Life, the Universe and Everything

This year, a lot of gardeners have had plants go sick. A few samples have got as far as experts who have diagnosed "hormone" weedkiller damage. That answer wasn't well received. Some of the affected gardeners claimed never to have used weedkiller near their vegetable plots. Others, supporters of the "organic" movement have never used the stuff in their garden at all. All they'd ever used was good wholesome farm manure. That turned out to be the clue. It contained aminopyralid, a powerful selective weedkiller introduced a couple of years ago by Dow AgroSciences. It's interesting stuff. It doesn't kill grass but it kills a lot of other plants that might be growing alongside. Farmers sprayed it onto pasture, cows and horses ate the grass and produced manure in the usual way. Aminopyralid may not kill grass but it sticks to it, even on the ride through the animal's digestive system. The legal situation is tricky. The gardener can sue the manure suppl...

K only has one party every year but he makes a proper job of it. He lives out of town. Right out of town - he and his neighbour are several hundred metres from any other house. So having loud music until stupid O'clock works well. Inviting a load of his dancing mates follows naturally. As the house is actually a modest semi, we use the large parking area for dancing. It's covered with OSB on battens, which gives it a bit of bounce. This year, because of the rain he'd used plastic sheeting to make a huge series of roofs sheltering the dance floor as well as the barbie. For those who didn't want to dance, drink or eat, an old motorbike is got out of one of the numerous sheds, attached to a chariot and people play on the tracks in woodland behind the house. Or you can just chill on one of the well worn comfy chairs dotted about. Later, the band packs their stuff away and the DJ takes over. I watch with interest as one of the musicians makes a bid for the most provocatively...

The décor and furnishings of my local were towards the boring end of the 1960s. The customers drank like fish, played Pool, won quiz leagues and occasionally fought each other. It was a boozer . Or, in modern parlance, a "theme" pub where the theme was "getting drunk". There was no messing around with a restaurant, children's play area or anything. The business model was simple - sell as much booze as possible. So seriously was this taken that when Andy one of the regulars died, the landlord told me it was "Cirrhosis of the Liver, Sir" Not in hushed tones but loudly - with a hint of professional pride. It was successful though - the place was often packed but nothing lasts forever. There was the inevitable falling-out with the brewery. I say "inevitable" because far too many people like the idea of running a pub, which gives the brewery the whip hand. So the place got "lagerised" - you know the score, the walls are knocked out, fanc...

That's what they claim to have in Lidl . No, not wandering around the aisles but sat there in the freezer. I hoiked a packet out and was disappointed to see they were only labelled as rabbit legs. I wonder which translator got it wrong? I like the idea of Argentinean Hares Legs though. Exotic but with a just a hint of Python