An innocent rhubarb growing competition between a couple of best friends escalates into full scale growing combat and violence in the concluding part of this tragi-comic satire.
by Chris Harris
Illustration by Louise Turner
As the friendship declined, a ray of hope appeared, the conclusion of the competition now had a date attached to it. The Southover Grange Horticultural Competition in Lewes at the end of July the next year. This year was far too soon with the plants only just establishing themselves, but next year? Next year was perfect,
As autumn rolled on into winter, things slowly began to feel normal again. The plants were winterised and left until spring. The men’s relationship began to improve.
In fact, Dave spent Christmas Day with CJ and, truth be told, they had a genuinely great time. There was no talk whatsoever of rhubarb. CJ, who had prepared the meal, made absolutely certain there was nothing remotely rhubarb-related on the menu that could accidentally spark conversation and bring the competition back to life.
Cosy weekends in the pub together resumed, and if the conversation occasionally drifted toward rhubarb, one of them would deliberately change the subject.
As the growing season began in earnest, they prepared for the finish line. April drifted into May, and happily, it became increasingly clear that the ceasefire between them was probably going to continue. But nevertheless as the weeks rolled by, both became more obsessed with their plants.
Dave continued his research with ChatGPT, investing every spare moment into gaining whatever advantage modern technology could provide. He became convinced that size, presentation and sheer visual impact were what ultimately won rhubarb competitions. Judges, according to his increasingly forensic research, wanted long, thick, perfectly straight stalks, deep colour, flawless leaves and immaculate presentation. Dave intended to produce rhubarb so enormous and pristine that the judges would have no option but to hand him first prize.
CJ took a different path entirely.
He found himself regularly heading down to Earwig Corner, spending time with Harriet and some of the old boys there who still grew vegetables the old-fashioned way. Every Friday they stood around discussing soil quality, greenhouses, composting methods and the merits of various organic feeds. Each visit yielded another tip, and CJ became steadily more enthralled by the entire process.
While Dave pursued scale and forensic optimisation, CJ became obsessed with organic growth, soil health, and natural cultivation. He quietly convinced himself that true quality would always beat Dave’s fancy Dan methodology. Dave might grow the largest rhubarb in Sussex, but CJ believed his own would possess something superior — authenticity and a great taste.
Before long, his interest expanded beyond rhubarb into growing all manner of fruit and vegetables. What had started as a mildly ridiculous rivalry gradually evolved into a genuine fascination with cultivation itself for both of them.
Although they had stopped messaging one another about their plants as part of the de facto ceasefire, CJ’s curiosity could not keep him away from Facebook, where Dave religiously showed off his plant. Normally, he never used Facebook, but now he found himself obsessively checking Dave’s updates, watching the increasingly surreal lengths he was going to in pursuit of rhubarb perfection and the accompanying increase in the number of likes and praising comments.
And my God, the thing was enormous. As good as CJ’s plant was, it was never going to compete with Dave’s for size and appearance. But then, considering the amount of money, time and effort Dave had poured into it, perhaps that was hardly surprising.
Even when Dave went away for a week, he couldn’t resist posting photographs of his new self-regulating irrigation system. At one point, CJ briefly considered sneaking around and pouring salt into the water supply, which would have killed the plant outright, but thought better of it. Besides, the competition itself was now only a few weeks away. Once it was over, they could both move on and laugh about the whole ridiculous business.
The trouble was, CJ had always been fiercely competitive. Persistently showing off on Facebook was unseemly and irritating, but he could take it. What he couldn’t take was the Saturday before the show, when Dave had cried off from the pub. It later emerged he’d had a rhubarb party to show his plant off. Apparently, wrapped around it was a big ribbon, and he had generated a certificate, ‘Southover Grange Winner.’ Just a joke it may have been, but CJ was furious at his arrogance and subterfuge. He knew if he had been an observer of their competition he would have been so amused, and that made him even angrier with himself.
The day before, all the competitors had delivered their produce and prize plants into the marquee so they could all be arranged for the next day. CJ set off on a mission, steaming with indignation.
Southover Grange was always locked overnight, but CJ had long known about a narrow gap hidden between part of the wall and a side gate. Once inside, reaching the marquee undetected was easy enough.
He found Dave’s rhubarb plant immediately. You couldn’t miss it.
The moment he poured the industrial-strength weedkiller solution into the soil, he regretted it…Yet alongside the regret came another pathetic feeling — relief.
The following morning, arriving shortly before ten, CJ found a crowd already gathered around Dave’s exhibit. Officials in white coats and straw hats stood studying the plant in confusion. The great leaves had collapsed overnight and now hung limply across the neighbouring displays, brushing against CJ’s own entry, which would later go on to win first prize.
He knew he had to behave normally.
So he sent Dave a message.
‘It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Winner takes it all!’
Dave replied almost immediately.
‘You’ve got me there, mate. Well done. No idea what happened.’
But of course, he did have an idea.
He had known CJ for forty years. Surely he wouldn’t though?
The judges had already told him privately that they had inspected the plant the previous afternoon and that deterioration of that kind overnight was virtually impossible without outside interference. Tampering at horticultural shows was hardly unheard of. Only the year before, Eric Bloat’s prize parsnips had been mysteriously slashed to ribbons.
As a result, Eric had quietly installed a makeshift CCTV system this year, convinced the culprit would eventually return. When the footage was handed to the organisers and judges, it informed Dave exactly what he had already suspected, consequently CJ’s reign as rhubarb champion lasted half an hour before he was disqualified. By then, he was also sporting a black eye as Dave lunged at him, his hulking frame powering a punch so hard the gathered crowd gasped.
Sergeant Briggs arrived shortly afterwards to inform Dave that cheating at a show was not illegal, but assault and GBH certainly was. Anxious not to spoil his own Saturday with paperwork, he persuaded CJ not to press charges. Considering they used to be best mates, the cheating was pretty poor behaviour, but in the end, it was just a bit of Karma. Maybe they should talk about it in the nearby King’s Head.
By three o’clock they were both drunk, apologising to each other, ‘I should never have hit you.’
‘You’re joking, I deserved it.’ Adding ‘the guys at the allotment have alerted me to a smallholding for rent at Pear Tree Farm, on the way to Lewes. It has a couple of redundant buildings. Let’s start a rhubarb business and make rhubarb cider!’
Within a week, the lease was signed, and within three weeks, CJ’s shiner had disappeared. They now had something else to prattle on about in the pub. Thanks to CJ’s successful organic rhubarb crop and Big Dave’s new microbrewery, they were now producing ‘Roobarb Punch’. The drink was served in most of the local pubs and had just won the Home Counties Fruit Cider Championship. At long last, they were creating new stories in their lives, rather than merely living off the old ones.
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