Leave our sheds alone!, Teesdale Mercury

Leave our sheds alone!

Apr 23, 2008

I READ with some concern the recent comments of the comedian Rory Bremner about the Prime Minister. He said that observing Our Leader was like having an old uncle who spent 11 years in a shed at the bottom of the garden ‘making something' which was never defined. On plucking up courage to actually sneak a look in the shed, we are disappointed to find that our uncle has, in fact, done nothing during his decade and a bit in seclusion. 

I object. This is low common abuse of the worst kind. On behalf of shed dwellers everywhere, I must say that to liken us to prime ministers is simply below the belt, entirely unacceptable.

Although I do not personally devote as much of my time to sorting out jars of old screws as I would like, I do feel a certain kinship with those dedicated to the art of the useless. You see, the great gift of shed dwellers to the world is not only that they do a bit of tidying up and sorting out, but also that they give all the rest of humanity a rare gift. They get out of our lives and don't pester us.   

How many old gossips (men and women) in the average village would you like to see consigned to a shed for the rest of their lives? A canny few, I'll bet. But they are exactly the types who never go. Mrs Liar and I know a couple who cannot wait, every day, to get out and reorganise the lives of those they meet. No event is too small, no deed too insignificant, that it might escape their gaze.  

"Cutting the grass, eh? We've already done ours; I was just saying to him (jerk of thumb) that if everybody was to take as much care as we do, the world would be a much tidier place, I said that, didn't I?" The deadleg she is married to nods, takes a deep breath then gives us eight minutes on why global warming is caused by rising interest rates. Truly, a wonderful couple, who have dedicated their retirements to disapproving of others and spending every evening discussing in minute detail each word of good advice they have dished out during the day.  Give me a good shed any day, from which bores, of which there seem to be more about, are specifically and permanently excluded.   

There is something wonderful about a shed, especially  in the rain. If you're the sort who has even installed electricity, yours is paradise indeed. I know someone who manufactured a sign for the doorway of his shed inscribed ‘Et in Arcadia ego', the title of a chapter in ‘Brideshead Revisited'. For him, the shed was Castle Howard and the family cat, Sebastian's teddy bear.  

Sheds smell nice, especially if you have attempted some unsuccessful woodwork at some point. Their floors sag. They have old radios without FM, which sag off the right station and tune themselves into Hilversum on the long wave. The windows must have cobwebs so thick and ancient that they are capable of snaring crows, let alone any insect stupid enough to venture in. There must be rusty tools,  gathered from the sheds of all previously deceased male relatives and retained ‘just in case'. Apart from a Thermos flask and a well-hidden cigar or two, the must-have of all must-haves is the armchair.  This should have two seat cushions instead of one. These must be of violently clashing colours. The chair should have a winged back, for the unlikely event of its occupant having a little shuteye.  All draughts will have been excluded by stuffing cracks with nine-year-old copies of ‘Vintage Trucks and Buses'. The single light bulb will have a maximum of 60 watts. The door of the shed will stand open in high summer, at which time the chair will be moved to the doorway and trouser legs/shirt sleeves will be rolled up for exposure to sunlight. Briefly. Only in times of severe heatwave will both arms and legs be simultaneously exposed.

The late Harold Bracegirdle was the shed dweller par excellence of his generation. Not only was he the world champion for continuous flatcap wearing (from the second day of his honeymoon until shortly before his death, when it was removed for medical reasons), he was also a role model for all men aspiring to cope with the changed aspirations of radicalised, educated women. You see, he had something else, apart from his darling Doris, on which he could rely.  He had his shed.  So dear was this to him, and so much comfort did it provide, when he was told that his wife was carrying on with Jed Bracket, the Olympic Synchronised Sheep Dipping medallist, Harold had sufficient aplomb to merely ask: "Does that mean I'll have ter get me own tea?" What a man. What a role model for the young.  We shall not see his like in a shed again.

 So do not repeat this calumny, Mr Bremner.  Prime Ministers are two a penny.  

Governments matter not a fig in the greater order of things. But lay off sheds.  Speak not harshly of sheds, sir. Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.

First published in the Mercury, April 16 2008