This is The Queen at The Chelsea Flower Show. The Queen is sniffing a rose.
For those that don’t know, The Chelsea Flower Show is a show, in Chelsea, about flowers. People come, they look at flowers, they go. Some might stay for lunch, then they go. Some might pick up inspiration for their own gardens, then they go. Some may pick up men in the Urban Gardens sections, then they go.
It is just about our favourite of The Flower Shows. And we’ve been to a fair few The Flower Shows in our time. Chelsea, Hampton Court, Tatton… they all do it, we’ve done ’em all.
Garden designers enter these flower shows in the hope of winning medals. Medals mean cash, and cash means prizes.
One lucky so and so will even win Best In Show. And whilst we’re on the subject, we happened to be in a VNI (very nice indeed) hotel in London’s glittering Brussels yesterday, killing some time during that hateful period between breakfast and the car picking you up to take you to the Eurostar, so there we were flicking
off through the channels, and settled upon BBC2’s coverage of The Chelsea Flower Show.
Where, oh where, oh where, oh where (oh where?) did they find the buggery bollocky telly presenters for that? One bloke whose speech impediment was so severe we had to run it through the air-con to make any sense of it (and he wasn’t even attractive), that Nicki woman who did Popstars: The Rivals whose make-up consisted of dipping her head in the children’s paint drawer and who over-egged it to such an extent we developed IBS, and some posh twat in a hat who was one of those self-professed ‘eccentrics’. We’ll be the judge of that. And also drop the hat. You twat.
Alan Titchmarsh was okay. As was Andy Sturgeon and Chris something. The only two we’d even consider bumming. This is gardening – sor’ i’ ou’! (That’s ‘sort it out’ wit the t’s missing.) (That’s ‘with’ with the h missing.)