Showing posts with label Pavilion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pavilion. Show all posts

Thursday, 1 August 2013

RHS Tatton Show 2013



Last week was the North West of England's largest flower show. I had a fabulously enjoyable day in the company of old friends: it really was well worth the ensuing pain! The image above is of a mound of agapanthus which dominated the entrance to the main Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) marquee.

I have a few allergies and am uncertain whether agapanthus cause one of them. However, there were loads of ideas for garden planting. This year eryngiums were ubiquitous.



The stunning blue colour of the variety in the upper image, and taking into account having travelled several times through Los Picos (in northern Spain), would stimulate fond memories if planted in my garden. In the lower photograph is one of the eryngiums also known as sea-holly. These are silver-white, just perfect for my 'white' garden. Also handy as a barrier to potential trespassers given all those barbs! Oh splendid whiteness!


I should like a water-feature without attaching such to the water-supply and so had been looking at miniature ponds. In the first photo is a lovely example from Waterside Nursery (Leicestershire). The simplicity of the granite bowl would blend unobtrusively in my Japanese garden. Another example in the second picture from D'Arcy & Everest (Cambridgeshire) surrounded by miniature Alpine planting (their speciality) would also blend in if a different coloured stone were available. 


As ever at these events there were plenty of experimental displays. Here a wall of re-used wine-bottles - shimmering, tactile, æsthetic - proved to be a magnet as old & young were drawn to it, many with smiles on their faces. Me too! %)


The highlight of the whole event for myself was catching up in the flesh (as opposed to via social media) with 'old' friend Jacqui, hubby Dickie and Mum Sue. Jacqui is perhaps more widely and better known as The Hungry Gardener, a designer and builder of edible gardens. Her entry to the show this year was situated in the RHS Fruit & Vegetable Pavilion, the only set garden that was. It was entitled "The Garden-Party". Jacqui deservedly earned a silver medal (although personally I believe it merited a gold!). Note the cress-upholstered chairs and Sue's edible flower display! Fantastic! I just wish I had had the sense to purchase a lemon verbena, as I have been unable to source elsewhere for the past two years and mine perished in the deep winter a couple of years back. Maybe next year!

[Image description: chums seated on the grass during our first collapse.]

Now to the whingeing. It was nigh impossible to find any seating or even somewhere to eat/drink as the facilities just could not cope with the sheer numbers of visitors. For disabled folk like myself, this proved problematic. Eventually I had to just plonk myself on the grass. Thankfully I had a strong, burly guy to pull me back up. Given that the main audience for the show were shall we say the more mature end of the market, I believe the failure to provide adequate seating at least remiss and likely discriminatory. Interestingly, most of the garden designers had also failed to take account of disabled folks' needs. Heigh-ho!

Friday, 12 July 2013

Jockstrap


It's that time of year: sun blazing down on scorched turf; birdsong twittering along in the background; the distant poop-poop of a motorcycle; and then THWACK! the unmistakeable shot of cork against willow ricocheting around the environs of the local cricket pitch.

At school cricket bored me to tears. I wanted to be doing something. In middle age a friend and neighbour, who happened to be an ex-pro cricketer, kindly explained the laws and took me each Sunday to some local league cricket match or other hither and thither in Lancashire. I learned to enjoy the sport, the packed lunch and the warm, cask beer served in the clubhouse.

Whilst rugby has its muscled bears and soccer has its glamour boys, cricket never quite seems to elicit the slightest hint of the erotic.

One Sunday, however, in Middleton, beads of sweat clinging to me in the sultry afternoon heat, I was suddenly and unexpectedly flustered by being turned on. Here's why...


jockstrap


his jockstrap
my glance keeps returning to it
towards the cricket pavilion
a posturing jog
no box protection
so nowt is hidden
not particularly well endowed
he dresses to the left
quite noticeably
his dick and balls bob
up and down
facing the onlookers
he stands unabashed
thrusts down
the front of his pants
his hand
lentiginous tanned skin
and forearm
reddy-golden hairs
a lengthy self-adjustment
jiggling his tackle
quite brazen
no embarrassment
after all
he must adjust
his jockstrap
I burn in the heat
with lust
later tugging
at the band of his jockstrap
strongly underscoring
his left buttock
on its right-side only
a fleshy fold overlaps
where his jockstrap
deeply cuts
into his meaty cheek
jogging from long-off
in the outfield
his gluteus maximus muscles
wobble and ripple
en route to second-slip
drawn back
to his jockstrap
a visibly sweating butt-crack
a darkening of the centre-seam
a tau-cross on whites
- oh boy,
get a grip -
is it discomfort
or discomfiture
that causes him
to periodically tug
at his pants' seat
every few minutes
after any and every action
back to this rousing
sight
his jockstrap




[Image description: cricketer Alex Stewart dropped his pants to adjust his jockstrap; from a newspaper clipping, date & © unknown]