The Allotment - Mud and Weeds

Bad that, the old git died, and he wasn’t there to see him off. But he should have been; he knew that. The silly old sod had been giving him so much stick about bloody gardening. Anyway, he could do something about it now. He could look after his allotment. 

Lenny Hargreaves looked at the patch of mud and weeds. And the brilliant shed at the top of it. The shed was a masterpiece of male ingenuity. It even had a gas stove in it, one of those camping ones. And a sink you could fill up with water from the tap provided, near the plot. 

Meaning, he could make as many brews as he wanted. And eat biscuits when he wanted. Maureen never came to the allotment. She liked her bit of pottering in their tiny garden. Plants and crap. Whereas Lenny planned on growing shit you could eat.

There was one minor problem. He knew fuck all about gardening, growing anything, or how to prepare soil. Still, he wouldn’t let old Tommy down. He’d figure it out. And the bloke approaching the shed was one fella that might help. Big Mal. He knew his stuff. 

—Mal.

—Ah, nobhead. See yer’ve made a start then. 

—All in good time. 

—Yer will ‘ave to turn the whole lot over. Get all them weeds out. Then turn it again. Loosen the bugger up, let the goodness in the soil out. 

—Yeah, right, Mal. That’s what I was thinking, right enough. 

—No it wasn’t, yer prat. You ain’t got a clue ‘ave yer? 

—Fuck off, you, but no, not a clue. 

Mal poured himself a brew. It wasn’t tea, well it was, but it’d be laced with a single malt. Mal liked a drink. 

—Mate, back in the day, we’d have sorted this little bloody plot in about half a day. 

—Who? 

—The allotment fellas. Yer know, them of us with plots. 

—Maybe you lot will ‘elp me.

—Me bollocks, I’m putting spuds in, that’s gonna take me time up. 

—Hold up, here’s trouble.

—Alright, twonks? Stood around doin’ fuck all as usual, I see. 

—Alright, Ray. ‘Ow’s the marrow comin’ on? Asked Mal. 

—Mind yer business. Me marrow is off limits. 

—Alright, moody. 

—‘Ere, Lenny, what yer doin’ with Tommy’s patch then? 

—Er, not sure yet—

—He ain’t got a clue, Ray. When they were dishing out gardening brains, he didn’t get the memo. 

Mal chuckled. 

—Ha! Yeah, tha’s what Tommy used to say. Only way Lenny would be green-fingered is if he dipped ‘is hands in green paint. 

—Bollocks to the lot of yer. You’ll see. 

—I know where to come if I need some weeds, said Ray. 

—Aye, says gardener of the year over there. 

It was great. Lenny loved the craic. It’s why he was glad Tommy had such a great shed. The others wouldn’t admit it, but the sheds were lame in comparison to his. Well, Tommy’s, but now his. 

—‘Ere, you nobheads got any headache tablets? Asked Ray. 

—Lenny could do yer a bay leaf, said Mal. 

—No, why mate? 

—Had a few sherbets last night. Me ‘ead is banging. 

—Er? Drinking again, Ray? I thought yer knocked tha’ on the ‘ead? 

Mal was watching Ray and Lenny looked at him as well. His eyes looked bloodshot. Definitely a few beers last night by the look on him. 

—Ah, not really. Had a few last night, yer know, felt in the mood. 

They all nodded. Mal swigged his tea. The single malt likely burning on the way down. 

—Ah shit, muttered Mal. 

—Morning, men! ‘Ow are we today? 

There was a chorus of low ‘alright Frank’ replies. 

—You chaps read the amendment to the plot boundaries? We’ve ‘ad to tighten up; some plots on the Bank Road side ‘ave crept a bit. 

—Lenny ‘ere won’t have that problem, Frank. He’s perfected the fine art of weed growing, said Ray. 

—Fuck off, Ray. I ain’t started working it yet. 

—Well, Lenny, you’ll need to. We don’t want any infestations getting into the plots. 

—Yeah, I’m on it Frank. 

Frank nodded and marched off with his clipboard under his arm. Lenny rolled his eyes. 

—Brew, anyone? he asked. 

—Never thought yer would ask, said Mal.