The strange lure of waxed jackets and wickerwork

The news that Cheshire farmers are up in arms because their annual country show has been, as they claim, hijacked by "the waxed jacket and wicker basket brigade" must have brought a shock of recognition to many. As my embarrassment imparted a suitably rustic hue to my cheeks, I realised that I am one of the guilty parties.

The news that Cheshire farmers are up in arms because their annual country show has been, as they claim, hijacked by "the waxed jacket and wicker basket brigade" must have brought a shock of recognition to many. As my embarrassment imparted a suitably rustic hue to my cheeks, I realised that I am one of the guilty parties.

Though a deep-dyed suburbanite more familiar with turn-ups than turnips, I have indeed purchased a waxed jacket at such an event. This garment is plentifully equipped with pockets presumably intended for the storage of baling twine, bottles of hoof oil and sheep-dog whistles, but I admit that, in my case, these ample storage facilities are stuffed with such unbucolic items as an decaying A to Z and an inexplicably vast collection of London Transport tickets.

The same goes for wicker baskets, though here the jibes of the Cheshire agriculturalists should be directed more at my wife than me. The sheer number and variety of wicker objects accumulated in our house beggars belief. They include picnic baskets, cat boxes, wine-bottle carriers, fire-wood containers, baskets for French bread and an innumerable collection of miscellaneous repositories, both lidded and unlidded.

It's not that we go to the country shows with the aim of ending up with a house full of faux-rural garments and knick-knackery. Like lots of townies, I have a great fondness for pigs, and I have spent many happy moments at the Kent Show gazing at the Saddlebacks and Berkshires. It is a deeply pleasurable experience, probably therapeutic, to observe these titanic porkers taking their ease. A few years ago, I was accompanied in my silent contemplation by the then Archbishop of Canterbury. Since Robert Runcie is a celebrated pig-breeder, an ecclesiastical Lord Emsworth, his eye was somewhat more knowledgeable than mine.

I'm also fond of giving the cows a once-over. I once found myself so fascinated by the markings on bovine bottoms, like the maps of unknown coastlines, that I decided to assemble a photographic record. My wife overheard a lady of mature years whispering to a companion: "I've just seen a man photographing cows' behinds. Why do you think he's doing that?"

"It must be a professional thing," her pal replied. "Maybe something to do with the judging."

Of course, real livestock judges don't wear waxed jackets. Particularly at the posher events, the regulation dress code is bowler hat and dark suit. "Country shows are funny things," a judge at the Royal Show once told me. "Lots of farmers dressed like city gents and acting as lavatory attendants to cattle."

For townies, the trouble with country shows is that after wincing at the sheep-shearing and enjoying the Wagnerian spectacle of the farrier's craft, you're left at a loose end. With no tiny, tan-coloured Dexter cattle to groom or magnificent Berkshires to feed, you drift round aimlessly, acquiring a cloth cap here, a volume on apiary there. At least, I've never fallen for the shyster wine-dealers who lie in wait at country showgrounds. After being generously irrigated with free samples, suckers are liable to find themselves signing on for several cases of overpriced Piesporter.

However, the solution for the irked farmers of the north-west is not to ban the sale of waxed jackets at the Cheshire Show (though I would be willing to support any movement dedicated to the eradication of the wickerwork industry).

No, the best way of inducing the public to concentrate on the essentials of the country show would be to encourage us all to follow the example of Robert Runcie. What a great improvement it would be be if, instead of goggling at Emmerdale Farm, we watched our own Gloucester Old Spots.

chirst@globalnet.co.uk