[Alan ‘Titch’ Marsh smiles wanly, resplendent in a lemon and turquoise-striped suit with lime-green tie, representing the true grit of working-class Yorkshire. A pot of dwarf sweet peas to his right gives him the stature of Steven Seagal]

ALAN: A warm welcome [standard ironic look up at cloudy British sky] to the Chelsea Flower Show. I’ve been relegated to the studio this week, my sexual magnetism being what it is in springtime – get me within six inches of a lady’s-finger and there’s a risk of cross-pollination. There’s nothing like a bit of a hullabaloo to stir the quintessential soul of gardening at this time o’ year, as this nondescript bald bloke is about to explain. [interacts briefly with nondescript bald bloke] Some controversy to report on down there, I understand. Might give you a personality.

[Wardrobe have found NBB a dinner jacket, to cover his recycled tablecloth shirt]

NBB: In my allotment behind Hackney dog track… [nondescript bald bloke is desperately seeking a stalker, to make him seem more interesting] …I’ve got purple sprouting broccoli in May, a new trowel from Argos, and a pair of chaffinches nesting in my box. There’s no lack of drama round my way, Alan!!

[Alan’s mike has been switched off, as they spray him with fragrance, or Jeyes fluid]

NBB [contd.]: I’m here with a man called.. [looks at crib sheet] …Ronaldo, who is the main thrust behind the Gay Rights Garden [Ronaldo (surprisingly no relation) is still checking his highlights in a hand mirror] …and not a pink or a pansy in sight???

RONALDO: Exactly. A conscious effort to shatter the stereotyped, double-entendre, camposity associated with homosexual horticulture.  We gave it a cottagey feel. Swing on the spindle-tree, tickle the vibrant clematis coming out of the Stonewall, caress the throbbing energy of the little teasels….

NBB: Organic with the emphasis firmly on “organ”. [sees huge, brightly-coloured Californian quiche flower] What a stunning Voluptuosa Vulgare!

RONALDO: Yes, she’s very slutty. If you must touch her petals, use marigolds.

NBB: Now, somewhere out there…. is that short, scruffy, northern woman. [switchover to bag lady in a summery multi-coloured trenchcoat] I hear they’ve deloused you for this year’s event, Nora.

SSNW: The last vine weevil left my muff this morning, Joe. Just in time for Prince Phillip.

[Short scruffy northern woman ambles through several exhibits]

SSNW:  Just passing the entry from the Alzheimer’s Society [a rectangle of blank concrete, with a note pinned to a wheelbarrow saying “Out to Lunch”] and over here, the British Prostate Association... our cameras are too big to squeeze through that entrance… and I think there’s a little problem with the water feature…. on to… [bearded Afghan chap] ...the garden of the Islamic Jihad Army, Kensington branch. [to Afghan chap] You explain, sweetie, while I’m tekkin’ mi wellies off.

AFGHAN: Well, my condescending little Western infidel, it is mainly poppies. Largely covered, because they are female. Any troublesome specimens, we just cut off head. Standard MDF timber potting shed, to synthesise heroin. Giant mosque on pole over there is bird table, for suicide carrier pigeons. Steep rockery make useful backdrop for special videos.

SSNW: Lovely shaded area by the pond for relaxing.

AFGHAN: And keeping your ricin cool.

SSNW: Should you be next to the Institute for Endangered Species? [straining to listen through ear-piece] Is that you Laurence?

[Cut to Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen]

LAURENCE [dressed as a French courtier. He is in mid-flow]: …soo quintessentially English…ebullient but austere, direct lines, bisecting the diagonals at every turn, with that rigid no-nonsense flamboyance of harmonious space… [an aerial shot shows he’s standing on a giant swastika] …Damn! [his attention turns to his trademark 4-foot white cuffs] …you don’t expect blackfly in the garden of the British National Party… well, not this side of the borders…

[Several skinheads jump on him, shouting “Leave the little bastard to me, Mr. Bowen, sir!”]

LAURENCE [contd.]: Alan!

[Switchback to Alan in studio]

ALAN:  You can catch me again in five minutes on a day-time TV repeat. I’m off now to fulfil the dreams a young poet called [squints at autocue] …Oli Talisker, who wants a threesome in a privet hedge with me and Rachel de Thame…

[Standard earthy voice of cameraman]: It was Nigella, mate. ‘Ee’s ‘ardly goin’ to celebrate Celtic winning the league by pokin’ you up the arboretum.

ALAN: You’re talking to the most fondled waxwork in Madame Tussauds. [the Islamic Jihad Garden explodes behind him] I think Rachel’s started without me…. lucky we’re in the grounds of a hospital. Ta-ta!!!