of a standard postage stamp. A mere 26 months later, what I know about gardening could be written on the back of a slightly larger Christmas Edition postage stamp ... if you used big letters!

In my early searches for knowledge, I was seduced by celebrity gardening woman Sarah Raven. When I say seduced, I don't mean she touched my winkle or forced me to give her bum love, although had she been intent on such things I would have been powerless to resist. She's a big old bus; imagine a fair skinned Mr T with breasts, and you're getting close. No, indeed, I went to a lecture about gardening at Sissinghurst, and was mesmerised by the information she dolled out. Of course, looking back, it was one big advert for her seed collection!

Being at a NT property (owned, incidentally, by Raven's other half), there was an over-priced lunch chucked in. Over a very average stew, one Chinese lady remarked that Raven's books were good, but that her seeds had poor germination rates. For some reason, that nugget of info didn't resurface until it was too late.

I went through the Raven's seed catalogue in the following days. Yes, they were expensive, and yes, the seed counts were low, which made them doubly expensive, but I had been seduced, so I ordered them. The first cracks appeared with the delivery of the seed order. Most of it was right, but there was one error. I was sent a packet of oak leaf lettuce instead of wild rocket. I telephoned them, bit instead of a friendly chat I has some surly cow barking down the phone that I should return the oak leaf lettuce immediately, and once they had it back and were assured it hadn't been tampered with, then - and only then - would they send out the wild rocket.

I'm a mild mannered man, so a second conversation took place where the words "shit", "bollocks", "send", "fucking", "seeds", "now", "legal", "pestilence" and "vaginismus" may well have been used by myself. The surly bitch quickly changed her tone and reassured me that the missing rocket seeds were on their way, and would I pretty please be so kind as to return the oak leaf lettuce. I didn't.

The germination rates were terrible, truly terrible. In fact, of all the seeds I used (including some my friend found at the back of his shed which belonged to his mother who had died a decade earlier) the Raven's seeds had the lowest germination rate. The oak leaf lettuce only put up two plants, so I was glad I didn't pay for them. The result was that I publicly, on this very blog, swore off celebrity gardeners and trendy gimmicks, vowing to once more take an almost scholastic approach to idiocy.

Although the Raven's seeds didn't cost a huge amount more than standard seeds, afterwards even I was shocked that I had fallen into the trap. I'm not tight: if anything I am very generous. However, I am also very principled and usually refuse to pay over the going rate if someone is trying it on. An example of this is Deborah Yeates.

When I was a youth, I didn't have a clearly defined "type" when it came to women. Some were tall, some were short, they might be fat or thin, hairy or bald, loud or disturbingly quiet and withdrawn. I seemed to gravitate towards extremes. The fine details didn't matter either. They didn't need a full complement of limbs or organs. I once dated a girl with one eye because I liked the idea of having a girlfriend with an eye patch. I even once asked out a girl who wore calipers (whatever happened to calipers?) but she turned me down!

Deborah Yeates was different. She exuded class and sophistication. Her clothes were tailored and hugged her curves, and yes, she had curves. I'm not talking a big arse or a roll of fat around her belly from too many chip-shop suppers. I'm talking Monroe-esque curves. Her hair was perfect, her eyes both looked in the same direction, her teeth were straight and white, her skin was unblemished and smooth like fine bone china, and she had a cleavage the type of which you only ever saw in films.

She didn't have scuffed toes on her shoes or carpet burns on her knees, and I'd bet her perfect fingernails never scratched her peach-shaped arse. I knew three people who had gone out with her, and all of them had cried when she ditched them. These weren't wimps; these were hard-as-they-come blokes, but losing Deborah Yeates had reduced them to tears. She was a legend; if you dated her, you got mass kudos from your peers.

Deborah Yeates was most certainly not my "type".

Deborah Yeates worked on the Deli counter at Waitrose in Brent Cross Shopping Centre. In the 1970s, Brent Cross was the first ever mall-type shopping centre in the UK, and Waitrose had a flagship store there. At that time, Deli counters in supermarkets in the UK were home to corned beef, breaded boiled ham, chicken roll, pork pie with a hard boiled egg in it, liver sausage, brawn and haslet. Usually they'd have three or four of the above. That was it. Mention olives, and people thought you were talking about the ugly bird from "On the Buses".

You must remember that this was a time when people purchased the K-Tel Bottle Cutter, a tool designed to allow you to cut the bottoms off bottles to make handy tumblers! If you saw a girl with a wide smile, you knew her Mum had a K-Tel Bottle Cutter. Anyway, back the Deli. Waitrose's Deli counter had all of the above (the food, not the Bottle Cutter), plus salami, pastrami, roast pork and vine leaves stuffed with rice. Deborah Yeates had tasted them all. She was truly cosmopolitan.

Not available from Deli counters in the UK during the 1970s!

When Fat Barry, the hospital porter, told me that Deborah Yeates had been asking about me, I was - in all honesty - a little flattered. I wasn't interested, just flattered. Then Terry from the Crash Repair Centre told me his brother played football with Adam Yeates, who had been complaining that his sister could do a lot better than the bloke she had set her sights on, which was me. Then when Jim - who had been sacked from Waitrose a few weeks earlier for punching a manager - told me it was the first time she'd been after someone, instead of it being the other way around, I made my decision.

Deborah Yeates was pretty, of that there was no doubt. I could recognise that, but she wasn't my type. I also had never spoken to her. I didn't know anything about her. How could I contemplate going out with a girl who had a personality I knew nothing about? I was a scruffy spotty punk rocker, and she was ... well, she was Deborah Yeates. I also knew that if I went out with her, it couldn't be the usual date. She wasn't a "five pints of cider, bag of chips and a chance to slip her the finger in Mac Fisheries' car park" type of girl.

It was, looking back, mostly down to ego, but I asked Deborah Yeates out.

The waiter was going to refuse me entry to the Bistro, but then he saw Deborah and gave me a knowing wink. We had prawn cocktail to start. The prawns were tasteless and weren't properly defrosted. The sauce was from a jar. It was shit, but it was expensive shit. Deborah called it "luxurious". We didn't talk much. For the main course I had a Rustic Normandy Stew, which turned out to be tough pork in a tomato sauce. She had Tournedos Rossini, which wasn't Tournedos Rossini, but a bit of steak on toast with some basic pate on it. Chips cost extra. She chose the wine; she went for Piat D'Or, which back then was elegance for the uneducated masses. I can't remember what she had for afters, but it was some over-priced sugary shit. I had nothing. The bill was pretty much close to a week's worth of disposable income.

Afterwards she suggested we go to a wine bar. By this point, I had realised that I was wasting my money as well as my time. We had nothing in common, she irritated me, and I was paying through the nose for a date with someone who wasn't even going to let me feel her up. I took her to the White Bear. She wanted a Brandy and Babycham. I bought her a pint of bitter, and insisted that she drank it.

Deborah Yeates ended that evening as a different woman. Her shoe's toes were scuffed and her knees were dirty. Her perfect make-up was smeared and her eyes were filled with tears. Her dress had a splatter of vomit on it. She spent at least 15 minutes in the White Bear car park, kneeling over the drain, spewing. I felt sorry for her, and I felt bad for having ruined the evening, but I wasn't going to pay over the odds for a night out with a girl with no personality or humour. She was a pretty face on a vacant soul. Full stop.

As you can see, the Raven incident was an aberration. I'm not given to wasting money, although I'm not bothered about spending it if it's worthwhile.

While I was making the seed list for 2012, I used a very good book - Jekka's Complete Herb Book by Jekka McVicar - to help me finalise my herb requirements. Then I found something out. Jekka McVicar has her own seed supply business. I was on the web-site ordering away when suddenly the thought of Sarah Raven and Deborah Yeates popped into my head. I checked the seed cost total, and it was nearly £60. I logged into Nicky's Nursery and placed the exact same order, with only one packet of seeds that NN didn't stock. The order came to £20.

I had remembered, and I had learned.

Before you all congratulate me on a lesson well learned, think on. In my last post I alluded to a sink that looked pretty good. It's by a company called Duravit. I showed it Mrs IG. Things have changed. Duravit is Sarah Raven and Jekka McVicar pulling a chariot bearing Deborah Yeates. Duravit is everything I hate, but seemingly everything Mrs IG loves. Yes, it looks great, and the prices seem okay until you add up all the extras, but Duravit will rob me of more than the Raven, McVicar and Yeates put together.

Ladies, feel free to click below, and then show your husbands and watch them wilt. Gentlemen, only click below if your wife/other half has left town.

Please enjoy some BATHROOM PORN!

Two things of note

This week I have done two things. Okay, I've obviously done more than two things, because 'go to sleep' and 'wake up' would be it all otherwise. No, I have done two things of note. Okay, I suppose the venison and black pudding stew was of note, as was the pear, rhubarb and chocolate tart. The visit to the doctor was also notable as he wasn't there, so I got a Locum. She was unimpressed when I turned down the prescription for pain killers, pointing out that I had better ones at home. She was interested how I'd got them, and when I told her I'd bought them over the counter in Cambodia she gave me that look that is reserved for a true idiot! Anyway, she's sending me for a scan.

What was I rambling on about? Oh yes, two things of note. Thing one was that I made a list of the seeds I require for this season. The list comprised two parts; the garden and the field. It covered four sheets of A4 paper. Considering that I have to build three beds and a greenhouse in the garden, and remove 250 square metres of sod at the field, the planting might be a tad ambitious. I am hoping that the world freezes over while I'm away in Thailand so I technically won't miss any planting time!

The other thing I have done, through gritted teeth and with great discomfort, is learn to tile. The bathroom walls are pretty uneven, so common sense says have a small tile to minimise lippage (or whatever tile people call it). Anyway, I figured that big tiles look better, so that called for a nice thick layer of adhesive. The first tile took around an hour, but I soon had the hang of it.

There is one wall which is very out of true (that's tiling talk, by the way), and because there's a window in it I can't build the wall out. The answer? Well, I figured if the tiles do have lippage, it's best for that lippage to be behind something. To this end, I have sourced a floor to ceiling radiator that is a solid stainless steel sheet. It will go nicely with my passion for all things stainless steel.

I have also found a very impractical but brilliant looking sink. It's 80cm wide, and like a solid piece of porcelain with a scoop taken out of the middle. It cost a bit extra, but I figured it might give the room a bit of impact. I also think I'll be using Bearwood for the floor. It's got a very old and distressed look to it; I wanted it in the kitchen a few years ago, but it was a bit too much as everything else was continual tone in there.

I also have a shape theme going on. Square. I don't know why, but curves are offensive to my eye in decor. Square is the future. Mrs IG agrees, because she just wants the bathroom done.

I asked her the other night if she believes it will ever get finished.

She said "No".

It's nice to be appreciated!

When the going gets tough...

Those few fools that have read this utter toss over the last year may recall that my 2011 - like many other peoples' 2001s - started with doom, gloom and sorrow. In 2012 I was determined to not allow negativity to force its bony hand through my letterbox of happiness ... or something like that.

So, how has 2012 been so far?

Well, it started off okay. As highlighted in the last two posts, I managed to get my hands on the window to start my home-made greenhouse, and I seemingly have swung myself an allotment plot, albeit one covered with sod. So far, so good, eh? Then a package arrived, which was unexpected, and the Sister had sent me a little gift; something that I saw at her house and coveted (calm down, it's just a bloody huge bone china coffee cup featuring scientific drawings of the human body). Then I found out that the bastard scum neighbours were selling up. It just got better and better, and when Mrs IG wanted to have a serious word in my ear, I didn't care how serious her face was.

Mrs IG, it transpires, is not a happy woman. No, she's not. She's unhappy. Distinctly unhappy. Why? Well, like you, I can't see one single reason why she could be unhappy, but she is. Apparently, I have spent a year and a bit focusing upon gardening, I have made space for brewing and baking and sausage-making and indulged in each with a passion. I have cleaned and polished and showered love on the two Kawasakis. I have gently stroked my banjo (no, you dirty fuckers, I really have got a banjo). However, I have done sweet nothing to the bathroom.

Women and men see bathrooms differently. We see a place to rinse your ballsack and do a wee-wee. Women see a place to relax, luxuriate and pamper themselves by candlelight (despite the fact we do have lights in there). Now, I do accept that a few years ago I promised to do something with the bathroom. Maybe a coat of paint, a floor or even a door. However, other things just seemed so much more important. Like gardening, and beer, and bread, and motorcycles, and playing my very real banjo which is not an euphemism for my penis.

I figured the bathroom could wait, because it was okay. I'm not saying it's lovely, or pretty or beautiful. I'm saying it was okay. That's all. Mrs IG, however, does not agree.

I explained to her, very slowly, that bathrooms were for rinsing your ballsack and doing a wee-wee, and that aesthetics weren't that important in a world sinking beneath a tidal wave of sovereign debt, but before I could go on and tell her about the starving children in Africa she became somewhat agitated. Preferring my ballsack to contain my balls, I agreed that maybe I should get around to it sooner rather than later.

She told me about a man ... I stopped listening, and as soon as silence fell and I knew she had stopped talking I told her that I would do the work myself. She went on about the man, and I reiterated that I would do it myself. We reached something of an impasse when she was screaming, "You won't do it, you lazy bastard" while I screamed back at her, "I'll do it myself, all builders are thieves!"

I decided to show willing so I went upstairs with a stepladder and did some measuring. Then I stepped off the ladder without remembering to go down it first. I do have a shonky back from many years ago, but it now has a prolapsed disk. Even with the best that Cambodian morphine (slightly out of date, but still good to go) can offer, it still stings a bit! Sitting around doing nothing while off my face might have been great in the 1970s, but now I find it a bit dull.

So, Project Bathroom is on hold, and I can't get started on cutting the sod off the allotment (mind you, the paperwork is still being dealt with so I couldn't do that anyway). The garden itself looks like a bomb has gone off and I can't get out there until my spine calms down. No really, it does look like a bomb has gone off...

So many jobs to do, so little ability! I'm doing what I can. I've made a few lists. I've made a list of all the lists I've made, but if the truth be told I'm getting nowhere real fast. What's an idiot to do?

This morning I looked at myself in the mirror (one balanced on a couple of nails knocked into the wall above the toilet) and I realised that 2012 could slide into the sewer IF I LET IT HAPPEN! There had to be something I could do that would take away the stress of the situation, make me feel better about the pain, and make Mrs IG smile!

I made that telephone call. No, don't be silly, not to her 'man'; all builders really are thieves. No, I've booked her in for a three-course dinner, served out of a tin foil container! She might forgive me because the tin foil container will be delivered by a stewardess, on a hairyplane, and we'll be off to Thailand. If that doesn't make he shut up about the bathroom, I don't know what will!

When the going get's tough, the tough go on holiday!

Case closed!

Sod off!

The Idiot empire is expanding. See all that land? That's mine. Well, okay, it's not mine, but 250 square metres of it is mine to rent! Now, those amongst you with cataracts might not have spotted that it's a bloody great big field with nothing in it except some overgrown grass. If you did spot that, well, go to the top of the class, because that's what it is.

Some people take on cultivated allotments and within days are sowing their seed. Some people take on overgrown allotments and spend a few weeks renovating before sowing their seed. Only an idiot takes on a field. Did someone call?

This is the new allotment site. It's a private site, so there's no big help from the Council. It's a bunch of like-minded people with no money turning a field into 26 allotment plots. It's what it is - an exciting opportunity. Around the edges of the plots there are plans for a community orchard and maybe a vineyard. It's not what I expected when I was told I could have an allotment plot, but in a way its a hell of a lot better.

There's no one to do anything for anyone. We've got a field, and that's the extent of it. We'll have to fund and fit deer fencing, run water pipes, mark the plots out, basically do everything ourselves. There also seems to be a collective interest in brewing and wine making too, which is worrying, in a good way. I've never had an allotment, but I've a feeling that even by allotment standards this project is coming in a bit off-centre!

Now, I accept that I'm a bloody idiot, but at times my idiocy is tempered by a basic understanding of what I'm trying to achieve. This time it's not so clear. This time I am at a loss, I am perplexed, I am stretched to a point that an idiot should never be stretched to ... by sod!

How in the name of Barry Gibb do I deal with this? Where do I even start? I googled 'sod', and my eyes bled for a few hours.

Now, as I see it, I have five options.

OPTION 1: I can remove the sod, dig over the ground and get planting. I can either remove the sod by hand or use a turf cutter. Then all the turf can be piled up, wrapped in black plastic, and left for a year to turn to loam. It will be hard work, and I'll lose a few inches of topsoil.

OPTION 2: I can dig down, turn the sod so the grass is under the soil, and then spend the rest of the year battling with the grass that resurfaces. It's hard work, and could be a continual pain in the arse.

OPTION 3: I can wait until no one is looking and then soak the entire area with glyphosate, wait a few weeks then dig it over. It's easier work, I keep my topsoil, but it will be saturated with herbicide.

OPTION 4: I can cover the area with newspaper and a layer of topsoil and let the grass die off underneath. It'll be easier work, but I'll need a whole bunch of topsoil, and there's no vehicular access to the site so I'll be forever barrowing the stuff in, plus it could be detrimental to anything that grows more than a few inches deep.

OPTION 5: Someone (that's you lot) has a better idea!

Come on then, share the wisdom you gardening folks!

Idiot see, Idiot do! (Greenhouse Project Part 1)

I have a friend who always says that if I fell into a pile of cow shit I'd come out with a cigar. I think that what he was saying, in his own way, is that he considers me to be a lucky bastard. Now, I would actually take a contrary position. I think I'm a fairly unlucky person. Things don't tend to fall into my lap. However, I will admit that I do tend to get the odd 'result', but because I simply can't sit back and wait for things to happen. I tend to push forwards, to charge in where others fear to tread. It's a bit like life is a beer shop, with one glass left on sale. If I ain't pushing to the front, I ain't having no beer!

Of course, sometimes when I push forwards, I get to the front only to discover that life isn't selling a lovely cold glass of beer, but a lukewarm pooh-shake. In such cases I just tend to make a joke about it as I swig down the frothing turd juice. I'm not lucky, but I ain't crying like a ginger step-child who has just discovered that his penis is shaped like a croissant.

I'm certainly not an optimist either. I'm a pessimist. I wallow in the infinite possibilities of disaster and misery. Then, when the shit hits the fan, I just shrug and make a joke about it because I knew it was coming. If things don't go wrong, then it's like finding yourself on a Disneyland ride, high on LSD and canoodling with a butt naked Anna Ryder Richardson!

I started 2012 with bravado. I'll admit much of it was a front. The very idea of ever getting an allotment was pathetic, and as for the concept of constructing a greenhouse out of reclaimed tat that would like a palace was gibberish. Even Aimee at New to Farm Life commented, 'Also I have greenhouse made out old timber and patio doors. Good luck making yours look like a palace because mine looks like shit.'

I began to rethink the plans. I had seen a wooden greenhouse of a decent size, but it was £5,000. Five big ones? I could buy my own tomatoes for a year, get a bunch of coke, a few gallons of rum and a bevy of dwarf strippers for that money, and still have enough left to by Mrs IG some 'sorry' flowers! I also had decided that I didn't want to be messing around with cheap shit glass that would crack every time it snowed or some drunk bloke fell into it. That left old double glazing windows and patio doors, and these are obviously made to measure. It meant the greenhouse would be a patchwork mess. Nothing would be the same size. Nothing would line up. It was, as Aimee observed, going to look shit.

I realised that none of the windows would line up. Okay, that's not an issue at the back, maybe, but I needed the front to look smart. Aimee's words kept reverberating in my head, even after loads of beer and painkillers.

After saying 'Ballsacks' over and over again, I remembered that I'm a bloody idiot, so I set to work. I knew I needed one set of patio doors, to get in and out of the bloody thing, but if I could just find one window to cover the frontage, that wouldn't be a patchwork of ill-fitting bits and pieces. It would be one window, singular, linear, maybe slightly attractive too...

"Idiot", I hear you cry, "a double patio door will be roughly 2 x 2 metres (that's around 6 x 6 feet), and if you're looking for a structure that's roughly 4 x 3 metres (around 12 x 9 feet), that means you'd need one window that measures 2 x 2 metres to go alongside the door. Where in the name of Sodom and Gomorrah are you going to find a window that size?"

"Aha", I reply. "What about if the window was a brand new double glazed double sash window? Imagine that, a bloody huge window to create a uniform front, with four lovely sliding sashes to make it look totally fucking cool?"

"Yeah", you scream. "Where are you going to find something like that without paying a King's ransom?"

"Well", I reply, "right here..."

Yes indeedy ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the front of the Idiot Greenhouse Project, obviously without the front door part. It seems that this window is simply too big for most people, so I managed to pick it up for a pittance as the bloke just wanted it out of his life!

So far, to be honest, I am loving 2012!

Sniff my greenhouse!

2012 - A year of gardening dangerously!

Can you tell what it is yet?

Let's be honest; 2011 started badly, with grief before the year had even begun. It was as if that shit tainted the whole year for me, creating a smudge of misery that permeated everything I attempted to achieve. Every time I thought I saw a turning point, a chink of light far off on the horizon, Old Father Time sharpened his scythe and rammed it, each time a little deeper, right where the sun don't shine. What with the arse-based lacerations of sorrow and the wobbly weather, the whole year never really got going. It felt flat, and towards the end of the year I was down. Down, but not out! No siree, not out at all. Except for when I went out, but that's different.

Now 2012 is upon us, and it will hopefully be a better year. Okay, it WILL be a better year, most definitely. Hope has nothing to do with it; there's no room for optimism, only positivity and sheer bloody-mindedness. Hope is for the hopeless, and clues are for the clueless. For idiots, there's only the pure utter unadulterated conviction that everything will come together in a perfect conclusion!

Firstly, there is still every chance that the Idiot Masterplan will expand. I'm not counting my chickens, because I haven't got any, and if I did have any I couldn't be arsed to count them. I would just look at them and think, "I have some chickens". Why do you count chickens when you want something to happen, but count sheep when you need to sleep? What about pigs? Where was I? Oh yes, I'm not counting my imaginary chickens but I have been invited to the inaugral meeting of the new Allotment Association's committee. I figure that if they've done that, I must be in with a bloody good shot at getting a plot, although nothing has been confirmed as of yet. If I can get through that meeting without giving away the small fact that I'm a fucking twat, I might just be able to annex a bit more territory! Today, an allotment plot in Sussex, tomorrow Poland!

I have decreed that 2012 will also be the year of the greenhouse. Am I buying myself a greenhouse? Am I bollocks! I'm going to build one, made out of old timber, patio doors and other shit! The challenge is to use a bunch of old crap, but to make it look like a palace. I'll probably put a cupola on it too! I don't know why, but it has something to do with my madness which decrees I can't do anything without going right over the top.

What with the allotment and the greenhouse, I intend to expand the Idiot Mastercrop to include onions, globe artichokes, shallots, celery, sweetcorn and peas, as well as having a second crack at celeriac, salsify, fennel and leeks. There will also be rhubarb and raspberries. I also intend to stop growing herbs in a collection of pots and create a multi-tiered herbage reminiscent of an Escher drawing!

So, you might be wondering, what's dangerous about any of that old nonsense. Well, allow me to elucidate: 2012 will also be the year that I burst - snarling and slavering - onto the horticultural show scene. Well, the Oxted and Edenbridge Agricultural Show to be exact! After Mr Depressing Bastard sneered at the sad story about my tomatoes last year, this year I intend to win something, and then to celebrate by kicking his cripple stick away. It might not be fair, it might not be big, and it might be very insensitive, but fuck him; he started it!

So that's the main plan for 2012 (alongside the staple crops too, plus hopefully another new raised bed), and if you think it's a lot to achieve, then you're be bloody well right. Give yourself a Gold Star for spotting the bleeding obvious. However, as every year passes, the voices get louder, and I need hard toil to block them out (yeah, thanks Dad for the mentalism).

2012? Bring it on!

Never again...

Back when I was shaking off my teenage years, there was a girl who drank in the pub. She was witty, intelligent, slim, gorgeous and generally the sexiest thing that prowled the streets of North London. Everyone sighed whenever she entered the pub, and I too sighed. I will admit this much. We became friends; drinking buddies and partners in crime. I knew her boyfriend too, so there wasn't an issue.

A friend of mine worked in a bar in town, and he was leaving, but his boss didn't know he was leaving! He told us to come up for a free drink or two, so I went with her. We spent the night downing free glass after free glass, and eventually staggered back to my flat with a few bags of carry outs. After the barman (or ex-barman) had popped by to take his share, we set about drinking the rest.

Alcohol, a pretty girl, a cold frosty world outside; it was inevitable that we clumsily fell together in a drunken moment of lust. Well, we nearly fell together, because while I was still trying to get my boots off there was a knock on the door. I should have ignored it, but beer and vodka had gripped my brain. I opened the portal to find a chilled but rather angry looking other half to the beauty who was currently trying to remove her jeans in my living room. In his hands he held two suitcases. One was bulging, held with one lock, an arm or leg of a garment hanging out. He might have had the most beautiful girlfriend in London, but he was shit at packing.

He placed the suitcases on my doorstep, snarled "you can have her", and turned back into the cold night air. When I told the young lady that she seemingly no longer had an abode, she became distressed. I could see my night of drunken lust going out of the window, so I did what an young male would do, and said she could stay with me as long as she needed to!

She was, pardon the language, a fucking nightmare. She seemingly didn't understand that flush toilets could be flushed. She ate everything. If I shopped for a week, she ate it all in one go. Despite this, she remained slim. Maybe that's how she managed to fill the toilet bowl within seconds of me flushing her crap away. She'd go out and leave the door open. She lost her key four times in a week, and each time kicked the back door in instead of waiting for me to come back. She'd turn on the gas cooker, forget to light it and go out. The old man in the flat upstairs nearly died, as did I when I came home drunk and collapsed on the sofa.

After a few weeks she disappeared. One of her friends saw me in the pub and told me she was back with her ex. I went home, packed her cases, and left them outside her front door.I didn't knock; I just ran away and left them there. I was worried she might come back with me! I vowed then; never again! Never let beauty get in the way of having your own space.

This Christmas Mrs IG and I hosted six guests. Four of them were children. Two three year old twins (that's one set of twins, not two lots of twins, thank the pretend Lord), a six year old and a moody 13 year old. Fuck me, don't little kids make a hole shitload of noise? If they weren't screaming they were shouting, or banging, they were putting the TV on really loud and shouting, screaming and banging over it. I told them that unless they were quiet, Christmas wouldn't happen. They screamed and shouted louder. I told them that Santa didn't exist, and that mince pies were made of dog shit, and that I would kill them. The noise just grew and grew.

Can you believe this; they got up before noon on Christmas Day? Why the fuck would anyone do that? They wouldn't eat rare venison. They wouldn't eat pigeon. They ripped open their presents, and then fought each other for the presents that the others had been given. I started drinking at 10am. So did their Mother!

I make no excuses, no pretence, no hiding of my feelings; I do not like children, in any shape or form. Why did I allow children inside my usually peaceful and quiet house? I'll tell you why; because Mrs IG wanted to see her family. My family can go screw themselves as far as I am concerned, but Mrs IG is different. She has yet to learn the joys of shunning your kith and kin. In order to keep her happy, I consented to the arrival of what turned out to be a bloody nightmare.

On Boxing Day I escaped, sort of! The stroppy 13 year old loves horses, so we went off to Kempton Park where I introduced her to the real meaning of Christmas: drinking and gambling. She had her first ever winners (yep, winners, three of them) and we saw Kauto Star win, which was bloody brilliant. Then the sun set and we headed back to the madness.

Yesterday, the house was quiet. There was no mess, no chocolates trampled into the carpet, no screaming and shouting in the background when I sipped my morning beer, no fucking Dora the Explorer blasting from a TV in an empty room. The earth was cold and frosty, a bit like the night I inherited the pretty girl from Hell.

My fingers turned numb as I cleared the last stragglers from the beds and spread some calcified seaweed. The frosty earth bit at me as I removed the final few roots and added compost. The cold mattered not, for it was silent. As I wiped the snot from my frozen nose, I surveyed my garden and realised how those soldiers must have felt emerging from the trenches in 1918, the guns having fallen silent at then end of the war to end all wars.

It was over; the Christmas to end all Christmases!

Never again! Never fucking again!