Garedener’ of Britain, rejoice! Raise your trowels in triumph, for we have struck a mighty blow against our most voracious foe! This year, the slugs that once laid waste to our cherished borders and beloved allotments will be fewer in number. The Royal Horticultural Society has spoken: a bitter winter and a dry spell have thinned their ranks. Huzzah!
Yes. Like many of you, the news that the slug population will be considerably lower than last year’s invasion has come as a huge relief. The losses in 2024 were immeasurable. Apparently the mild wet weather provided ideal conditions for the mollusc marauders to thrive and, my goodness, did they dine out while the going was good. Whole trays of seedlings annihilated. A brand new acanthus mollis, still in its pot waiting to be planted out, didn’t even last the night, and I had to sow an emergency batch of runner beans after my healthy plants were chomped through at the base.
Slugs are near the top of my long list of things I passionately detest. Right up there with packing for holidays and performance poetry. I once stepped on one wearing only a thin sock, and the memory of it still makes me gag a decade later.
Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have thought twice about shaking those toxic luminous blue pellets all over the place. But now, the gardening purists tell us we must learn to live with them. They are part of a ‘healthy eco-system’ we’re told. Well, eco-systems evolve, I say, and preferably without these slimy bastards.
According to the RHS, slug populations aren’t just at the mercy of the weather. Their numbers naturally rise and fall due to disease, parasites, and competition for food. Which means after years of infestation, nature is balancing the numbers.
But let’s not be lulled into a false sense of security! Let us defend our gardens, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the flower beds, we shall fight on the allotments, and among the cabbages. We shall never surrender! Pass me the salt. I’m taking no prisoners.
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An unsettling image released by the Vatican this week showed the first photograph of Pope Francis since his hospitalisation with pneumonia in both lungs.
Wheeled in front of an altar for a photo op, the Pontiff looked frail and oblivious to his surroundings. Taken from his right side, it showed the Holy Father slumped with his eyes barely open. It is a sad sight, and one that reminds me of my own father in his final years.
The accompanying statement tried in vain to reassure the faithful: “This morning, Pope Francis concelebrated Holy Mass in the chapel of the apartment on the tenth floor of Gemelli Hospital.” But the photo told its own truth: an elderly, visibly-unwell man, dressed in vestments, not for worship but for optics.
He should have been resting in bed, on a ventilator, not used as a prop. If the conclave of cardinals believed this image would bring comfort, they are mistaken. Then again, the Catholic Church has never been famed for its compassion.
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Jimmy Carr has confessed he can’t stop getting so-called ‘tweakments’, admitting he’s gone “a bit crazy with it”. The 52-year-old comedian has spent a small fortune over the years with a hair transplant, veneers and Botox. “Christ, I’m like the Forth Bridge – it never stops,” he joked. And just like the Forth Bridge… he looks more or less exactly the same. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy that’s had a fresh coat of varnish.
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Just last week, I was calling for a new foodie trend to replace our unsustainable obsession with avocados when, lo and behold, here comes an unexpected contender. Crumpets. Yes, that pockmarked teatime staple has been given a fine-dining makeover and is taking the culinary world by storm. Top restaurants are even serving them up with curried crab, lobster, braised mutton, and even ox tongue, with prices to match. Call me basic, but I’ll stick with butter and Marmite.
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