More in our series following one man’s sometimes funny, sometimes fraught and oft-times harrowing journey through a 20-odd-year career in arboriculture.

I was watching the (now former) prime minister on the television claiming credit for a drop in inflation, amongst other things, and was struck by his total lack of remorse, his blind optimism and how he seemed to be claiming credit for nearly everything.

Interest rates are flat, inflation is falling, the economy is looking up …

Funny thing is, I was actually impressed at his ability to paint such a fantastic picture of himself, him and all his colleagues, especially when you consider how things actually are at the moment.

But our recently departed government has nothing on the Boaster, a man I met in the early noughties, who was so enamoured with himself that any politician would do well to take extra lessons from him.

I can’t remember the exact year or the season, but it was warm enough for me to visit on a motorbike, to assess the work and do the quote. I think I was riding a Honda Dominator at the time, a perfectly reasonable but not over-exciting machine. It was evening, the sun was still up and I’m certain blackbirds and stuff would have been singing. It was that type of day. 

WANT MORE TALES? 

The village was about six miles away and I took the long way round, across the Marlborough Downs and back, making a bit of a trip of it after a difficult day reducing a hawthorn hedge.

“Nice bike,” said Mr X (I daren’t use his real name). It was, I suppose, in the same way that a shepherd’s pie is a nice meal – not exceptional, but perfectly acceptable.

“Thanks,” I said, taking off my helmet and wincing at the discovery of another thorn in my thumb. “It’s okay, but …”

I didn’t get to finish, the Boaster was off. 

“I’ve got a similar bike, the BMW tourer – 1200 ccs. What’s yours?”

It suddenly dawned on me that I not only didn’t know nor particularly care how big my engine was, but that I seemed to be the losing player in the first round of Top Trumps (a 1980s card game which I’ve just discovered is still popular).

I stared at my bike, hoping there’d be a clue of some sort. “It’s a 650,” I said confidently, remembering something being said about such to the insurers.
Boaster was ahead, his bike being twice the size of mine. He was by no means finished but at least had the decency not to rub in his additional 550 cc. He didn’t need to, I suppose, and omitting the obvious allowed an easy open goal.

“Do you go far on it?” he asked, innocently enough.

“Not really.” I was beginning to realise the game, but didn’t want to play. “I just pootle about looking at work and stuff.”

“Europe,” said the man, “France, Germany, Holland, Italy …” 

I knew what Europe was, but listened politely as he named all the main parts of it, wondering if he thought I might actually care about his ‘three-month trip of a lifetime’ or whether he just told it whenever he could, regardless of the audience. Realising it was the latter, I zoned out for a bit and gnawed at the thorn in my thumb.

“… Spain, Belgium, Gibraltar …”

I’m paraphrasing a bit here. I don’t actually remember the full itinerary, but you get the idea. From where we stood, me listening without envy and slightly bored and Mr X bragging enthusiastically, I could see the tree. It was a large ash that needed some attention. I decided to start moving towards it, leaving my helmet balanced on the wing mirror and unzipping my jacket as I walked. The customer was telling me something about the Alps, so I nodded politely and tried to steer the subject towards the tree. 

“Is this the ash tree you need reduced?”

“Yes. I’d do it myself, but I’m too busy at work.”

Yes, of course you would, it’s only 60 foot tall and over the neighbour’s greenhouse. I didn’t say that – of course not – but I did add a crafty £50 ‘boast tax’ to the quote I was piecing together in my head. Morally, of course, that is wrong, but the customers do occasionally have to pay a bit extra for the annoyance factor, don’t they?

More recently I came across a maths teacher who claimed that he could easily prune his own fruit trees if he wasn’t so busy and in a fit of annoyance I said: “Yeah, I teach a bit of algebra sometimes too.” I didn’t get that job.

This time I was more polite and, after listening to a few random boasts about the customer’s house, I eventually remounted my inferior bike and set off for home.
The quote was duly accepted, along with the little extra, and a few weeks later I was back, this time with a crew of three or four men and four wheels rather than two.

To my irritation, Mr X had decided to lay on a tribute to his own success for us to all enjoy. We couldn’t access the drive because it had become a showground for his BMW 1200, a BMW car and another sporty BMW belonging (I presume) to his wife, who was annoyingly beautiful and in the way.

“Can we get in with our stuff?” I asked of Mrs X, who seemed to be in charge of the outdoor showroom, standing amidst it with hands half in the back pockets of well-fitting jeans.

“Yes, I’ll get Tony (or whatever his name was) to put away his toys,” she said, suddenly breaking into an ear-shredding shriek. “Darling! Darling!”

Tony appeared from within a pristine open-doored double garage. I’m sure he’d been waiting for his cue, wiping his hands on an oily rag.

“Hi! Forgot you were coming,” he lied. “Just giving the bike a service, getting her ready for this summer’s jaunt.”

Mr X didn’t service his own bike and he hadn’t forgotten we were coming. It was a show of something I’ve seen before among certain types and I found it more annoying that we couldn’t get on rather irritating in itself. It was obvious the whole charade had been set up to impress me and the chaps, but to be honest I for one didn’t care. It just doesn’t matter to me who has the best, newest or most expensive things. I understand some people have a lot more (and some a lot less) than me, but I feel no envy nor sense of competition.

It took a while to clear the drive of his goodies and we eventually set up our own equipment, adding a touch of sump oil to the immaculate tarmac (that would be embarrassing for me next time it rained).

I climbed the tree, Mr X reminding me that it so easily could be him up there, and struggled with lowering brittle lumps of awkward timber around the neighbour’s greenhouse and garage, watched all the time by the customer. Towards lunchtime we all met up for tea. There was me, a couple of men on the ground and Mr and Mrs X. The lovely wife had made the tea and it would have been rude to suggest we would have it without their company – they had their own drinks on the tray – so we all sat in the shade to discuss the topic of the day.

That subject was business success. There was no whiteboard or PowerPoint presentation, but I feel there should have been.

“How many of you are there?” asked Tony.

“Four, if you count my wife,” I said, realising it was going to be a woefully inadequate number of staff.

“Twenty-seven.” 

“Sorry?”

“I employ twenty-seven in my business.” 

In Top Trumps that is how you win a round and I’d just lost my ‘employees’ card.

“Who has been with you the longest?” Mr X looked expectantly at the men, one of whom wanted to smoke but wasn’t sure if he should. Nobody answered. It was probably Tom who deserved the accolade, but he didn’t volunteer any information.

Not that it mattered. The customer was ready to play his next card.

“One girl’s been with me eighteen years. She loves working for me, doesn’t she darling?”

Lucky girl, I thought, noting that Mrs X wasn’t looking entirely happy at the way the conversation was going with regards to ‘Lucy’ who was apparently very loyal. It was beginning to look as though Mr X might be about to commit himself to some post-tea grovelling if Lucy was on the agenda, so I quickly intervened.

“Lovely house, Mrs X,” I said, causing her to smile again.

“Five hundred thousand,” said the husband. “The estate agent wanted more, but we knocked him down, didn’t we darling?”

He just couldn’t help winning the chat with successes and money. In my mind I handed over my house card, a semi at less than a quarter of the value. He isn’t the only one to have nice surroundings. I’m lucky enough to have always lived in this beautiful area and I understand that it attracts a lot of successful people, but why crow about what you have? 

I remember one customer who owned so much stuff – vehicles, houses abroad, gigantic manor house, property in London, etc – that he actually panted when talking about it. I went into his kitchen once to look at the oak panelling for some reason and he was breathing so hard and in such short gasps that I feared he might literally boast himself to death.

Many, many times I’ve stared up at a half-finished oak frame extension to the accompanying lie: “We’re doing it all ourselves, Mr Oliver.”

Oh no you aren’t. You are paying someone to do all the work and contributing only your ideas. It isn’t quite the same thing. My absolute favourite was a conversation I had with a chap about his kitchen, way back in the early days.

“Set me back £55,000,” he said, proudly patting an Italian marble worktop. 

“That’s more than my whole house cost,” I’d replied truthfully. 

The thing is, I don’t really mind that much. I see it as a compliment that they feel the need to impress me. It’s got to be a bit of an insecurity, hasn’t it?

Anyway, I struggled on with that customer’s ash tree, slightly miffed that I broke the roof on the neighbour’s greenhouse despite my care, but mostly happy it was a success. Anyway, the boast tax would pay for the pane of glass.

My son comes back from work occasionally complaining of similar. I think it might be worse for him, being so young. If ever he meets Mr X in the future he’ll have to endure the same as me and smile. What he mustn’t do, if he wants the work, is ruffle his own full head of hair, flex his muscles and say: “Yeah, lovely motorbike and car. I’m twenty-two. How old are you?”

I’m not sure who’d win the hand in that game of Top Trumps. Is mid-sixties a better or worse number? I suppose the person to ask would be Mrs X, or maybe Lucy …