When Worlds Collide

Given the large number of science fiction books I’ve read and the equally large number of sci-fi films I’ve seen, I always thought I'd be ready for a dystopian future. I knew exactly what I’d do if I found myself in the radiation-riddled ruins of Ringmer. My first stop would be the village shops, where I’d stock up with cake, award-winning sausages, bottled beer and a lamb dhansak, whilst avoiding any zombies lurking outside. I’d run across the road in sudden short bursts to confuse the killer robots. I’d build decoy bonfires to distract the heat-seeking alien predators. And, although an autonomous drone might not understand the tradition of religious sanctuary, the thick walls of St Mary’s church would prevent such a device from detecting me if I hid inside.

Next would come the resistance. If I wasn’t able to stow away on a rebel spacecraft, I’d stay in the village and start illicit radio broadcasts. ‘Free Radio Ringmer’ would offer post-apocalyptic news, anti-government satire and squirrel-based cookery tips. Naturally, we’d also jam state-sponsored TV propaganda with our programmes. Our secret headquarters – you won’t tell anyone, will you? – would be the football club bar. Not only is it close to the chemist for emergency medical supplies but the pitch could serve as a helicopter landing pad when we needed to evacuate.

But things haven’t worked out as I’d planned. Instead of malevolent computers and shape-shifting time travellers, 2016 gave us post-truth politics and Alan Rickman's funeral. Unbelievable.

Actually, the unbelievability of the past 12 months is further cause for concern. A number of scientists have suggested that we’re all living in some kind of virtual reality, a little bit like the citizens of The Matrix before they’re rescued and unplugged. The more I think about it, the more this makes sense. Although I don’t have any experience of creating artificial life, I did once have a model railway… and that’s very similar. When you’re a child with a model railway, you spend every penny of your pocket money on the contents of the Hornby catalogue. First comes a village halt with a siding. Next, a mainline station. You want a post office, some fields with livestock, a coal yard, a red telephone box, some weird spongy bushes and a level crossing. Essentially, you want at least one of everything.

Disconcertingly, Ringmer seems to have been constructed in the same over-enthusiastic way. We have butcher, baker, pet shop and pub – and another pub. And another. Village green with cricket club. Football club, too. Multiple industrial estates. A pond with a heron standing next to it. Schools. An electricity sub-station. Allotments. A petrol station. Even a farm with sheep and cows. That’s what really started me thinking about the reality of my current situation. I’ve not checked yet but I wouldn’t be surprised if the grass in the fields is stuck on with wallpaper paste.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 124 January 2017

Disharmony in Ringmer

Huuuuur. Huuuuur. An unfamiliar rattling sound stirs me from my weekend lie-in. I'm just about to check Mrs B's airways before I realise the noise is coming from outside, not from my sleeping wife. One of our neighbours is mowing his lawn. Winter is officially over... as is any hope of an extra half-hour in bed. Time to put the kettle on.

Rural life has many benefits - but don't make the mistake of thinking it's all twittering skylarks, fragrant wild flowers and slow-moving Morris Minors around here. In fact, I reckon Lionel Richie would never have written the lyric 'Easy like Sunday Morning' if he'd been living in Ringmer. Certainly not if he'd relied on public transport. Instead of a gentle ballad we'd probably have something rather more frantic, inspired by Lionel nervously checking his watch and wondering whether he'd end up jogging down the new cycle path because he'd missed the hourly bus. Neither would Lionel have been particularly relaxed if he was within earshot of the village church, where one of the bells has cracked. Apparently this isn't covered by the manufacturer's warranty, despite being barely 130 years old. The offending bell currently sounds like an ancient tin bath being struck with an equally elderly saucepan, which is why it's staying quiet at the moment. The other seven bells are still being rung but the eighth is conspicuous by its absence. No, there's nothing especially easy about Sunday mornings in this part of the world.

But all this pales into insignificance when Mrs B wakes. She has a Garden Centre look in her eyes. Unfortunately it's not a 'nice mug of coffee and a bowl of soup' trip that she has in mind. In the time it took me to pop downstairs and make a cup of tea, she’s prepared a shopping list. It looks like a medieval incantation to rid one's husband of distemper, although she assures me it's merely a few Latin plant names and some organic fertiliser. My wife is the one with green fingers; my gardening performance is more akin to a Vulcan nerve pinch, inadvertently rendering plants into unconsciousness with the effortless technique of Mr Spock. It’s usually safest if I stick to digging and weeding. And with spring in the air, Mrs B’s seasonal interest in gardening will soon broaden to include other activities I’m just as poor at. There’ll be unfathomable colour charts for interior decoration. There may even be talk of choosing new cushions.

All this leaves me a long way outside my comfort zone, so there’s only one thing left to do. One last desperate attempt to escape all these challenges. Something that’ll outclass my neighbour’s garden-tidying efforts, too. Most importantly, it’s traditional. It’s a ritual that’s been passed from generation to generation since the dawn of history. It’s a Sunday morning routine that unites communities. It’s time I went to the tip.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 103 April 2015.

It’s not about the money, money, money

“The true meaning of Christmas”, sings musician and comedian Mitch Benn, “is to eat until it hurts, then drink until it don’t hurt anymore”. I smile each time I think of the words. A little humour makes it easier to survive the merchandising mayhem on our streets, I reckon. The artist Grayson Perry recently talked about protecting his creative spirit with a shield of jaded irony and a sword of cynicism. That sounds like the kind of armour I need for the festive season.

Of course, life wasn’t always non-stop satire. It seems only a few years ago that every church was packed during Midnight Mass. Families would reunite from across the country for dinner on December 25th. Co-workers would put disagreements aside before they left for their Christmas break. But look closer and you’ll see this wasn’t about religion. It was about being together. Community, you might say. A significant number of those Christmas Eve churchgoers had tiptoed into the back of the building with their mates on the way home from the pub. Dry turkey with over-boiled sprouts wasn’t really anyone’s favourite meal but was a great excuse to meet up. And getting your job done is so much simpler if colleagues are actually helping. Besides, that annoying bloke from I.T. may have picked your name on the Secret Santa list.

All this came to mind when Lewes held its late-night shopping evening at the beginning of December. If you listen to the grouches – and I’ll admit I’ve channelled a bit of grouchiness in my time – you’ll soon be convinced that Christmas is nothing but a sales opportunity. TV ads show John the hare buying an alarm clock for Lewis the bear. Privatised postal workers sing of their love for parcels. But that’s not what I saw in town. Instead, I found shops giving away chocolates and mince pies. Friendly faces encouraged me to taste mulled wine and roast chestnuts. I noticed families chatting in restaurants rather than sitting silently in front of the TV. I heard carols, I heard bell-ringing, I heard laughter. I won’t argue that Christmas seemed to have more of a religious theme in the past – and yes, today it appears to have more of a retail focus. But when you rub away the veneer you’ll find the underlying sentiment hasn’t changed. It’s still about people. About caring for each other. And perhaps it’s about a spot of over-indulgence, too.

First published on vivalewes.com 12th December 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/its-not-about-the-money-money-money/

Pilot of the airwaves

Dearly beloved, I stand before you with my head hung low. There are things I have failed to do this week. Sins of omission, you might say. Becoming the new BBC Radio 2 'Pause for Thought' presenter was one of those things. Verily, it seemed a good idea at the time. All I had to do was write a two-minute religious reflection that would offer a thought for the day.

The 'Pause for Thought' contest was announced at the beginning of July, although I only heard about it three days before the competition ended on 5th August. A slight disadvantage but I reckoned this would help me focus on the challenge - which was (fortunately) not in the style of Big Brother or X-Factor but simply required me to write and record a thought-provoking message. "I could do that", I told myself.

To start with, everything ran very smoothly. I compiled a list of useful words from Victorian sermons, ensuring I would beseech my listeners to hold fast and hold forth to whatever it was I planned to tell them. Yea, and it was so. Unfortunately I then turned to the terms and conditions of the contest. One of the judging criteria was "Is the theological content in keeping with the basic tenets of the contributor’s stated faith position?"

Uh-oh. Not only did I need to decide what I believed in, I also needed to be consistent. This was going to be a problem.

Or was it?   Last month I visited the All Saints Centre in Lewes, which was a church until it was transformed into a community centre in 1980. (I was there to talk to the Lewes, Glynde and Beddingham Brass Band during one of their rehearsals; you'll find my interview on p25 of this month's Viva Lewes magazine unless my mother's collected all the spare copies, marked the page with a post-it note and given one to each of her friends). And only last week I took a short-cut through the churchyard in Ringmer.

I'd be the first to admit that those visits don't make me a regular churchgoer... but it did get me thinking. Much as I enjoy wandering round an old building, it's people who really constitute a church. I'd argue that churches are all about community rather than being places with a pointy roof - and it's people that matter. You could even say the All Saints Centre is as much a church today as it ever was.

Which, I suppose, is my 'stated faith position'. I like people and I like a good story. It's a bit vague, I know. It's also a bit late for the Radio 2 competition. Perhaps they'll run it again next year.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th August 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/pilot-of-the-airwaves/