Why would I be going to Chelsea, I'm a gardener

When I was younger, before I became a Mouldewaper, a sort of larval form prior to my metamorphosis I had no Idea about class. I was particularly naive and dense and had a sheltered upbringing. I was an Orc child living on the edge of Mordor where even the birds were black with soot. It wasn't till I moved away to the east that I realised that starlings weren't just black. I saw these new birds with silvery spots and iridescent plumage...a revelation. I had many revelations over the next few years but seemed immune to to the most fundamental ones about my role in this backward feudal state. This was probably due to the influence of the post war socialist experiment, borne out of idealism but also pragmatism, a chance to build a new and modern Britain less in thrall to inherited wealth and privilege. but like trying to graft a fine rose onto an old rootstock, reversion is always the problem. Sadly the new growth needed more tending and firmer training than it got and the weakened growth was no match for the basal growth; easily discerned by its vigorous growth and vicious thorns. So Britian is about Class, what's new; the class system headed up by Queeny is a self renewing hegemony embracing the new wealth, trading Honours for cash. New money will always be looked down on by old but their sons, educated in the right schools( and where is more right than Eton), will be one of us. This elite is now global but Britain is a prime location, safe, loads of culture and a subservient population. Unlike wealth which seems to rush upwards, class does trickle down. Those lower in the social order crave that which is seen to of the upper ranks. Without a strong working class tradition there is no sheet anchor anymore and the scrabble for the symbols of status, more subtle than mere wealth, is ubiquitous. This makes for one of the most dynamic cultures on the planet, perhaps not in gross terms but in the almost infinite subtleties of 'taste'. We have 'taste' gurus telling us what to eat, how to cook, where to shop, how to decorate our house and of course what to put in the garden. And so to The Chelsea Flower Show; The RHS was set by and for the great and the good to display the horticultural fireworks of the victorian/edwardian upper classes whose large estates and gardens were truly awesome. Over the course of two major wars, the loss of empire and devastation of the cultural and biological wealth of a small island the importance of gardens as a cultural niche declined and gardeners were able to get on with their eccentricity largely ignored by everyone else. Then came the eighties and 'Loads o' Money', fortunes made overnight as UK plc was asset stripped, the loss of habitat both cultural and biological was catastrophic for those more specialised creatures but the coarser and more vigorous forms exploded to fill the niche and suck dry the remains of the old. It seemed that everyone and their dog was a garden designer in the nineties seeking out those with new fortunes wishing to display their wealth and taste....their class. Chelsea became the prime target for the commercialisation and exploitation of this forgotten realm and the new money from advertising and media made it their playground as they already had art. Aspirational magazines like Country living began to challenge old stalwarts such as Country life, though not with the old money, and new Garden 'porn' mags popped up like daisies. So Chelsea is about class and status mediated by 'taste' celebs. Plants may serve as the currency but the incestuous social whirl owes more to fashion than to horticulture. This culture is ultimately toxic and anathema to growth. They probably have mouldewaper detectors at the gate just in case these relics of a previous age should be drawn to the plants, mistaking the true nature of the event.

I hurt, therefore I am

I hurt therefore I am; one can tell that Descartes was not in too much pain as he was doing his thinking. Pain defines you, then consumes you till all that is left is a husk. Try walking out on pain and the ground itself is sown with barbs; try throwing yourself through the barrier and you rebound into an altered space, a world of pain where previous concerns vanish beneath a symphony of agony as each cell screams. Is this waterboarding at a cellular level? I practice the silent scream, I may look the same on the outside but inside I'm screaming;I give way to the pressure and allow the pain to scream for me and through me, it doesn't hurt any the less but it relieves the tension of keeping it in, without alarming the neighbours. I try not to use painkillers, mostly they don't work and if they do then I fall asleep, I spend too much time sleeping it's the only time I don't feel pain. In the beginning, when I first got ill I didn't feel much pain but it grew till I was never without it, 24/7, every second and it would follow me into sleep and lead me back out. There came a time when I awoke and lay still I would be pain free; a golden world of ease and peace till I stirred and awoke the Demon within me for that is how it feels, goaded constantly by my hellish companion. There were times when I felt I was losing my mind for how can consciousness coexist with the constant jarring of pain, of needles in the joints, of crushing aches in the muscle. Mostly I practice distraction and boost endorphins; coffee gets me moving, exercise dulls the pain but when the coffee has done all it can and I have to rest so the pain floods in.....and inside I'm screaming. ( thanks Maxijazz).

They needs us see, they just don't know it yet

Here in Wiltshire along with a long tradition of inbreeding there is the ancient title of Mouldewaper. Passed down from father to son, cousin , uncle or any of a whole host of familial relationships more usually found in bacteria, the sons of the land toil away unnoticed by city folk who think that their fancy gardens which flow from the pens of the chelsea designers just grow themselves. Well they don't! If they 'designers' knew anything about the land round here they'd know not to start; but led on by how easily the pencil slides over the blank sheet they conjour up follies and borders and terraces with finickity box hedging ; water features, banks that can only be cut by trained rabbits and Boule courts, Pah!   and when things go wrong who gets the blame, not the designer already half way round the social circle of the wannabee's, churning out the next variation on the limited theme that has brought them fame and fortune, 2 book deals and a trial slot on the TV. No, it's the gardeners that get it in the neck, responsible for too much rain, too little rain, cold nights and that big cloud that spoiled the daughters pool party.
This is where the secret lore of the Mouldewaper originates, out of adversity and contempt we have forged an identity which does not so much transcend this ritual class war as undermine them rich buggers. They needs us see, they just don't know it yet.