Marrakech and the Death of Greige

I was watching one of those Sunday afternoon television programmes the other day. You know the sort. Somebody wanders slowly around a foreign city while soft jazz plays underneath and a presenter in expensive linen says things like:

“Marrakech assaults the senses.” Which is television shorthand for: “There are lamps.”

It was on PBS, which, as a pensioner, I am increasingly drawn towards, along with Sky Arts. Between them they appear to contain the only two vaguely worthwhile things left on Freesat that do not involve either house auctions, serial killers or a celebrity learning pottery while crying.

Normally these programmes are little more than visual chewing gum for the overfed and mildly sleepy. Half travel documentary, half DFS advert. But this one drifted into the world of designers who became obsessed with Marrakech, and suddenly it all became rather interesting.

Because Marrakech appears to have a very particular effect on wealthy Europeans. They arrive as sensible minimalists and leave wanting seventeen courtyards, three fountains, carved cedar doors and somebody quietly hammering brass in the background at all times.

At first it is innocent enough. A tile pattern. A courtyard. Some lanterns.

A few days later they are discussing “texture” with alarming seriousness and wondering whether the downstairs loo in Swindon might benefit from artisanal plasterwork.

Six months on, they are trying to persuade a man called Tariq to hand-finish seventeen thousand zellige tiles while a Labrador named Basil lies exhausted beside an olive tree in Surrey wondering where everything went wrong.

What fascinates western designers about Marrakech is not really Morocco itself. It is the discovery that decoration can be unapologetic. Britain, especially modern Britain, became terrified of visual confidence somewhere around 1997. Since then our interiors have largely consisted of fifty shades of greige interrupted occasionally by Farrow & Ball knock-offs and a sign saying LIVE LAUGH LOVE.

Then people arrive in Marrakech and discover rooms where somebody has clearly said: “No, keep going. More pattern. More colour. More carved wood. Hang another lantern there. Put a fountain in the middle. Yes, under the banana tree.”

And somehow it works.

The extraordinary thing is that Moroccan design manages to feel both disciplined and sensual at the same time. Beneath all the colour and ornament there is structure, geometry and craftsmanship. Repetition. Precision. Balance. Nothing is accidental. It is rather like looking at a beautifully engineered classic car underneath all the polished walnut and leather.

Designers like Yves Saint Laurent and Jean Paul Gaultier did not merely visit Marrakech. They inhaled it. Suddenly fashion collections became drenched in jewel colours, embroidery, strong lines and theatrical silhouettes. European minimalism briefly got shoved aside by people returning from Morocco muttering: “We need more texture.” Which, translated into English, usually means: “I would like the sitting room to resemble an extremely expensive spice market.”

Even Pierre Balmain succumbed. His Marrakech pool, tiled in the style of a Persian carpet, looked less like somewhere to swim and more like somewhere an exceptionally wealthy sultan might quietly discuss silk exports while being handed a fig on a silver tray. It was gloriously over the top and, annoyingly, utterly elegant at the same time. That is the Marrakech trick. It marches right up to the brink of absurdity, peers over the edge, then somehow lands gracefully on its feet.

The amusing part is that Britain cannot quite carry this off because our climate fundamentally disagrees with the concept. Moroccan interiors are designed around blazing sun, cool courtyards and shadow. British houses are designed around horizontal rain and asking whether the radiator is on.

A real Marrakech house belongs in Marrakech. It belongs behind heavy walls keeping out heat and dust, with shadow falling across a courtyard while water quietly trickles somewhere unseen. Transporting the entire thing to a new-build in Swindon feels faintly like wearing a dinner jacket to clean the wheelie bins. Unless, of course, you are actually Berber, in which case you can probably do what you like.

So what happens instead is that people attempt a sort of Marrakech-inspired compromise. One brass lantern, two cushions and a vaguely distressed side table from Homesense, then they stand back believing they now live in a riad. Meanwhile outside it is 7C and Dave from next door is pressure-washing algae off his wheelie bins.

Still, I rather admire the ambition. Modern Britain desperately needs reminding that decoration is not a moral failing. Somewhere along the line we confused minimalism with sophistication.

Marrakech never made that mistake.

Marrakech looks at your beige open-plan kitchen, quietly orders another mosaic fountain, then watches while somebody in Wiltshire tries to recreate the effect with a £14 brass lantern from Dunelm and a reed diffuser called Arabian Nights.

HouseholdJobs

I spent yesterday cleaning the doorbell.

Schrodiger's Spreadsheet

A quick update on yesterday's post - the Yamaha Virago passed its MoT. That's a 100% pass record over 26 years.

On to today's observation.

I made a small mistake in my solar power spreadsheet the other day, which briefly suggested that my fairly modest domestic solar installation had generated enough electricity to make Gloucestershire glow gently in the dark.

This was not, strictly speaking, true. My roof had not become a small nuclear fusion facility. The National Grid had not rung up to ask if I could take the edge off peak demand. I had merely entered something catastrophically stupid into Excel, which is not really physics, but does have a tendency to create strange effects in the observable universe.

The interesting bit was not the mistake itself. I can make mistakes perfectly well without troubling the Nobel committee. The interesting bit was that the wrong figure fed a chart on another worksheet.

So the question wafted through my mind: did the chart change the moment I entered the wrong figure, or only when I opened the chart worksheet and observed it?

This is where Excel became unexpectedly philosophical, which is not something one wants from a piece of software that still thinks 1-2 is a date. The underlying data had changed. The workbook had accepted the madness. Somewhere inside the file, the future graph had already become ridiculous. But the chart itself, sitting on another worksheet, had not visibly changed, because I was not looking at it.

Then came the more awkward question: did the chart still exist?

This is not the sort of question one expects to ask about a spreadsheet. Normally the difficult questions are things like why has column G turned into dates, why is this formula referring to a workbook I deleted in 2018, and why has Excel decided that 1-2 means the second of January rather than, say, a subtraction sum, which would seem a reasonable enough guess.

But there we were, asking whether an unobserved chart actually existed.

The answer, rather annoyingly, is yes. It existed. But not as a fully alive, continuously updated visual thing sitting there nobly redrawing itself in the dark while nobody was watching.

The chart existed as an object in the workbook. Excel knew where it was, what it was linked to, and broadly how it was supposed to look. It had not lost the chart behind the sofa.

The last rendered version also existed. That was the old visual state: the chart as last painted, calm and respectable, still pretending my solar panels had behaved themselves. In that sense, the visible chart existed in the old state.

But the new visual chart did not yet exist on screen. The underlying data had changed, and the next rendering was already doomed, but Excel had not yet painted the new evidence.

So it was not, strictly speaking, a quantum superposition. The chart was not both old and new at the same time, like a cat in a box with an attitude problem. It was more prosaic than that, which is usually where Excel lives. It was an old rendered picture attached to a changed underlying reality.

Then I opened the chart worksheet.

At which point the graph suddenly leapt into its new and absurd position, like a startled cat finding out it had been assigned to PivotTable maintenance. The old visible chart vanished, the new ridiculous chart appeared, and for one brief moment my solar panels appeared to have outperformed the Severn Barrage, had anyone actually got round to building it.

Observation had not collapsed a probability curve. It had merely forced Excel to redraw the stale evidence from the changed data.

But that is enough for me.

This is not proper quantum mechanics. No serious physicist is going to win a Nobel Prize by staring at a line chart and asking whether June’s solar yield is both 243 kWh and the annual output of Dinorwig. Excel is not Copenhagen. It is more Swindon with formulae.

Still, it has the important ingredients. There is a hidden state, an observer, and a sudden change when the observer looks. There is also, regrettably, Microsoft Excel, which does rather lower the intellectual tone.

So no, the chart was not both old and new. It was old on screen, wrong underneath, and waiting to embarrass me the moment I clicked on it.

Schrodinger’s Spreadsheet: the data is wrong, the display is stale, and the observer is standing there with a cup of tea wondering why June has produced 14 gigawatt-hours.

Two Wheels, One Last Sensible Decision

Readers may recall that the proposed balcony extension to the house briefly developed into a glass-fronted Art Space containing a Triumph Rocket 3, a motorcycle with the dimensions, mass and turning circle of a harbour tug. That was architecture. This is transport, although the distinction has become less secure than it once was.

The Rocket 3 was never a serious proposition. It was too large, too heavy, too expensive and altogether too likely to require a small crane if it leaned beyond the point at which optimism ceased to be useful. It would have looked magnificent behind glass, but rather less amusing when attempting to reverse it out of a gravel lay-by.

What I actually wanted was something much more modest: low enough to manage comfortably, light enough not to require dockyard equipment, capable of 70 mph without every internal component submitting a grievance, and cheap enough not to become a major financial event. It also had to be comfortable enough for A-roads, occasional motorway use and the sort of summer riding that does not involve proving anything to anybody.

This narrowed the field considerably. Elderly British classics offered charm, history and the prospect of spending Sunday mornings adjusting parts which had moved despite having no obvious reason to do so. Sports bikes were designed around the assumption that the rider still had knees capable of folding neatly beneath his ears. Enormous touring machines weighed much the same as a small family car, while scooters that would fit neatly with the motorhome often appeared to rely on wind direction, gradient and prayer to maintain motorway speed.

There were cheap Japanese machines, expensive British machines, obscure Soviet machines and several motorcycles described as easy projects by owners who clearly had a highly developed sense of humour. Some were advertised with the reassuring phrase, It ran last year, which in motorcycle sales language generally means that it does not run now and the intervening deterioration has been transferred to the next owner. The budget was never going to exceed £2,000 and, ideally, would be nearer £1,000. That alone ruled out much of the market, particularly those sellers who had confused owning an old motorcycle with holding a rapidly appreciating asset.

The style gradually became clear. I wanted a cruiser, but not a vast chrome barge covered in tassels, skulls and equipment borrowed from a Wild West saloon. I wanted something low, relaxed and capable of travelling at ordinary road speeds without turning the rider into a windsock.

The Yamaha Virago 535 began to make increasing sense. This required a small adjustment in attitude because I grew up in a world where proper motorcycles were Triumphs, BSAs and Ariels, while Japanese motorcycles were regarded with the suspicion normally reserved for powdered coffee. Unfortunately, the Japanese then spent several decades making motorcycles which started, stopped and retained their oil. It was unsporting of them.

The Virago is low, manageable, shaft-driven and powerful enough for real roads. Its low centre of gravity matters as much as the headline weight. If it falls over, it should be easier to lift than a taller motorcycle of similar mass, because less of that weight is perched high above the ground conspiring against you. It is not a performance machine and does not demand leather racing overalls, a chiropractor or an urgent discussion with the magistrates. It simply goes.

The first one I found was £895. It looked attractive in the advert, although further photographs revealed that a previous owner had bobbered it, removed the pillion seat and decorated it with a level of skull-based enthusiasm usually associated with teenage bedrooms. At that price, it was tempting. The frame appeared intact, it had a long MOT and the basic bike looked sound, but converting it back to carry a passenger properly would have cost several hundred pounds, the exhausts were wrapped, and the modifications introduced the sort of uncertainty best examined before money changes hands.

Somebody else paid a deposit before I could see it. This was irritating, particularly because when we sell anything on Facebook Marketplace, we allow the first serious enquirer the chance to view it before entertaining others. Facebook Marketplace, however, operates under a simpler legal code in which money talks and courtesy may submit written representations.

In retrospect, it may have been fortunate. The £895 bargain might easily have become a £1,500 motorcycle after undoing the improvements and reconstructing the parts Yamaha had fitted before somebody decided they knew better.

The next Virago was a 1999 model with about 18,000 miles, standard seats, a screen, backrest and luggage rack. The price was £1,750. It was not cheap, but neither was it absurd. It was complete, looked presentable and had the sort of minor corrosion one expects on a 26-year-old motorcycle rather than the sort that suggests archaeology. It was also half the mileage of the one I'd missed.

The lower engine casing had been painted silver. Not disastrously, but with enough overspray on the gasket edges to show that masking had been regarded as a philosophical rather than practical requirement. The front header pipes were wrapped close to the exhaust ports, which may be cosmetic or may be concealing corrosion. Exhaust wrap is the motorcycle equivalent of wallpaper over damp. Sometimes it is harmless and sometimes it is evidence.

The electrical reserve switch also does not work. On the Virago, the reserve is electrically operated rather than controlled by a conventional tap. The fault may be trivial, perhaps a dirty switch or a poor connection, but it needs sorting. Running out of petrol is inconvenient enough without discovering that the emergency supply has gone on strike.

One big advantage - it's shaft driven.

The MOT was due the following month. The seller initially offered to arrange one at my expense, but I proposed a slightly different arrangement. I would pay the full £1,750, provided it came with a fresh MOT. The risk to him is £30 or £40. The risk to me, without the test, could be several hundred pounds in tyres, brakes, bearings or exhaust work. At this end of the market, a full year’s MOT also provides a useful minimum return: even if the whole enterprise subsequently goes tits up, I should at least have had 12 months of motorcycling for comparatively little money.

He suggested that I pay the MOT fee as a deposit, refundable if it failed, and I agreed. It protects him from spending money on a test only for me to vanish, and protects me from buying a 26-year-old motorcycle on optimism alone. It is booked for its MOT at 2 pm today.

With the deal agreed, subject to the MOT, I went into the workshop and tried on my old helmet. At some point it dislodged one of my hearing aids, although I did not notice until I went back into the house and wondered why the television had suddenly developed an audio fault. A search of the workshop followed. Thank God for Bluetooth-enabled hearing aids: my phone managed to locate it among the tools, dust and assorted fragments of Triumph. The motorcycle had not yet arrived, and age had already introduced a complication Yamaha omitted from the handbook.

Assuming it passes without anything serious, I will collect it on Friday or Saturday. We can take the motorhome, stay locally and visit friends in Stourport-on-Severn, so the motorcycle has already generated a small touring expedition before I have even ridden it home.

Once I have it, the first task will not be polishing. It will be finding out what I have actually bought. The reserve system needs fixing, the wrapped exhaust sections need inspecting, the tyres need checking for age as well as tread, and the charging voltage needs confirming. Unless there is persuasive evidence of a recent service, it will get oil, filters, plugs and fluids. Consumables are cheaper than mysteries.

After that comes the cosmetic work. The painted lower casing could be flatted and repainted properly, or the removable covers could be replaced with polished alloy ones. I can have the tank colour matched by spectrometer, although a colour-matched engine risks looking less like engineering and more like knitwear. The sensible solution will probably be polished covers, a neatly refinished central casing and no attempt to turn every inaccessible crevice into a mirror.

I also want proper heat protection from the exhaust. Not a perforated universal shield fastened with exposed Jubilee clips, which would make the motorcycle look as though it had been repaired by a plumber during his lunch break, but something discreet, polished and professionally mounted. The windscreen can stay. It may cost a few miles per hour at the very top end, but the purpose is to travel comfortably at 60 or 70, not establish a land-speed record on a 535 cc cruiser.

The whole process has clarified something fairly obvious. The cheapest motorcycle is not necessarily the cheapest way to own one. A modified Virago at £895 could easily have become a more expensive bike after repairs, reversals and reconstruction, while a standard one at £1,750 may prove better value because it already possesses seats, mudguards, lights and the other tedious items manufacturers generally include before owners start improving them.

So, after considering classics, cruisers, scooters, sports bikes and motorcycles of sufficient mass to affect local tides, I appear to have settled on a modest Japanese V-twin. It is low, comfortable, mechanically straightforward and fast enough. In other words, the sensible choice was there all along. It merely required the elimination of almost everything else before I was prepared to admit it.

Year 1 Wasn't Humanity's Year 1

The phrase "the 21st century" is one of those expressions we use without thinking. It sounds weighty, as though the universe itself paused, drew breath and ushered in a new age.

It didn't.

At one second before midnight on 31 December 2000, humanity was exactly the same species as it was one second after. No law of physics changed. No new scientific principle emerged. No civilisation crossed a threshold. The only thing that happened was that a calendar ticked over.

Even that calendar is arbitrary. The Gregorian calendar counts years from the supposed birth of Jesus, a date calculated centuries later and almost certainly inaccurate by several years. It's an entirely reasonable system for organising diaries, birthdays and tax returns, but an oddly parochial way of measuring the history of our species.

After all, modern humans have been around for roughly 300,000 years. Agriculture began about 12,000 years ago. The first cities emerged around 5,000 years ago, followed by writing. Everything we call recorded history fits into a tiny sliver of human existence, and the Common Era occupies an even smaller slice. Most of humanity's story happened before Year 1.

If we were inventing a calendar today, would we really choose the same starting point?

Perhaps we'd begin with agriculture, when humans stopped wandering and started building permanent settlements. Perhaps with writing, when knowledge could survive its author. Or perhaps with the first civilisation.

My choice would be different. I'd start the clock when humanity first harnessed atomic energy.

That wasn't merely another invention. It was a fundamental change in our relationship with nature. Until then, every civilisation had lived by burning what the sun had recently grown, or by exploiting energy stored over millions of years in coal, oil and gas. Then, in a laboratory in Chicago, we unlocked the energy inside the atom itself.

For the first time in Earth's history, one species possessed the knowledge to release the forces that power the stars.

That achievement gave us extraordinary possibilities. Tiny amounts of fuel could power cities. Medical science gained new tools. Space exploration became more plausible. At the same time, humanity acquired the ability to destroy itself in a single afternoon. That seems a rather more significant milestone than a monk getting a date slightly wrong fifteen centuries earlier.

Perhaps future historians, assuming we leave any behind, won't think in terms of the 20th and 21st centuries at all. They may see everything before 1945 as pre-atomic history, and everything afterwards as the Atomic Era. Just as we talk about the Bronze Age or the Industrial Revolution, they may regard the unlocking of the nucleus as the moment humanity genuinely entered a new age.

The deeper point is that calendars don't reveal history. They reveal priorities. Every civilisation chooses an event and quietly declares, "This is where our story begins."

The interesting question isn't why we count from the birth of Jesus. It's whether, in another thousand years, anyone else still will.

The Cartwheel Divide

I've noticed something curious.

When children are showing off in a park, a playground or a beach, it's almost always the girls doing handstands, cartwheels and walkovers.

The boys are usually trying to kick something, climb something, break something, or convert a stick into a weapon.

It's an odd little window into how early we steer children. Nobody gathers them together and announces that cartwheels are for girls and football is for boys. It just seeps into the culture until it feels normal.

The irony is that a cartwheel requires strength, balance, courage and coordination. Qualities we supposedly admire in everyone, yet somehow the public display of them has been quietly sorted into the wrong mental drawer.

Children are not just expressing themselves naturally. Quite often, they're expressing the expectations adults have wrapped round them before they're old enough to notice.

The girls invert themselves gracefully.

The boys prepare for siege warfare with a twig.

Update

I have been remiss. 

Some of you may have noticed that my posts have become somewhat sporadic. The reason for this is because I have started to write the more political posts on Substack, rather than Blogger.

When I write a post on Blogger I copy it to Facebook, where the vast majority of my traffic comes from. I also copy the Substack posts to Facebook.

I neglected to cater for those who come to Blogger direct and are not aware that some of my posts are now published on Substack.

To access these, here is the Substack Link. You can subscribe to my Substack posts at no cost, and you will receive an email when a post goes live.

Enjoy!

The Temptation of the Cruising Plodder

I was idly scrolling through Facebook Marketplace when I came across a 1991 Yamaha Virago 535. Cream. Chrome. Twin-cylinder. Shaft drive. £1,300. It sat there on the screen looking quiet, faintly pleased with itself and not remotely interested in proving anything.

This, of course, is precisely the sort of motorcycle I now find dangerous. Not dangerous in the usual way, with savage acceleration, poor brakes and a rear tyre made from ambition. Dangerous because it looks reasonable.

I've been vaguely thinking about another bike for a while, mainly to take with us when away in the motorhome to give us more reach than a couple of bicycles. A Honda Gold Wing appeals, because obviously what every man needs is a two-wheeled sofa with reverse gear, stereo speakers and enough mass to affect the tides. Sadly, they're too heavy. A Triumph Rocket 3 also appeals, because I still have some idiocy left in me, but that's also too heavy and still too expensive. A Triumph America or Thunderbird would do nicely, but they remain stubbornly outside the sensible end of the market. Even a Bonneville now seems to require either a larger pension or a more forgiving bank manager than I currently possess.

Then there's a Dnepr, which appeals for all the wrong reasons. A Soviet-sidecar-shaped act of mechanical self-harm. Agricultural, eccentric, heroic and almost certainly a gateway to standing in the rain beside a leaking final drive muttering about parts availability.

My limit, in the unlikely event that common sense briefly leaves the building, is about £2,000. Preferably £1,000. Which is not so much a motorcycle budget as a polite enquiry at the gates of disappointment.

There's also the small matter of my 71-year-old's built-in aversion to Japanese bikes. I was brought up to believe that only Triumphs, BSAs and Ariels were real motorcycles, and everything from Japan was a suspicious appliance with indicators. This was, of course, nonsense, but it was very strongly held nonsense, which is much the same thing in British motorcycling circles.

Mind you, the rot may already have set in. 3 years ago I bought a 50cc Mobylette moped for about £400. I told myself it wasn't really a motorcycle. More of a historical curiosity. A French bicycle that had somehow acquired an engine. The sort of thing a sensible retired man could own without alarming anybody.

In practice, I rode it about 3 times. For most of the 3 years it was either awaiting parts, leaking petrol from its carburettor or giving every indication that French engineering had been conceived as an elaborate practical joke. A few weeks ago I sold it for £700, thereby accidentally making a profit from mechanical incompetence. Unfortunately, this has done nothing to discourage me. If anything, it has reinforced the dangerous belief that motorcycles can somehow be justified as investments.

And yet there it was, this little Yamaha, quietly undermining decades of inherited prejudice by looking affordable, tidy and unlikely to strand me in a lay-by.

20 years ago I had a Honda Shadow 600, and I liked it. Low, comfortable, friendly, not especially fast, and not constantly whispering, go on then, you coward. That sort of bike suits me. A cruising plodder. The motorcycle equivalent of an armchair with a modest exhaust note.

Back when I first met Hayley, I used to ride it from Caversham Marina, where I kept my boat, to Old Sodbury to see her. It was one of those journeys that suited the bike perfectly. Just settle into the inside lane at a steady 60 mph, listen to the engine doing its thing and watch the miles drift by. No drama, no heroics, no attempt to arrive first. Just the simple pleasure of being on a motorcycle heading somewhere you wanted to be.

That, I suspect, is why the Virago caught my eye. At my age, I am no longer shopping for excitement. Excitement has an unfortunate habit of involving hospitals. What appeals now is comfort, character and the ability to arrive with all the original body parts still attached.

I also used to have a Triumph Daytona 955i, which was a rather different proposition. Beautiful, fast, muscular, and perfectly capable of encouraging a man to overestimate both his ability and the coefficient of friction available on a roundabout. I came off it on one. Roundabouts are where motorcyclists go to meet diesel, gravel, white paint and physics, usually in that order and without a formal introduction.

I nearly ripped my thumb off in the process and, luckily, there was nothing coming in the opposite direction, as I ended up on the other side of the road. This did not improve the domestic case for continued motorcycling. My wife, applying the sort of calm risk assessment normally missing from male hobbies, banned me from motorcycles. Strictly speaking, this was less a law carved in stone and more a suggestion written in oil.

So perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something. Not loudly, because the universe has seen my garage and knows shouting is pointless, but quietly, in the shape of a cream Yamaha Virago.

The Virago doesn't pretend to be a sports bike. It doesn't pretend to cross continents. It doesn't come with 6 riding modes, a heated dashboard and a computer asking how assertive you feel today. It just sits there saying: I can take you to a cafe, make a pleasant noise, and probably not involve paramedics.

It knows what it is. A simple Japanese cruiser from the era before every object had to come with a lifestyle attached. Shaft drive. Low seat. V-twin burble. Enough chrome to cheer a man up, but not so much that he starts wearing tassels, talking about freedom and reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which I have actually read.

The problem, as ever, is Facebook Marketplace. The bike may be sane, but the environment in which it is being sold is not. Marketplace is less a buying and selling site than a long-term study into the collapse of language.

Is this available?

Yes.

Silence.

Best price?

No greeting. No words wasted. Just 2 words dragged from the cave wall and hurled into the void.

I was tempted to message the seller and ask whether it was left or right hand drive. Not because I needed to know. I just wanted to establish whether there was still a functioning human being at the other end of the transaction.

And once that bond had been formed, I could move on to the serious questions.

"Can you deliver to Ulan Bator?"

"Will it fit in the lift of a 3rd-floor flat?"

"Has it ever been submerged?"

"Do all the wheels come with it?"

At that point the seller would either block me immediately or become a lifelong friend. There is very little middle ground.

In the end I resisted. For now.

The GT6 is still in pieces, the garage is already full, and there is a limit to how many charming mechanical nuisances one retired man can justify. Though admittedly, nobody has yet established what that limit is, and £1,300 for a tidy old Virago is a dangerous little number to leave unattended.

Stalin Liked Gardening Too

There is always a slightly smug assumption surrounding gardening that it is an inherently wholesome activity. You picture decent retired couples in straw hats discussing delphiniums while Radio 4 murmurs gently in the background. Gardeners are thought of as patient, nurturing souls at one with nature. The sort of people who apologise to worms.

And yet one of history's most prolific mass murderers absolutely loved gardening. Stalin was apparently obsessed with it. He spent hours in his dacha (above) tending plants, discussing grafting techniques, selecting trees, and fussing over lemon bushes. One rather imagines the Politburo nervously complimenting the begonias while trying not to get shot.

It does rather undermine the theory that gardening reveals moral virtue. In fact, when you think about it, gardening contains quite a few alarming features. Gardeners are forever quietly killing things. Entire species of plant are declared undesirable and ruthlessly eradicated. Slugs are poisoned. Aphids are gassed. Weeds are exterminated with chemicals that sound like rejected First World War weapons programmes. Perfectly innocent shrubs are "cut back hard" for failing to conform ideologically to the overall design vision.

There is also the authoritarian tendency. Gardeners cannot simply allow nature to exist freely. Oh no. Every living thing must know its place. This one climbs here. That one flowers there. This hedge shall be straight. These roses must comply with regulations regarding spacing and discipline. Any deviation from the Five Year Planting Plan is dealt with severely.

The allotment world is particularly revealing. Entire cold wars exist between elderly men over bean encroachment and suspiciously oversized marrows. Somewhere in Britain at this very moment there is a retired chartered surveyor glaring at next door's runner beans with the same expression Stalin probably reserved for agricultural dissent.

Then there is the sheer emotional volatility of gardeners. A person can spend all winter tenderly nurturing seedlings indoors, speaking to them like infants, then erupt into incandescent fury because a squirrel ate half a tomato.

It is also worth noting that dictators in general often seem oddly keen on rustic hobbies. They like uniforms, maps, architecture, and gardens. There is clearly a psychological overlap between wanting absolute control over Eastern Europe and becoming extremely agitated about bindweed.

None of this, of course, means gardeners are secretly tyrants. Most are perfectly harmless people with muddy knees and an alarming knowledge of compost acidity. But it does suggest that tending a herbaceous border is not, in itself, proof of saintliness.

Somewhere there is probably a man quietly pruning roses while simultaneously posting comments underneath newspaper articles demanding the deportation of everyone under forty.

And if you visit a garden centre on a bank holiday weekend, observe carefully. Behind the polite discussions about peat-free compost lies a faint atmosphere of suppressed territorial aggression. Britain is only one badly managed hanging basket shortage away from open conflict.

Still, it keeps people occupied. Better they spend Sunday afternoon arguing about lupins than attempting to run the country. Stalin rather demonstrated the risks of combining the two.

Sack the Fans

Sack the fans.

Why not? Everyone else gets blamed.

The manager must go. The players are useless. The tactics are wrong. The board is incompetent. The left-back is apparently a national disgrace because he misplaced a pass under pressure.

Yet the fans remain oddly untouched.

This is especially worth remembering before England play Mexico. Because if England win, we will hear all about the supporters. The noise. The passion. The shirt. The anthem. The “12th man”.

Fine. But that cuts both ways.

You cannot be the 12th man when the team wins and an innocent paying customer when it loses.

A crowd can lift a team. It can also smother one. It can turn pressure into energy, or pressure into panic. Groaning after 10 minutes, booing mistakes, abusing players online, demanding instant perfection from human beings trying to play knockout football - none of that is neutral.

It affects the atmosphere. It affects confidence. It affects decisions. It becomes part of the match. So by all means criticise the manager. Question the selection. Moan about the substitutions. That is half the fun, and without it football would be 22 men running about while sober people make spreadsheets.

But if supporters want credit for inspiring victory, they should not vanish from the accounts when things go wrong. If England are poor against Mexico, perhaps the first question should not be, “Who do we sack?” Perhaps it should be:

How well did the 12th man play?