Thursday 27th May 2010

I shall get to last week’s auction blessed by the Multis and Royston Buster’s dinner soon, but Chelsea’s the hot news. I know you’re gasping.

I’ve attended this premier, prestige flower show for the last thirty years, tickets provided for private members’ day by the Gay Mother. As far as I can remember, it’s always been exactly the same. I’ve never risen to Press Day on the Monday, but Robert Nevil has. Indeed this year, he cut the President’s lunch (pressure of work: remember Poor Little Rich Gays are driven) where Royston Buster was also to be seen. But a friend of Robert Nevil’s sat next to Alan Titchmarsh (is that how you spell it?  Really couldn’t care. It’s obviously a made-up name to give a gardening feel).

I think next year I must aim for Press Day. These private members’ days are anything but. All you have to do is fork £36.75 for RHS membership.

Remember, non Poor Little Rich Gays if you’re reading, entry is never barred. It’s all a matter of willpower.

My party: Frankie-Doreen Gunn, the business dynamo, who got lost by the hyacinth stand, but powered back into the group to focus Aunt Lavinia on shade-loving plants for her garden (she liked a rare silene) , and Pavel Marincek, Anthony Mottram’s ex, now a Poor Little Rich Gay checking stock prices on his iPhone.

If you’ve never seen the main tent at Chelsea, where the nurseries have their stands, it is an amazing sight, just flowers stretching as far as the eye can see. Unique in the world, I should think.

Gardening, as we know, is a challenge for the Poor Little Rich Gay – should you actually do it yourself, fork and chop and heave and get dirty? Whatever you choose, you must certainly self-order your plants, never from a garden centre. At Chelsea have your notebook ready. Robert Nevil is always intensely note-book at Chelsea. Inspect tulips with the head pecking and the voice also a pecking equivalent as you plan hair-splittingly for next year. Ideally order ones given as ‘only available at Chelsea’. Last year Aunt Lavinia had ‘White Touche’ from Bloms.

This year, she kept trying to get out of the tent, rather as if she were one of the beagles she once regularly followed on a hare hunt. She was especially repelled by a horrid brassy gold temple-thing which was the Thailand Botantical Society stand. Frankie-Doreen was hard put to rein her in on the shade-loving plants path.

Outside the tent, you see, are the show gardens, where the garden designers parade their art. Years ago they were a joke. Common, common, common. But now more serious. I’ve little time for garden designers. Except for Tom Stuart Smith, whose own garden I visit on June 20^th.

Prove to me that they are Poor Little Rich Gay. Garden Designers, that is.

The Show Gardens this year were not uninspiring – lovely flowers and trees, restrained, it’s true, no bold bad taste. But why is the ‘hard-landscaping’ always so unspeakable? Even the Stuart Smith contribution, which appeared to have no medal at all, had a frightful ‘bronze pavilion’ louring at one end. As for the so-called ‘best in show’ effort, it was unspeakable. Let the graphs below show all.

Horrid Hard Landscaping in Best in Show Garden

Horrid 'Best in Show' Garden

More Awful 'Best in Show' Garden

Excellent Frockage at Chelsea with Essential Comfortable Shoes

More Frockage at Chelsea