The Royal Show is to agriculture what Glastonbury is to music, with the Brit Awards thrown in. It's a chaotic and benign-at-heart extravaganza: the pointy end of the industry converging for a moment on some fields in Warwickshire to be measured and have a few drinks, with the rest of the world turning up to point and stare. There are many other farm shows and they're all a good day out but for many years 'the Royal' has been numero uno. In the same way that teenagers dream of being famous one day, farmers dream of turning up at the Royal with a promising ewe or bullock, sweeping the board with the judges and walking away wearing the 'Champion of Champions' sash, the Holy of Holies. In days gone by, a fat contract with a retailer might have followed, but it was always winning that mattered most, being recognised for producing the best animal. In terms of doing business, winning at the Royal is not as important as it used to be but it's still what farmers all want to do - all of them. It's compulsive. To be rich is one thing and probably not that hard if money is all you care about, but to be the very best is never, ever easy. No one who works with animals wants to produce lots and lots of ordinary creatures. They might have to, but it's never anyone's motivation. The reason farmers get up in the morning is that they're all trying to make one really good one.

I spent most of the day watching the pig classes. Partly because I have a half-ton whopper of a Gloucester Old Spots sow that I need to get 'in pig' and partly because it's the funniest thing I've ever seen. Pig showing, or rather pig watching, has something of the allure of cricket. It all unfolds over the course of a nice summer's day and everyone is very jolly and, actually incredibly competitive. I met a pre-eminent Tamworth breeder who snorted when I told her I had an Old Spots. 'Pah!' she said, 'Stupid animals!' and swanned off.

Of all the classes - cows, sheep, goats - the pigs are the most amusing to watch. They're always up to something, pigs. When I arrived, a couple of July Large Blacks were trying to have a fight in the ring, another one was doing a good job of digging up the turf, a couple of others were getting frisky. The judge stands in the middle of the porcine pandemonium wearing a bowler hat and a poker face, very Magritte, and the whole thing is quite surreal, the cast a delicious mix of pigs, aristocratic landowners, wheeler-dealers and old-fashioned yokels. The handlers wear white coats and hold a crook in one hand and a board in the other for wrangling the porkers. They are all supposed to parade around the ring in the same direction, but there's always a pig that wants to go the opposite way.

There were rumours of skulduggery in another class, too; whispers that the dead cert winner had been nicked with a razorblade so that she limped. A judge can't award first prize to a lame animal.

Sadly there was only a handful of us watching the pig proceedings. But for anyone really interested in food, it's well worth popping along to an agricultural show this summer. Just avoid the food. For some reason it's always dreadful. These occasions make one realise that, for farmers, farming's not just about making food. The mirth and high jinks at the beating heart of British agriculture is still apparent in those show rings.