Skip to main content

Allow me Lord, to Rock Out…

….frequently*



Music advisory: This post is going to be more about gigs than gardening, so those of a sensitive disposition or seeking horticultural antics and tips on seed sowing please check back in a few days.

Those who have been paying attention, will know that of late I have been organising rock concerts rather than gardening. Live music is a very good thing. And even parents want to go dancing sometimes. Or all the time, in some cases. So I am happy to report that the pioneering family-friendly gig at Ace Space in Newbury last night was a glorious success and complete sell-out.

So thank you to the fantastic bands – Big Hand, The Screenbeats and Brendan Driscoll who stepped in at the last minute with a nicely thought-out blues set. Thanks to everyone who bought tickets (and sorry if you couldn’t get one!). To all the kids (and grownups) playing air guitar (and air trumpet) and power sliding across the dancefloor – good work! Hooray for those people who danced their socks off and Phil from Big Hand who led a ska-conga with his trumpet and carefully explained that Nick Griffin is ‘not a very nice man’ for the benefit of the pre-teens in the intro to their song supporting Love Music Hate Racism. Thanks to Newbury Weekly News for the pre-publicity and a thank you to everyone who had the energy, imagination, generosity and bravery to make it a success – Alex, Adam, Julia, Mel,  Jason on sound, Rick from Sticks and Strings, the folk who ran the bar…you know who you all are.
To those who rocked, we salute you. **

Back, briefly, to gardening. I was telling a new acquaintance about what I do the other day. “Your garden must be lovely!” she sighed, as people do. And then think you are being modest when you disabuse them. Thing is, many people who work in gardening do not have immaculate and enviable gardens. Sure, we know what we should be doing and when; and we spend our days immersed in the fine points of design and botanical beauty, but during peak gardening season we are far more likely to be tearing around the countryside looking at other peoples superior plots than tending our own.

With a few notable exceptions, a horticultural journalist’s garden contains an eclectic selection of prized plants, horticultural experiments, refugees from shows and jobs to do. Botanical dreams and ambitions still to realise and projects yet to complete. It is in equal parts a source of pleasure and of frustration, with the bonus that it can very occasionally be tax deductible (properly apportioned, naturally). But it is home.

For a selection of entirely enviable gardens, check out my garden roundup in the April issue of Berkshire and Buckinghamshire Life.

The picture above is a Forsythia at Kingston Bagpuize.

Listening to: My new Big Hand CD, clearly. It is called How About It? (for anyone who missed the reference last time!)

*with apologies to the Red Hot Chili Peppers
** with apologies to ACDC

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Metamorphosis

Writing a book is often likened to having a baby. And with some justification. There is the giddy conception and whirlwind of excitement, then the warm glow of a contract signed. It then the process starts to lag and become heavier; sweetmeats are deployed to maintain performance – pregnancy, like literature, is an endurance sport. My new book, Published by Green Books, 22nd September  2016 Finally, fat and fecund with promise the manuscript is delivered to the publisher, for supervision and medical intervention if necessary. And, finally, the screaming and anguish suddenly stops. The Author's desk (the buns have already been eaten) And here is where the process differs. After months of to-ing and fro-ing, deliberations about nuanced argument and tone of voice, followed by concerns about stacking words in a column and balanced captions, it is confiscated. They just take it away. To put it another way, it is like watching caterpillars. They eat and eat and eat and ...

Adventures in Floristry

Ingredients for a bouquet Back in the summer I went on a floristry course to Green and Gorgeous in Oxfordshire. Historically, I have not been at all keen on formal floristry. It seemed rigid and stuffy, coming up with arrangements that had names like ‘Orchid and Sphagnum on a Tortured Twig’. But at G&G they laid my demons to rest with an intensive day learning how to make fashionable naturalistic bouquets. Since then I have had little need to use these dark arts, but as the autumn colours intensified the floristry bug intensified too. Venturing out with the secateurs I acquired Pyracantha berries, bronze and gold forsythia leaves, soft grey goldenrod seedheads (cunningly stabilised with a blast of extreme-hold hairspray to stop the seeds dropping off), and some Sedum flowers. I bought some Physalis and cellophane from Lulu Flowers round the corner – where they also gave me a quick refresher in wrapping them for travel. So, with much garden wire and raffia, I assemb...

The Essential Apocalypse Skillset

Let me tell you a story. Several years ago, I was painting the bathroom of a house in Bristol. The window was open and it was a pleasant sort of day and people were wandering past. Around about four o’clock I heard a couple of sets of feet come down the hill and then stop. “Look, cherries!” said one voice (female, mid to late teens). “No, I don’t think they are. They can’t be.” Said the other, doubtfully (ditto). “Well, they look like cherries. Let’s try them!” “No, they are probably berries. Completely different. Some of them are not red, they are blackish. They are probably poisonous.” “Oh. Yes, I suppose so.” (disappointed) The feet moved on. I looked out of the bathroom window at the large and heavily laden cherry tree leaning over the wall of the garden opposite and wondered what the world was coming to. Red Sky in the Morning, Shepherds Warning ((c) N Slade) I am actually still wondering. When my grandfather was a child, he and his brothers (and a dog) ...