I always know when Spring is upon us. Is it the subtle change in the air, or the flowering of the daffodils? No, it’s when the wife looks up with a gleam in her eye and says ‘oh yummy, Monty’s back this week’; Monty, for those unsure, being hoary handed son of the soil Monty Don. Yes him, the BBC gardening guru and sex god from ‘Gardeners’ World’.

Can anybody out there explain to me what exactly it is about this bloke that makes ladies ‘of a certain age’ froth like a beck in a storm? The widder woman who lives across the road from us goes swivel-eyed at the mention of his name. Her dog’s named after him.

A few years ago the wife went all the way to Edinbugh just to attend an event that the cunt was putting on at the Book Festival, and returned with signed copies of two of his books. My mate Big Al’s missus frankly admits to fantasising about being pawed very roughly by ‘his big, coarse, hairy hands’, and makes very unsubtle references to the size of his cucumber.

Now I’ll own that the wife’s right when she says that I’ve got absolutely no grounds for getting peeved with her about this, given the amount of time that I spend drooling over (and I quote) ‘that Mexican piece with huge tits’. Ah Salma, my Salma.

Yes, I’m forced to admit that this cunting is based on nothing more than sheer puzzlement and unfounded, irrational jealousy on my part. I’m jealous that Monty Don is a fanny magnet. The green-fingered bastard.

Guardian

Nominated by Ron Knee.