Guerilla Gardening

Continuing my recent theme of hobby exploitation, I was pleased to note yet another gap in the market. Countryfile (it was a hangover) introduced me to guerilla gardening. For those not in the know guerilla gardening is how you get street cred. if you're not eligible through the normal avenues (i.e. hanging around one, being credible). A perfect pastime for those of you who:

• like the idea that Che Guevara was also a guerilla (but wouldn't risk your gym fees on all that tobacco)
• move into working class areas, thereby outpricing all of those who used to call it home, and then spend the rest of the time swanning around with Wallpaper magazine, bleating: 'there's such a sense of community here'. Yep, and it's called Foxtons.

Having thus metrosexually demanaged, this target demographic probably won't have a garden because they are only paying half a million pounds for the flat. What better time to sell them crap which celebrates having to wander streets so dirty and violent that a single enigmatic dandelion can make a difference?

Don't get me wrong: I believe in the power of the natural world. I once stuck a dandelion under the chin of a sleeping wino and they really did piss themselves. But no instance of 'metro-loisir' is complete without a fashion which grows up around it. So take your money making tips from a fashionista who has already created a range of accessoristas to truly conceal plantings on the hop.

The astute amongst you might assume these accessories to be trowels and spades but the astute don't survive in fashion. As demonstrated live on TV, you simply kneel over a patch of turd ridden soil with an outsized brief case with a concealed drill inside, to dig the hole for the plant pot. You inconspicuously drill for about three hours, per average depth of 6 cm. Then you cunningly swap the briefcase for another bright, shiny red PVC bag (camouflage is all important). It is then a simple matter of switching on the motor, waiting half an hour for the AAA operated plastic conveyor belt inside to move around and hey presto: a pot falls out your false bottom and you have to stand it up again. This happens in merely the same time it takes for an average St. Emilion to mature. You then walk away nonchalantly, able to view your two small plant pots all the way to the horizon, which, in London, is fortunately six inches away on average.

I have no idea what terrible ninja enemies may befall those who don't conceal their activities by bending over a shiny bag for two hours in the middle of a mini roundabout, but if there's money to be made, I'm in:

"This is not just a briefcase, Bond: it's a lovely hanging basket as well".

I even tested a product or two. The guerilla gazebo didn't quite work out. The police weren't happy but the corpse behind the green tent looked a lot brighter.

I took a walk down my high street and decided one particular flower arrangement looked a bit naff so I got my shiny bag out and changed 'Dad' to the more ironic 'Fucker' before the hearse set off again. This sells well to people sick of the same old, same old, according to colleague Daniel Thistlethwaite, an account Account Manager for PR firm, Gobshite.