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.