Michael Gove launched the Heritage Watermelon on Tuesday in a converted abattoir in Rotherham, priced at £524. The fruit, grown in a decommissioned nuclear bunker in Wiltshire, comes with a certificate of provenance, a leather-bound tasting journal, and a QR code that plays a 40-minute documentary on soil health. ‘This is not a fruit,’ Gove told a room of 14 journalists and one man from the local allotment society. ‘This is a statement about who we are and what we are prepared to pay for it.’ Twat. I have run this paper since 1982 and I have seen statements. I have seen them parked in a lay-by near Didcot with the engine running and a packet of Quavers on the dash. That was the last time this country knew what it was doing.
A gourd for the ages
The watermelon, named ‘Goliath of the Vale’, weighs 14.2 kilograms and was grown over 11 months under 24-hour LED light. It is kept in a climate-controlled case and guarded by a former prison officer. Gove said the price reflected the fruit’s ‘cultural significance’ and its role in ‘reasserting British horticultural sovereignty’. He added that the watermelon was ‘a rebuke to the flaccid, imported, tasteless produce that has colonised our supermarkets’. Dr Penelope Wainwright, the council’s chief horticultural officer, stood beside him, nodding. She later told the BBC that she had ‘concerns about the viability of the project’. Gove dismissed her as ‘a pessimist with a watering can’. Pillock.
The baguette incident
The press conference ended early when a protester from the Real Bread Campaign, a 62-year-old former baker named Gerald Pugh, threw a stale baguette at the stage. The bread struck Gove on the left temple, drawing a thin line of blood. Gove did not flinch. He picked up the baguette, sniffed it, and said, ‘This is exactly the kind of mediocrity we are fighting against.’ He then announced a new initiative: the Heritage Bread, a sourdough loaf priced at £312, to be sold in the same climate-controlled cases. Pugh was arrested for ‘possession of an offensive weapon with intent to cause culinary distress’. He was later released without charge, but the baguette was confiscated and placed in evidence. You, reading this on your telephone, have never thrown a baguette at a politician. You have never thrown anything at anyone. You have only ever thrown money at a screen. Gobshite.
The council turns on itself
Within 48 hours, the National Fruit and Vegetable Council was in open revolt. Dr Wainwright resigned, citing ‘irreconcilable differences over the meaning of a gourd’. Three other board members followed, releasing a joint statement that called the watermelon ‘a monument to vanity’ and ‘a misuse of public funds’. Gove responded by calling a second press conference, this time in a disused car park in Didcot. He stood beside a trestle table on which the watermelon rested, now slightly bruised from its journey. ‘The people who run this country are afraid of ambition,’ he said. ‘They are afraid of the future. They are afraid of the past. They are afraid of a watermelon that costs more than a washing machine.’ Total wanker. The car park was empty. The only light came from a single security lamp. I was there. I saw the headlights of a Ford Mondeo flicker twice in the darkness. Someone was watching. Someone always watches.
A monument to aspiration
The Heritage Watermelon was never sold. It now sits in a climate-controlled glass case at the National Fruit Collection in Kent, where it is described by a spokesperson as ‘a monument to aspiration’. Visitors can view it for free, but must book a timed ticket and pass through a security check. A small plaque reads: ‘This watermelon was grown to prove a point. The point has not yet been identified.’ Gove has not commented on the plaque. But sources say he has been seen at the collection three times in the last month, standing in front of the case for hours, not moving. The last time he was there, a security guard asked if he needed help. Gove turned, looked at the guard, and said, ‘Do you know what this country needs? A watermelon that costs more than a house.’ The guard said nothing. The guard was right. The guard is still there, and so is the watermelon, and so is Gove, and so is the question. And you, you absolute pillock, will not be able to answer it either.
