Yes, I did have a backup.

No, the backup didn’t work.

Looks like this is the perfect opportunity for a fresh start. Stay tuned…

This wasn’t always the case. Until recently it would be commonplace to find me sat outside in the garden reading a book, writing an overdue blog entry (a bit like this one) or eating an evening meal alfresco-styley (albeit in all likelihood a microwave curry or a Rustlers chicken burger, but hey, it’s still a meal) like they do in them there foreign countries. So what happened? Why do I no longer spend my time out in the fresh air amongst my sunflowers and spring onions?

I gave up smoking.

Regardless of whether it was a warm July evening or a rain-sodden cold January afternoon, if the craving for a Lucky Strike suddenly hit me I
would don my smoking jacket (usually the nearest coat that came to hand) and step outside for a good puff. Whilst I was out there inhaling all sorts of nasties I would tend to the garden, read a newspaper or just sit down and relax – I may have been filling my lungs with toxic death but at least I was outside. But once I’d stopped smoking I no longer felt the need to venture outside the back door, save for the aforementioned gardening duties and the weekly chore of taking out the wheelie bin. It seemed as if my back garden was strictly out of bounds.

In order to rectify this I decided to give may garden a makeover. As someone, who on occasion, has been falsely accused of looking a little bit like TV makeover expert Gok Wan, I took this passing resemblance as qualification for me to transform my garden into a space unburdened by the memories of nicotine abuse, a space that I could once again use to display bohemian tendencies and enjoy a microwave burger in the sunshine.

If you are expecting the tale of this garden makeover to be one fraught with all the excitement of a typical TV makeover show then forget it! All I have done is reposition the cold frame, move a few pots around and purchased some new garden furniture.

Gone are the cheap plastic table and chairs that were in a perpetual state of uncleanliness, gone is the cold frame that brushed against the washing as it hung out to dry on the washing line, gone are the wind chimes that were a great idea in theory but ultimately fucking annoying. In their place are a set of comfortable chairs and a parasol – in effect I have performed garden Feng Shui. Look:

This blog is produced with the assistance of outdated laptops and Czech lagers

Now that my garden has been transformed it is a given that we will suffer one of the coldest, wettest summers since records began. I don’t care, come rain or shine I will be out there taking in the fresh air and watching my garden grow.

Wilbur

A few months ago I asked you to suggest a name for my new plant. Expecting a torrent of potential names to be submitted from my intelligent and creative readership, I delayed the update of the website in anticipation of the overwhelming response.

Nearly two suggestions were submitted. For the sake of argument, lets call it one suggestion.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the name of my new plant is: Wilbur! Thanks to Stu for the one and only suggestion, his Pythonesque logic proving that he had put a bit of thought into it rather than just spout out a few random names.

Stu wrote:

How about “Wilbur”

I Quote:

Clerk: Are all your plants called Wilbur?

Praline: There’s nothing so odd about that. Kemel Attaturk had an entire menagerie called Abdul.

Clerk: No he didn’t.

Praline: Did!

Clerk: Didn’t!

Praline: Did, did, did, did, did and did!

Clerk: Oh all right.

The verdict? It is a giant iPhone. In fact it is a giant iPhone that weighs the same as a heavy hardback book (a heavy hardback book that, thanks to the curved back of the iPad, cannot be used on a flat surface), with a touch-screen so glossy that once you’ve got over the shock of seeing the stupid expressions your face makes whilst web browsing, you’ll be too scared to touch the impeccably shiny screen through fear of leaving incriminating fingerprints that could be used to trace your sordid web-browsing history.

Nope, the iPad is not for me, in fact Charlie Brooker’s launch day article sums up my feelings towards it in a manner that my slowly degrading GCSE grade C English will never be able to articulate. Despite my comparative lack of words we come to the same conclusion – you will want to own an iPad, but only when it becomes lighter and cheaper.

The banana is shown for scale

The latest addition to my never-expanding indoor jungle is this Diffenbachia (Diffenbachia maculata)/Dumb Cane/Mother-in-law plant. It’s called a Dumb Cane because the sap is toxic – it can cause temporary speechlessness when touched to the tongue. It is especially dangerous to cats, which is only a good thing.
Anyway, the plant needs a name. I’ve already got a Peace Lily called ‘Wilbur’ so it’s only fair that the Diffenbachia gets a suitable name too. I’ve asked a few friends and had some rather good suggestions (Geoffrey, Marigold and Stumpy are the current favourites). Can you think of a suitable name for this lovely, yet poisonous plant?

Put your ideas in the comments section below.

Two cups, one Latte

My latte cups have already earned me much derision; I have already been called a ponce and a poof and my sexuality has been questioned. To ensure that I am put in my place and never think of doing anything like this again, please feel free to insult me in the comments …

This is Wilbur

Meet Wilbur, my new Japanese Peace Lilly (Spathiphyllum). As you can see in the photo above, Wilbur lives by my telephone. He’s very eager to meet all of you so why not give him a call?
I’m assuming Wilbur is a Japanese Peace Lilly. I’d like to think he is as I’d then be in the same class of plant owner as Sgt. Nicholas Angel from Hot Fuzz, but as the word ‘Japanese’ was missing from his label and he was purchased from Homebase in Swindon, I think his Asian credentials are minimal.
I’ve read that a Peace Lilly is a good plant to have in a home as it is an excellent air purifier. If that is the case I hope I can keep Wilbur nice and healthy so that my lounge will eventually cease to smell like the inside of a packet of dry-roasted peanuts.

Have a happy New Year my jolly readers! May the year 2009 bring you much happiness, prosperity, cake and any other of those little things that make you happy!

From The Observer:

A single bell tolls as the hearse slowly comes to a halt. Some heads bow, some arms are raised in firm salute and the high street falls silent. Another repatriation means another flag-draped coffin and another tribute from the people of Wootton Bassett.

If any town can really know the raw reality of the risks taken and sacrifices made by those now serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, it is this small north Wiltshire market town, near Swindon. The tangible evidence is in front of them, week after week.

Friday saw them on the streets once more; hundreds turned out to pay their respects to a soldier fallen while serving his country. All know his name, his age, his regiment, and the manner of his death. Ranger Justin James Cupples, 29, from the 1st Battalion, the Royal Irish Regiment, who died in an explosion on foot patrol in southern Afghanistan is the 99th victim of the Iraq and Afghan conflicts to be repatriated through nearby RAF Lyneham. Tommorow they will congregate again to honour the 100th victim to be slowly led through the town and many will weep.

‘The people of Wootton Bassett have been there for each and every one of them,’ said Anne Bevis, secretary of the local Royal British Legion. And it is in recognition of this that the town’s residents will line the streets once more next month. This time, though, the tribute being paid is to them. A military parade is to be held in their honour on 12 October as the armed forces say thank you for the unswerving support shown during these difficult times.

It’s an honour welcomed by mayor Michael Leighfield. ‘It’s something we wish Wootton Bassett didn’t have to be recognised for. But we are very proud. It’s a hell of a tribute.’

But the army, airforce and navy see the people of Wootton Bassett as unsung heroes during these trying times. To them it is the town that cares when soldiers fear wearing uniforms in public in some places, or face being turned away from hotels, and when arguments rage over homecoming parades.

Come rain, snow or hail they gather beside the war memorial. ‘We have been there three times a week at times,’ said Bevis. When details are known, she rings round regulars, who pass them on to others. Word spreads. There are rarely fewer than 150, sometimes as many as 500. Veterans, former military personnel, the ‘chain gang’ as the local mayors and councillors refer to themselves, stand alongside mothers, school children, shoppers.

As Jai Cunningham, 24, a youth support worker, put it: ‘You hear on the news that we have lost a few more boys. But, by standing here, it’s really making it real. It’s always emotional. There are often tears, especially when we see six come through together. Just the sheer number, everyone is in tears. The sad thing is, the people of this town actually realise how many are going through and it’s quite scary.’

Angelina Peaker tries to attend them all. A former army nurse, she brings her children Tom, nine, Elly, seven, and Chloe, two, when school hours permit. ‘It’s important they know what sacrifices are being made.’ With Tom desperate to follow in his father’s army footsteps ‘he needs to know it is not all glory and uniforms,’ she said.

‘But it is important, too, because I absolutely know I would want people to come if it was my child.’

Relatives of those whose bodies are being brought back join the townsfolk. Bob and Roseleen Reeve, whose son Corporal Sean Reeve, 28, of the Royal Signals, was killed with three others on 17 June in Helmand when their vehicle was caught in an explosion, told The Observer the town’s tribute ‘left a deep impression on us and, we are sure, other families in the same situation.

‘Having been in Wootton Bassett that day to see the gathering was something for which we are very grateful and we find of great consolation. Thank you to the people of Wootton Bassett and please continue to do it.’

The town receives many letters of gratitude, from relatives or colleagues. Anne often puts them on display to illustrate how appreciated their gesture is.

Schoolboy Jake Smith, 12, says: ‘It’s important to be here. I feel very sad, but also I feel proud of them. And I hope the families know that we feel so proud.’

Often, curious visitors ask what’s going on. ‘I point them to the words on the war memorial “Lest We Forget”. That’s what’s going on,’ said Brigadier Robert Hall, chairman of Wiltshire county council. Ian Henderson, chairman of North Wiltshire District Council, said: ‘I feel we are doing this on behalf of the whole country. Not just Wootton Bassett.’

The tributes began in April last year when the military began using Lyneham rather than RAF Brize Norton for repatriation ceremonies. To get to the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford, the hearses must pass along Wootton Bassett’s high street and, by chance, two members of the Royal British Legion saw it and saluted as it went past. People heard and asked if they could be informed of repatriations. Now they come in from the surrounding towns and villages.

Lieutenant General Sir Philip Trousdell, Colonel of the Royal Irish Regiment, was at Ranger Cupples’s repatriation at Lyneham when somebody mentioned the Wootton Bassett tribute. He decided to join it. ‘I’d never heard about it,’ he said. ‘But it’s a tremendous tribute. And I am sure that to know people are doing this will be as deeply comforting to Justin Cupples’s family as it has been deeply moving for me’.

Retired firefighter Chris Wannell has attended all but one, with his wife, former mayor Audrey. ‘Yes, we give up our time,’ he said, ‘But they have given up their lives. You always hope and pray with each one that it will be the last.’

Sadly, he and the others will be on the high street again tomorrow to pay their respects to the 100th member of the armed services to pass through Wootton Bassett.