Punk rock gardening; nothing to do with politics!

First off, as someone relatively new to the whole idea of growing food, I am somewhat reluctant to take a stance that flies in the face of convention. I am, however, as a human being, also somewhat reluctant to do as I am told. When I first started my gardening adventure, I found it slightly amusing that a friend described my style as "punk rock gardening". At the time I took his comment as a slight reference to my haphazard approach, and a nod towards my own personal history.

Since then, I have increasingly become aware that far from being a phrase he plucked out of the air, there is actually a punk rock gardening movement out there. I had to find out more, and might I say that what I discovered was reminiscent of my own experiences with punk rock in general.

Punk rock gardening, as a trend, is largely political. Whilst I am all for people being political, in the late 1970s punk rock in the UK wasn't political at all. It was about having a laugh, making some noise, messing about and snogging girls in very short skirts and fishnet stockings. Okay, we might have shouted about anarchy, but we weren't anarchists. If anything, we were mischievous!

We might have snarled about smashing the system, but if the last bus home didn't turn up, we'd have been screwed. We were rebels without a clue. My point is that for many, punk rock gardening might be about ideology, class struggle and politics. For me, it's still about having a laugh, making some noise, messing about and snogging girls in very short skirts and fishnet stockings.

If this was a television programme, now is the point when the screen would go all hazy and wobbly, then to refocus with me no longer being an ugly grey-haired bitter and twisted old man, but a tall and dashing young fellow with a head of jet black hair and piercing green eyes that would melt the soul of even the coldest lady. Yes, it's the "lets go back in time" shot.

When I was a lad, I was classed as disfunctional. At school, I quickly became bored, which in turn led to me being disruptive. Looking back, I now know that I needed more intellecutal stimulation, but in those days I was just called a trouble-maker. Ironically, outside of school, I was insular, increasngly so as I grew older, and became a sort of loner. I had a few friends, but they were shunned by the crowd too. My brain was seemingly wired differently to most people, and that made it hard to interact without causing offence or trouble.

Then, one tea-time (that's when English people have their dinner, you Yankee folks) in 1976, establishment stalwart Bill Grundy interviewed the Sex Pistols on a prime-time news show. The moment that he was called a "dirty fucker" live on air, my world changed. It wasn't the swearing, it wasn't the outrage, it wasn't even the idea of snogging girls in very short skirt and fishnet stockings, it was the realisation that there were other idiots out there! Today, the interview makes me cringe, but back then it was like a licence to be whatever you wanted to be.

The next day when I met my ragtag bunch of mates, nothing needed to be said. We all knew. The previous day we had been ugly lads with bad hygiene, bad haircuts, bad clothes and bad attitudes. Now we were warriors. None of us had even tried to do anything with our hair, nor had we tried to smarten ourselves up. We hadn't even washed. We were, however, very cool!

Within a week we had started a band. None of us could play instruments, but that didn't matter. We found a girl who wore a very short skirt and fishnet stockings to sing. I played bass and my mate played guitar. Our drummer drummed on an old washing machine. We were bad, really really bad. No, I mean it, properly bad. We had arrived.

Now, looking back, we didn't break the rules, for one reason. We didn't even know what the rules were. We blundered through life like it was a game, making mistakes, cocking things up, but we did it with a swagger and with style. I had a bright green mohawk haircut, a leather jacket with "Third Reich and Roll" painted on the back, and a girlfriend who wore a very short skirt and fishnet stockings. Every mistake I made, I then claimed was intentional. Every error was worn like a badge of courage. It was punk rock, and nothing really mattered!

As expected, punk rock became a fashion, then a business, then it got politicised. I walked away and started down the road of eccentricity. That's what people call bad behaviour when you're older and earning a living. I didn't change the world, I didn't overthrow the system, but I did get to snog loads of girls in very short skirts and fishnet stockings. Job done!

Now, this is the point when a television programme would go all blurry again and return to today.

I'm happy for those people out there that want to campaign and canvass and strive to make the world a better place, under the banner of punk rock gardening. I'm glad that there are people who think about the destruction of global resources. I'm happy that people care about what happens to the rain forest. We need those people.

Me? I don't really care too much. I just want to grow stuff, eat it and snog girls in very short skirts and fishnet stockings. As Mrs IG frowns on the latter, I guess I'll just grow stuff and eat it.

Here's my point. I started off gardening with a certain swagger and style based on ignorance, without a knowledge of the rules, and without a care for them. Then I went wrong. I fell into the "celebrity gardening" trap, seduced by their seeds and their over-priced books and their bloody trendy farms with bloody trendy names. But now I'm back.

I will grow stuff and eat it, and I'll do it my way, and if you don't like it, well, you can stick it where your mother never kissed you.

Punk rock gardening? It's here!