When it comes to good manure, Allan Jenkins is totally hooked
I have a dung dealer. He brings me 30kg bags, smuggles them into town, stashed among other deliveries. I get overexcited, anxious, waiting for my man. He farms the stuff, grows his own, brings it in from the Welsh borders. He is called Tom Jones. Honestly.
Farmer Tom supplies some of London’s finest restaurants. But I am not in the market for his Michelin-star meat. It’s something more precious I’m after: his three-year-old cow manure, the vegetable gardener’s holy grail.