Another year, another set of clean underwear...

Ladies and gentlemen, before entering the hallowed space that is this post, please put on clean underwear, slap on a bit of lippy (or have a shave, or both) and pour yourself a glass. No, not the bloody cheap stuff at the back of the fridge, something decent, something celebratory, something with class and finesse, because tonight (yes, it has been a year) you are invited to the 2011 TIGNOGs!

Yes indeed, it has been one whole year since the first ever The Idiot Gardener’s Night Of Gongs, where the good, the bad, the ugly and downright shit are paraded bare before you all.

For those who witnessed last year’s travesty, we can only apologise, and for those that missed it, it was brilliant, much better than this year’s will be.

Now, the TIGNOGs should be much more than a load of old tosh on a backwater in Blogland, so for 2011 it was decided to include the words of wisdom of a celebrity. We contacted Alan Titchmarsh, and asked if he’d give us a few words so we could widen the appeal of the awards, and start a new initiative called ‘Gardening for Numpties’. He didn’t reply. Then we contacted Queen of mainstream permaculture Alys Fowler, and told her she could submit a few words but we didn’t want any mention of her short-arsed dog or her bad fashion sense. Oddly, she didn’t reply. We contacted Sarah Raven, and said we were sorry for taking the piss out of her constantly, and she could send in a few words for this year’s event. She didn’t reply. Maybe we should have mentioned some rope, that was very aged, and how it could raise an obscene amount of cash. Then she would have been right at the front of the queue. We contacted Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, and said if he didn’t help out we’d bum a few chickens. He didn’t reply.

It may seem as if we failed, it may seem as if we’ve let you all down. But no! No, no, no, no, no! One man did reply. One man did agree to become tonight’s master of ceremonies. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one, the only, the utterly pathetic horticultural comedian extraordinaire … Paddy O’Furniture!

Good evening one, good evening all. Now, it might seem that I haven’t worked since last year’s TIGNOGs, but the truth is that actually, I haven’t worked since last year’s TIGNOGs. Last time, there were some in the gardening community that found my language poor, my taste even poorer, and felt the whole event was something of a bad show. If those people are here again, then it’s best if you fuck off right now.

This, the second TIGNOG ceremony, means one thing; the Idiot Gardener has been a gardener for two whole years. It might not seem a lot, but considering he thought his interest in growing shit would lastr a round five days, it's a remarkable feat. A lot has happened in the garden this year. The Baby Jesus did the blight thing, zombie lettuce was created, and next door’s cat illustrated just how a scalded cat goes off! Still, it’s not all been fun and games. There was some serious stuff too, and a bloody cripple that thought he knew it all about tomatoes at the Oxted and Edenbridge show.

Talking of shows, everyone’s favourite organic twat, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was doing a bit of judging at the allotment. He saw Mavis bending over, weeding, and came over all aroused and unnecessary. He nipped behind the shed, dropped his trousers, and started to have a quick wank. Suddenly little Tom walked up pushing a wheelbarrow, and said, ‘Oi Mister, are you having a wank?’

Hugh tried to explain he wasn’t whacking off, at some great length, and eventually Tom stated that he would have to tell everyone what happened. Hugh begged him not to, but Tom said, ‘Look Mister, my Dad sent me to sell this wheelbarrow, and because of you I missed the bloke that was going to buy it. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t sell it, so I’ll have to tell them why.’

Hugh looked over the wheelbarrow. The tyre was punctured. The handles were bent. The body was rusted and full of holes. It squeaked when it moved, and the wheel kept jamming. Hugh shrugged and said, ‘Okay, I’ll buy it off you. How much?’

Tom thought for a second, and said, ‘£100, cash only!’

Hugh refused, so Tom repeated that therefore he’d have to tell everyone what he’d seen. Hugh reluctantly handed over the money, and headed off with his newly acquired wheelbarrow. As he headed across the allotment, one of the committee members saw him and asked, ‘Hugh, do you want me to get someone to take that wheelbarrow to the dump?’

Hugh replied, ‘No way, it just cost me £100.’

The committee member laughed and said, ‘£100 for that? Someone must have seen you coming!’

Anyway, enough of this shit. The first TIGNOG of 2011 goes to the biggest bastards in the gardening industry in 2011. Obviously, the Jiffy Group made the shortlist, as did the Raven’s various over-priced enterprises. However, whilst these businesses will take your money and give you overpriced shit in return, they will at least give you all the overpriced shit they said they would. However, there is – in the gardening sector – a thief. He is a thief of the worst kind, one that calculates his thievery. He figures that seeds don’t cost a lot, and in a packet of seeds you’re not going to miss some. Even if you do suspect, you won’t do anything because the value is so small. However, if he takes a few pennies off each of us, it soon adds up to a bloody fortune. The 2011 TIGNOG for the biggest bastard in the gardening industry goes to seed thief Mr Fothergill. Obviously, he’s not here to collect his award, as he’s a bastard. Plus there’s no award anyway.

A quick one for those falling asleep out there. What’s the difference between the admissions form at a clap clinic and Alan Titchmarsh? I’d enjoy filling in Alan Titchmarsh.

The next TIGNOG goes to the seed merchant of the year, and I don't mean that wanker off Gardeners' World. Last year's seed provider was stripped off his TIGNOG when we discovered that Fothergill's a thief. The shortlist this year was minus the moustache-totting bandit and that old lump, the Raven, but did see Sutton Seeds and Unwins battle it out, before being kicked firmly in the balls by Thomson and Morgan, who lift the 2011 TIGNOG for providing lots of seeds that actually germinated.

Talking about seed and germination, I was down the maternity hospital the other night, and saw Alan Titchmarsh, Barack Obama and the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in the waiting room. Later the fire alarm went off and we all evacuated, but afterwards there was a bit of a fuss. It seems all three had been there while their wives gave birth to sons, but because of the fire drill the nurses didn't have time to tag the babies. The nurses therefore asked the fathers to see if they could identify their offspring.

The Grand Wizard nipped in first, and returned a few seconds clutching a black baby. His wife looked surprised, but he whispered, 'Keep you mouth shut; at least we know it's not a fucking Titchmarsh!'

From one failure to another; the 2011 epic fail TIGNOG. The shortlist included the failure of the courgettes to die, the failure of the summer to happen, and the rotting of the herbage every time it was replanted. However, head and shoulders above these dark blots on an otherwise very dark landscape comes the total fail that was sweet potatoes. One tuber the size of a matchhead, and the others were bleeding tiny.

A quick question; what has four legs and one arm? My fucking pitbull when he catches up with Titchmarsh!

I was down the allotment the other day, when I saw the fellow on the next plot. He's turned it all over to flowers, forgoing vegetables altoghter. I asked him why he'd done it, and he said whenever he took a bunch home his wife whipped of her knickers, laid on her back and pulled her legs apart for him. I thought for a second, and then asked him, 'Why, haven't you got any vases?'.

The TIGNOG for Crop of the Year is always an important one. Last year it went to the Carrot, despite a strong showing from the Parsnip. In 2011 the Parsnip again came good, but not good enough. No, the humble Beetroot is the crop of the year. Easy to grow, plentiful with a chard-like leaf and a sweet tender root, the red beetroot - yellow ones just don't have the earthiness - is this year's winning crop. It germinated effortlessly, lasted for ever, and even fed the neighbours too (well, the ones I like).

Now, on a night of celebration, I do have some bad news for everyone who likes over-priced organic veggie-hippy-new age food. Before I came out tonight, someone told me that Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall has died. I know, it's a shock. My friend told me that Hugh was judging a show at the allotment, and when he arrived, his Land Rover brakes failed. The vehicle crashed into a brick wall, and Hugh went flying through the windscreen.

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He went through the window, rolled off the bonnet, and landed on old Mr Smith's bonfire.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. Then he got up and his clothes were on fire. He staggered into Mr Jones' shed, where he keeps the lawnmower petrol, and the whole thing exploded, firing Hugh into the air.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He flew above the allotment, and then came crashing down on the bean stakes. They impaled him like spears.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. He tried to stand, but the stakes hit Mr Allen's power tools and set the cultivator going, which then ran him over.'

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that. The cultivator also chewed up the cable, and Hugh got a blast of voltage then left him twitching and smoking.

'Christ', I said, 'what a way to go'.

'Oh no', my mate said, 'he survived that.'

'Hang on a fucking minute', I said,. 'I haven't got all day. How did he die?'

My mate replied, 'I beat him to death with a shovel.'

I had to ask. 'Why did you do that?'

My mate replied, 'I had to; he was wrecking the fucking place!'

Ladies and gentlemen, that your lot. I've been Paddy O'Furniture, you've been ungrateful bastards, and 2011 - as a growing year - is well and truly done!

Apart from the kale, obviously.

And the cabbages and parsnips.

And the artichokes too.

Oh, and the other stuff...