Smells like nicotine spirit

In 1751, William Hogarth created an etching entitled Gin Lane, depicting the negative effects of what’s now known as the ‘gin craze’. I like to think he’d choose electronic cigarettes for his satire if he were around today. Whilst walking into a secondhand vapour cloud that smells of fried Ribena doesn’t involve the same health risks as tobacco smoke, it’s not a pleasant sensation. And I really don’t understand why some ‘vapers’ insist on using what looks like a Blue Peter rendition of Dr Who's sonic screwdriver to produce a cloud that’s large enough to be detected by a weather satellite.

At least pubs are smoke-free these days. And, if ever I needed the perfect excuse to pop out to Ringmer’s pubs for a cheering pint, this month's Viva Lewes theme was surely it. But where should I start? And, even more importantly, where should I finish? "Somewhere near home", recommends Mrs B. Wise words indeed.

I plan my route to begin at The Cock Inn, which can trace its history back to the 16th century. Contrary to my expectations, the owners say it isn't named after a male chicken but after the extra horse that was sometimes required to pull a heavy carriage up a hill. Apparently it's the type of additional horsepower necessary for the nursery rhyme journey to Banbury Cross. Next I'll head to The Anchor, established in 1742, which is described online as 'one of only 2 pubs in the village of Ringmer'. The Anchor's webmaster is clearly seeing double - and that's not enough, according to my figures, because I've yet to reach the Green Man. This, the Good Pub Guide tells me, is a 'welcoming 1930s roadside pub'. However, that's not when the name arrived: history books note the presence of a 'Green Man' in the village much earlier. All this is rather confusing, although I suppose that’s hardly surprising when alcohol is involved.

I decide to share my drink-focused journey plan with Mrs B. She looks disappointed. "You've forgotten the cricket club. And you’ve forgotten the football club, too." Indeed I have. Perhaps I could call at the cricket pavilion before crossing the village green to the Anchor, followed by a short walk round the corner to the football club. Except the cricket club bar is usually only open when there's a match - and the lack of spotlights or a pink ball means that'll be daytime. Come to think of it, I've missed the overlap between the cricket and football seasons for 2017. This has become a scheduling nightmare. I don’t even have the right kind of pet to take advantage of any dog-friendliness. Time instead to drink my troubles away with a cappuccino at Café Ringmer. As I approach, I’m sure I can smell coffee in the air. Or is it the residue of an espresso-flavoured e-cigarette?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 133 October 2017

Close to the Borderline

I'm no John Simpson, sadly. I cannot claim much expertise on world affairs. Just as regrettably, I'm no Rageh Omaar, the journalist who became known as the 'scud stud' when the Iraq War started in 2003. It's a shame because I reckon an alliterative upbeat nickname - perhaps 'the Ringmer reporting Romeo' - would suit me. But, as so often happens, I'm digressing.

The last few weeks have seen an assortment of potentially world-changing events passing into history. The UK triggered Article 50 of the Treaty on European Union, marking a countdown to leaving the EU. Michael Howard suggested that our country could go to war with Spain. And the USA launched an attack against Syria, prompting a critical Russian response. (At the time of writing, nuclear conflict with North Korea is pending.) To top it all, my editor emailed me to say that this month's magazine would have an overall theme of 'going out'. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed a good idea for us Ringmerites to take this advice literally. It was time for Ringmer to go out, to declare independence from Lewes District, from East Sussex and from England. We could isolate ourselves from world events and enjoy a bucolic existence, erecting hay-bale barricades on the B2192 and issuing our own hand-knitted passports. But would this be a good idea - or would we be opening ourselves up to the risk of attack?

Yes, seriously. Our location and our natural resources would almost certainly make us an economic threat to those living down the hill in Lewes. Tired of drinking café cortado and eating sour-dough sandwiches, Lewesians might want to raid Ringmer's allotments for fresh fruit and vegetables. When Harvey's best bitter became too familiar, the Lewes warriors would be heading for Turners brewery. Our prized local landmarks, such as the sewage works, would become military targets. And we've got an undefended pond, too.

We villagers would be ready, naturally. The first wave of attackers would be repelled by frenzied geese from the Raystede sanctuary, where our fighting force would have been readied with a special sugary diet of stale doughnuts. Next, the gin-drinkers of Ringmer would use their collection of hedgerow-harvested sloes to pelt the incoming army. Pity the poor soldier that inadvertently swallowed one. And if any pecked, bruised, dry-mouthed fighters remained, we'd switch the Glyndebourne wind turbine into reverse and blow them back down the road.

Of course, all this conflict could be avoided with negotiations and some friendly cross-border arrangements. Instead of a battle, we should celebrate our heritage by having a traditional grumble and then hosting a celebratory street party that would match the joy of VE-Day. Come on, Lewes – you can provide the beer and the organic salad. And we'll promise not to invade.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 128 May 2017

Fleshing it out

In my mind there's an almost-onomatopoeic sizzle to the word 'flesh', echoing the fizz of a pork sausage as it bounces into a frying pan. Given such a topic for February’s column, my thoughts immediately turn to the meaty delights of Lew Howard and Son, the butcher in Ringmer’s parade of shops. I particularly like their simple process for ordering a Christmas turkey, which involves a numbered list of customers on a giant board. For a while I convinced our youngest family member that each bird was wandering around a field with a corresponding number on a label tied gently around its neck until a few days before 25th December, when it would be caught and dispatched. "Come in number 73, your time is up."

It’s probably best if I move on and find a different angle. A quick web search for 'flesh' and 'Ringmer' - for heaven's sake, don't just search for 'flesh' unless using an especially strong online filter - offers me a couple of news stories that are even darker than my sense of humour. There's a decidedly unfunny assault case from 2007 and a toe-eating maggot from 2013. Further investigation reveals the offer of a trainee sword-swallower who'll travel to the village from London. Fascinating but not immediately relevant. It’s one of those rare times when the internet is not my friend.

But that's forgetting the reason I live in Ringmer. In fact, February is the anniversary of a romantic event that resulted in me moving into the village. It has nothing to do with the mysterious Saint Valentine of Terni, who is celebrated on 14th February, but a much better-documented incident that took place a couple of days later. This, as history books don't yet tell, was when I first met my Ringmer-dwelling wife. (Not that she was my wife at the time, of course. The first time I met her in all her wifely goodness was when we married at Southover Grange, just over four years later.) “They shall be one flesh” says the Bible, perfectly on-theme for this month’s magazine. Yet despite Mrs B truly being the love of my life, I still struggle to express this coherently or without cracking a joke. Our first wedding anniversary was marked by a poem I wrote for the occasion, which featured a dreadful pun about my gift being entirely wrapping. Surprisingly well-received but I’ve subsequently wanted to do something better. Something without rhyme but with plenty of reason, you might say. Something that celebrates the unlikeliness of our meeting, the depth of our commitment and our love for each other. Something to tell everyone that my wife is the smartest and the most beautiful person I could ever hope to meet. I'm sure I'll have an idea soon. Right now? Nope. Not a sausage.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 125 February 2017

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

Eel meat again?

There's often a very fine dividing line between ‘enough’, 'plenty' and 'too much'. Some news stories celebrate the diversity of the UK's population while others warn of a cultural invasion. The proverb tells us a single straw can break a camel's back. Tickling stops being funny after a while. My own experience of this tipping point doesn't involve immigration, overloaded dromedaries or physical comedy but the consumption of pizza. Some years ago, there was a trend for restaurants to promote 'all the pizza you can eat' evenings when business would otherwise be quiet. I attended some of these almost-spiritual gatherings in Brighton with my friends, starting with the simple Margherita before moving on to spicy pepperoni for a main course and then something unusual – perhaps chicken and cranberry pizza, if the chef had been feeling creative – for dessert. On occasion, we'd repeat the process before leaving. However, at some point there'd come a time when you realised you'd eaten enough, when your stomach had reached capacity, and you'd vow to call it a day after the current slice. It was usually at this point that a fresh batch of pizza would emerge from the kitchen and you'd spot a previously unsampled flavour. Could it be Hawaiian? Thanks very much. Fortunately those days of stupidity are behind me. Not mine; I mean that pizza restaurants are more responsible these days. And besides, I can't see Ringmer's visiting wood-fired pizza van needing to promote its business with such a deal on Tuesday evenings.

I seem to remember history lessons suggesting that Henry I - youngest son of favourite Sussex invader William the Conqueror - might have enjoyed unlimited pizza. The king is reputed to have died after eating an excessive amount of eel-like lampreys in December 1135. "He toke a surfet by etynge of a laprey", wrote Robert Fabyan, who could have done with a spell-check and a sub-editor. Lady Callcott's Little Arthur’s History of England adds detail, telling us that Henry ate so many potted lampreys – 'potting' preserved them under a layer of fat – that he became ill and died. It's also been said that the lampreys were probably served in a pie; seasoned with nutmeg and placed on a layer of butter, then covered with bay leaves and some more butter before being baked and, yes, topped up with extra butter. Makes a grande mochaccino with cream look positively healthy.

Yet a little more research suggests that events aren't as clear-cut as they first appear. 12th-century historian Henry of Huntington – writing three hundred years before Robert Fabyan – just tells us the king ate lampreys against the advice of his doctor. No mention of a surfeit whatsoever; a message that seems to have been added later as a warning against overindulgence. If anything, I'd say this story now proves the opposite. There's one thing you can't have too much of - and that's information.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 121 October 2016

Chewing over gastro-tourism

At the end of May, my wife and I spent a week in one of our favourite holiday destinations: the fishing town of Padstow in Cornwall. As I sat by the edge of the harbour with a warm Cornish pasty in a paper bag, gently batting seagulls away with my free hand, a logo on the bag reminded me that my lunch was actually a product with Protected Geographical Indication status across Europe.

That meant, amongst other things, it had to be made in Cornwall otherwise it couldn't legally be called a Cornish pasty. It needed to be D-shaped and crimped along one side, not with the crimping on the top like a stegosaurus or a Klingon warrior. Inside I could expect to find beef, potato, swede and onion but no other vegetables and no artificial additives. Neither a carrot nor a sprinkling of monosodium glutamate were permitted.

Clotted cream and sardines also have similar protection in Cornwall. This got me thinking about unique delicacies I can enjoy here at home. Our bakery in Ringmer produces the Jack & Jill bun, which doesn't just contain dried fruit but is topped with icing and jam as well. The intriguing Val’s Purse is on the menu at the Cock Inn. Our butcher, Lew Howard, is renowned for his tasty sausages. Café Ringmer offers a cross-cultural collection of cooked breakfasts. We have an acclaimed Indian restaurant, an award-winning chip shop and two other pubs – each producing their own specialities. In fact, I reckon there’s enough exclusive cuisine to justify an entire TV series hosted by a celebrity chef. If that was ever broadcast, you’d soon see coach-loads of tourists driving straight past Lewes and heading up the hill to visit us and try our food. There’d be so many out-of-towners that takeaway pizzas would need to be ordered at least a fortnight in advance. Next, there’d be a campaign to turn Ringmer into one of those protected areas for agriculture and food. Before long the whole world would know about the high quality of our local fare.

Except there's a catch. You see, although true Cornish pasties need to be made in Cornwall, they don't need to be baked there. They can be assembled within the county and then cooked somewhere else. And that's why I think we should keep quiet about the goodies available to eat in Ringmer. If we don't, there'll be Jack & Jill buns for sale around the globe. Everyone will know what’s in Val’s Purse. Our special treats won't be special any more. So the next time you buy particularly good local food, don’t share it with anyone else. Better still, clear your plate and have a second portion. It’s the only way we can keep the secret to ourselves.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 118 July 2016

A tale of two homes

I'm out for lunch with mum. As we walk into our chosen cafe, next to the bowling green by the retirement flats, I'm assailed by a high-pitched wailing sound. Mum appears not to have noticed. Initially I assume it's one of those mosquito-noise deterrents that only young people can hear. But, as we walk closer to the counter, the source becomes obvious. It's the whistling of several hearing aids, all generating feedback at high volume while their wearers remain oblivious.

We order food, I grit my teeth and we finish our meals, then I take mum home. When we arrive, she points out a patched-up hole in the garden fence. "I've put some food out for the rats", mum tells me. It's a military-grade euphemism that’s only a whisker away from saying she’d called in ground support with minimum collateral damage. These rats aren’t being given a picnic. They're being poisoned… and not in a nice way (if, indeed, it's possible to poison someone nicely). The anticoagulants in the bait mean their demise is not far removed from the scene in Live and Let Die where James Bond force-feeds Dr Kananga with a capsule of compressed air. Yes, I have a soft spot for rats. Mind you, I don’t have them living in my neighbour’s shed and popping round for breakfast.

I arrive back in Ringmer with a jar of mum’s home-made marmalade to distract me from my rodent worries. My wife likes neither rats nor marmalade. “I don't know how you can eat that stuff”, says Mrs B. “It's sweet. It's bitter. And it's got lumps of orange in it. That's my 'food hell'. I hate it so much, if I'm ever on Saturday Kitchen and I'm asked what food I can't bear, I'd have to choose something else. Perhaps mint sauce. I like mint sauce. They'd never find out, anyway.”

That evening we're sitting on the sofa, separated by the snoring form of Rupert the cat, whilst debating whether or not to watch a black comedy on television. I've voted against, on the grounds I don't want to see people die in faux-amusing ways. Mrs B calls me a sensitive soul, which somehow sounds like criticism. "They're not real people", she insists. "These are characters played by actors. No-one's really dying." Once again my compassion is in vain. After 15 minutes of the show, my wife turns to me. “You needn’t have worried. There’s no chance of you liking any of these people, is there?” She’s right, although it doesn’t help. If I like a character, I don't want to watch their comedic demise. If the characters aren't sympathetic, I'm not interested in watching them at all. In many ways life would be much easier if I could simply turn my hearing aid off.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 115 April 2016

Dreaming of a Short Christmas

Apparently coffee mega-retailer Starbucks has declared war on Christmas. This season’s takeaway cups are plain red, which some activists say is an attack on Christianity. However, it’s not the lack of festive decoration on the cups that troubles me. It’s their arrival eight weeks before Christmas.

Honestly, I’m not an anti-Christmas grouch. I’m merely an anti-Christmas-in-October-and-November campaigner, with a little bit of there’s-too-much-commercialism-these-days thrown in for extra flavour. Humbug flavour, of course.

For example, I love a bit of Nat King Cole; I just don’t want to hear about his roasting chestnuts when Hallowe’en pumpkins are still on sale. I’d like my Christmas to be focussed on innocent childhood wishes, the annual emergence of tissue-wrapped tree decorations, frosty mornings, sparkling tinsel and twinkling candles, not Coca-Cola’s illuminated truck and ironic retro-styled jumpers. In many ways I'm hoping for an updated Victorian Christmas, packed with plum puddings and candlelit carols but without the cholera and workhouse poverty. But what if this wasn’t a dream. What if it was the law?

Let me take you back to Thursday 12th November, when the village of Ringmer went to the polls. Don't worry, people of Lewes, you didn't miss out. Your polling cards weren't lost in the post. This one was just for us. You see, we voted in a referendum to determine whether we wanted Lewes District Council and the South Downs National Park Authority to use Ringmer's own 'neighbourhood plan' when ruling on planning applications. It was all about decentralisation: I’m told our 'yes' vote means we villagers will have more control over local development. Maybe we’re now only a small step from a second referendum vote that would give us full independence from our neighbours.

And come that day, we could choose to be the UK’s first village with legally-enforceable rules about Christmas. No longer would shops be permitted to sell jellied fruits in September or install their lustrous point-of-sale displays during British Summer Time. Instead, our festive preparation would begin 12 days before Christmas and would end exactly 12 days afterwards. Gifts would be restricted to those mentioned in traditional texts: toy drums, dolls, kiddie cars, gold rings, partridges, that kind of thing. Stockings, not pillowcases, would hang from fireplaces. And sales of cranberry sauce would be strictly rationed.

Or perhaps the citizens of this newly-liberated Ringmer wouldn’t be too bothered about how anyone celebrated the season as long as they were having fun. Actually, despite the occasional grumble, that’s definitely the choice I’d make. Goodwill to all. Fireworks, fairy lights, feasting… whatever you choose. Mine’s a skinny gingerbread latte with cream and extra sprinkles. But not before 13th December, please?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 111 December 2015

In which I need more than a hand

My wife is a remarkably patient woman. I can go for days without expressing an opinion, infuriating her with phrases like "I'll have whatever you're having", only to react with zero tolerance to the smallest piece of advertising hyperbole. Today she finds me standing on a metaphorical soapbox, channelling the spirit of Tom Paine. "It's the theme for Viva Lewes magazine. They've chosen 'handmade'. I can't write a column about that. I think I'm hyperventilating." Mrs B raises an eyebrow. "Breathe into this", she says, and passes me the paper bag she keeps handy for these occasions. “Anyway, what’s bothering you?”

Well, as far as I'm concerned, 'handmade' is an empty word that's usually hyperspecific or uselessly vague. I'd argue it's as counter-intuitive as 'homemade', which is commonly used by restaurants to indicate that the relevant component of your meal was cooked in their own kitchen. In that sense, 'homemade' is actually meant to reassure us that our food wasn't made in anyone's home.

Similarly, I reckon 'handmade' has little to offer but confusion. To start with, it tells us the product isn't natural. In this sense it's the same as 'man-made' - which is reminiscent of 1970s shirts that generated enough of a static charge for the wearer to shoot electricity from their fingertips like a superhero. 'Handmade' means the item wasn't formed independently by our planet, unlike spring water, kittens and bananas. It's artificial. Yet 'handmade' also warns us that the end product isn't much good. It's not laser-cut to within a fraction of a millimetre. It's not precision engineered on a lathe. It's not been assembled by robots on a computer-controlled production line. Chances are, it's a bit rough around the edges. Artificial and imperfect. It's hardly a recommendation, is it?

Of course, there are exceptions. I'd like my art to be handmade, thank you. (Unless the artist chooses to employ another part of their anatomy.) But I'm not worried if the baker uses a mechanical mixer when making my bread.

I can tell my ranting isn't going down well at home, so I pop out for a walk round the block. On my travels I discover the recently opened and appropriately named ‎Café Ringmer (note the accent), where I order a cappuccino. The woman behind the counter creates my drink with the help of a serious-looking espresso machine. I wonder whether there ought to be a new phrase for 'handmade with the help of technology'. Maybe something sci-fi like 'cyborg-crafted' or 'mecha-enhanced employee' would be a better description. As I sip my coffee, I realise that I don't care about 'handmade'. What I care about is care itself. And if we’re using ‘handmade’ as a synonym for ‘made with care’, I’m perfectly happy with that. Because care is something that only comes from people. Much like opinions, I suppose. I’m sure Mrs B will be delighted that I’ve finally found one.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 107 August 2015

Looking for love at breakfast time

It’s Saturday morning and my wife is smiling at me in a way that melts my heart. I am indeed a lucky man. On other occasions she has a different look that’s capable of melting someone’s face, leaving her victim looking like the Gestapo agent in Raiders of the Lost Ark. That’s not happened to me. Not yet, anyway.

This is one of those special moments I’d like to remember, although I don’t know how best to do it. Some people write diary entries, take photos or drink champagne when there’s something to celebrate. Others may carve their initials in a tree, get a tattoo or buy another charm for their bracelet. I’m looking for something that’s more personal. Something unique.

February is already a special month for me and Mrs B. We first met on February 16th, two days after St Valentine's Day. To be honest, I was rather pleased with myself. Not only did I have a guaranteed reminder every year, I could also buy a romantic anniversary gift at a dramatically discounted price. We’d feast on cut-price chocolates. If only we’d thought to get married on the same day.

This morning I’ve just presented Mrs B with a plate of toasted crumpets and a jar of Marmite. That, I’m sure, has helped prompt the smile. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, having breakfast. As I lean forward to put butter on my toast, Rupert the cat jumps into the space behind me. He's not allowed on my lap when we're eating but has decided that becoming a bony cushion is an acceptable compromise. When I sit down again, I perch carefully on the edge of my chair. Rupert starts purring loudly, although anyone hearing the noise without seeing the creature would imagine I was incubating a gargling pigeon. Is this affection? Is this happiness? I turn to address the cat. "What do you know about love, Rupert?" He looks at me curiously, as though I'm the one making a strange sound. My wife answers. "He doesn't think about love any more. Not after the operation." She then mimes scissors in a way I find slightly disconcerting.

I flinch, an unconscious response to Rupert’s emasculation. Mrs B leans across the table to give me a reassuring kiss. I flinch again, this time because she's forgotten the plate of crumpets in front of her. Afterwards, I notice that her dressing gown is now marked with a Marmite outline of her right breast, like a savoury Turin Shroud. I know it’s not permanent but maybe it’ll last until our wedding anniversary.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 101 February 2015.

Taking a cakie

I whip out my mobile phone and take a photo of my birthday cake. This isn't a family tradition or even an obsessive personal habit, although I'll admit to having more than one cake photo in my collection. It just seemed a nice way to celebrate my recent birthday.

My picture, in case you're wondering, only includes the cake. Nothing else. It's not a self-portrait... or even a 'selfie', which is entirely different. In my personal dictionary, 'self-portrait' refers to an accurate photographic representation, perhaps taken with the aid of a tripod and clockwork timer, while a selfie is an exaggerated low-quality wide-angle picture that gives its subject the eyes of a bush-baby and the chin of Dick Dastardly. Anyway, it's not one of those. Neither is it a 'cakie', which is undoubtedly what a cake/selfie hybrid will end up being called at some point.

Having taken the photo, I realise there's nothing to give it any context. Although my only aim was to avoid including my face, I've actually managed to exclude all sense of time. This, when I think about it, is what makes most archive pictures so fascinating. We're not just interested in seeing great-grandfather's face; we're equally fascinated by his sense of fashion. The hat, the sideburns, the shirt: it's his clothes and hair that really intrigue us. The same goes for films and TV. James Cameron's 1997 movie Titanic used cutting-edge digital technology to recreate the ship yet still managed to give Leonardo DiCaprio a haircut from 85 years in the future. Star Trek might be set in the 23rd century but the styling of the original series was rooted in the 1960s. Its 'space hippies' episode (stardate 5832.3, or 1969 if you prefer) has aged particularly badly.

Now, I don't mind occasionally detailing my failings. But I don't want to become a laughing stock simply because I've followed the same social norms and societal pressures as most of my contemporaries. So what can I do about photos? Well, I'm beginning to formulate a plan. What if my pictures were impossible to date? What if the archaeologists of the future couldn't ascertain where or when I'd existed? I'm going to buy some replica Norman armour from the castle gift shop and a toy robot from Wickle. I may even wear a wig. The next time I take a cakie, it'll be impossible to work out what era I'm living in. Most importantly, my new props will prevent me from looking stupid.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 97 October 2014.

Keeping it real in Ringmer

It's important not to lose touch with reality. At least, that's what Rupert the cat told me last week. We were chatting on our way back from the vet, where he’d been treated for fight-related injuries. Mind you, I understand that some people may not define 'important' and 'reality' in the same way as I do. Back when I worked for a big telecommunications company, I was convinced that any presentation I produced could be given a title from a country music song. When I needed an off-beat starting point, I'd look to Nashville for inspiration. "Flushed from the bathroom of your heart" was a particular triumph. Shortly after I implemented this major lyrical innovation, my job disappeared. I reckon someone stole my idea and then covered up the evidence. Crazy? That's exactly what Patsy Cline said.

Anyway, these days I'm keeping both feet firmly on the ground... and living in Ringmer is one of the ways I do this. It's certainly a dramatic contrast from my previous home. Before I moved here I lived in a West Sussex town with many tourists and almost enough gift shops to house them all on a rainy Saturday. A little like Lewes, some might say. I couldn't possibly comment.

We even had a 'lifestyle' shop that sold an impractical and unlikely combination of kitchen equipment, cosmetics, stationery, imported photo frames and expensive toys. Plus, of course, coffee and scented candles. Secretly I loved it.

In fact, I could have enjoyed afternoon tea in a different place every day for a month without having the same type of cake twice. That's how many coffee bars and tea shops there were. Budgetary constraints kept my blood-sugar levels stable, although I was tempted on several occasions.

Fortunately, the reality of Ringmer has saved me from myself... and from any similar temptation. There's only one bakery. You see, no-one would raise an eyebrow if I walked into a pub and the barman said "your usual, Mark?" before pouring a pint of Harveys. It's much less socially acceptable to be presented with a Belgian bun in a paper bag whenever you meet a baker. The embarrassment of being recognised as a frequent customer keeps my patisserie habit under control. You need to know when to walk away. Well, that's what Rupert says anyway. Or was it Kenny Rogers?

First published on Viva Lewes 3rd July 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com

Fathers figure

The pub in the middle of the village is decked in patriotic bunting. At least, I'm assuming the aim is patriotism. I'm also assuming the specific target of that patriotism is the England football team, despite Wikipedia telling me the cross of St George is "used extensively across Northern Italy". I hope there weren't too many homesick Italians seeking refuge there after the match last Saturday. It seems unlikely, given that a pizza delivery company is the only sign of Mediterranean culture I've noticed in Ringmer.

And then, on Sunday, the mood changed completely... but the pub remained busy. You could almost describe it as a 'perfect storm'. The combination of football's World Cup and Father's Day offered a unique opportunity for pub landlords. Dads were encouraged to spend two full days propping up the bar: one day with their mates, one day with their family. A balanced social life? Maybe.

Rather than watching football in a crowd, I stayed at home on the sofa with Rupert the cat. We had the TV on for the big game but - now Springwatch has finished on the BBC - there's nothing that quite grips us in the same way. When you've watched a 14-year-old cat stalking a tiny image of Bill Oddie, even the youthful enthusiasm of Raheem Sterling pales into insignificance. Fortunately the tweeting stopped and Mr Oddie disappeared before Rupert could embarrass himself by pouncing.

As for Father's Day, I'm one of those people who sadly no longer has a father to celebrate with. Actually, dad and I never observed the third Sunday in June as a special day. He thought it was a load of commercial nonsense; a sentiment I largely agree with. As a result, my sense of loss is tempered by the knowledge that at least I'm not being conned out of the price of a greetings card. I like to think it's his legacy, along with hereditary male-pattern baldness and a fondness for fried bread.

Yet as the pubs fill with men treating themselves and their offspring to a roast dinner, I'm left feeling a little lonely. I turn to the cat for inspiration. He's back on the sofa and gently prodding my cardigan with his front feet, as a kitten might. I think he wants a cuddle from his mum. Over here, mate. Shall we order a pizza?















First published on Viva Lewes 19th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

Focussing on the future

There's no escaping the past. It trails behind each of us like a scarf that's just about to fall out of your coat pocket into a puddle. Excuse me a moment while I pick up my soggy woollen snake and wrap it nonchalantly around my shoulders. No-one noticed, did they?

As far as I'm concerned, the recent past contains too many mince pies and not enough exercise. Yet distant events can leave an even longer-lasting impression. Taking a pastry-fuelled walk round the streets of Ringmer reveals much of the village's history through its street names. There's Springett Avenue, which carries the family name of Gulielma Springett. She married William Penn, who founded the state of Pennsylvania in the USA. Another American link can be seen in Harvard Road and Sadlers Way, celebrating the husband and wife (John and Ann) who established Harvard University. I am literally following the path of history. Maybe generations in the future will talk of Scarfpuddle Lane, where I once trod.

Yes, I'm in a philosophical mood… but I don’t think it’s just me. At this time of year we all tend to spend more time than usual thinking about events that have happened in the previous 12 months. Reviews of 2013, news quizzes, anniversaries, that kind of thing. Many of us then start to regret what we've done and make plans to be better people. These resolutions tend to fall into two nonsensical categories: giving up things we enjoy (for example, starting a diet) or doing things we don't enjoy (such as visiting the gym). And we wonder why most resolutions fail. I've done a little bit of research and have found that most advice for keeping resolutions can be boiled down to two simple tips. If we expect our resolutions to work, we need to set specific goals and tell other people what they are. Not simply "get fit" but "do a 40-minute workout twice a week". That kind of thing. And so I've decided on my own unambiguous, timely and public-facing resolution for 2014. I'm giving up mince pies until November.

First published on vivalewes.com 9th January 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/focussing-on-the-future/

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/

The son has got his hat on

Time once again for a cross-border adventure to see mum in West Sussex. It's a beautiful sunny day with a postcard-blue sky, so we head to a cafe on the seafront for lunch. I fancy a salad and a glass of water but I know this change from my usual routine would cause concern - apparently no man's wife can feed him as well as his mother - so I choose a toasted sandwich and a cappuccino. My usual fare. Well, I don't want her thinking the sun has gone to my head.

By the time our food arrives, the top of my scalp is beginning to feel as crispy as the bacon in the sandwich. The brie, which was supposed to remain with the bacon inside the bread, resembles volcanic lava on the plate. And my coffee is, as I feared, undrinkably hot.

I reach for my emergency hat, which is actually a paisley bandana. I imagine it makes me look rather like Johnny Depp. Mother’s expression suggests she agrees... but not in a good way. While we wait for our meals to become more temperate, we watch someone borrow one of the cafe's chairs from an adjacent table and move it next to a seafront bench. This is done with neither subterfuge nor speed, although it seems a bit like 'Taking Without Owner's Consent' to me. That's either a criminal record or bonus points depending on whether you're playing in real life or online.

Like a scene from a disaster movie, molten brie is now threatening the garnish at the edge of my plate. I wonder if Pierce Brosnan will arrive to divert the cheese before it reaches the slice of cucumber. Bubbles rise from the coffee.

After a few minutes a burly chef appears on the scene. Dressing in white wouldn't be my first choice if I wanted to look intimidating but this chap carries it off. Mind you, dressing in white wouldn't be my choice for working in a kitchen either. The person who originally thought that was a good idea clearly didn't do the washing. Anyway, chef glances around, spots his errant chair and strides across to its borrower - who much to my surprise hasn't also snaffled a couple of coffee cups and a handful of sugar cubes. There's much forced smiling. The word 'just' is used a lot. Chef returns triumphant with his chair, conjuring the spirit of Indiana Jones.

Meanwhile mum is bringing me up to speed with the major events in her life. Or, to be more accurate, the big events in her friends' lives. I nod knowingly and check my drink, wondering if the hot weather has got to everyone.

The cup is empty. My coffee has evaporated. Perhaps I need a glass of water to rehydrate it.

First published on vivalewes.com 25th July 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/the-son-has-got-his-hat-on/

Too good for words

Last week I went on holiday, complete with wife and family, to the fishing town of Padstow in Cornwall. As I sat by the edge of the harbour with a Cornish pasty, a logo on the paper bag reminded me that my lunch was actually a product with Protected Geographical Indication status across Europe.

That meant, amongst other things, it had to be made in Cornwall otherwise it couldn't legally be called a Cornish pasty. It needed to be D-shaped and crimped along one side, not with the crimping on the top like a stegosaurus or a Klingon warrior. Inside I could expect to find beef, potato, swede, onion but no other vegetables – begone, carrot! – nor any artificial additives. And indeed I didn’t.

Clotted cream and sardines also have similar protection in Cornwall. This got me thinking about some East Sussex delicacies. Our local bakery in Ringmer produces the Jack & Jill bun, which doesn't just contain fruit but is topped with icing and jam as well. Down in Lewes there are the fritters in Laporte's, a Bill's breakfast, the salads at the Buttercup Cafe, lemon drizzle cake at The Needlemakers, products at the Farmers' market... all these deserve wider recognition, I reckon.

For a while I thought about starting a campaign to turn Ringmer and Lewes into one of those protected areas for agriculture and food. Soon the whole world would know about the high quality of our local delicacies.

However, there's a catch. You see, although true Cornish pasties need to be made in Cornwall, they don't need to be baked there. They can be assembled within the county and then cooked somewhere else.

And that's why I think we should keep quiet about the benefits of Lewes and its surrounding villages. If we don't, there'll be Jack & Jill buns for sale around the globe. Our special treats won't be special any more. So the next time you buy particularly good local food, make sure you leave the shop cursing loudly. It'll drive the foodies away... and it'll be our own secret sign of appreciation.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th May 2013: http://www.vivalewes.com/too-good-for-words/

The galloping gourmet

Horse meat again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we've not seen the last of the equine puns. With dodgy processed food still in the headlines - it's been the mane news, you might say - we'll be hearing these jokes furlong time. We're saddled with them.

However, the curious incident of the horse in the lasagne isn't an unbridled disaster. It's made many of us aware of the vast amount of food miles in a processed meal... and it's encouraged people to visit their nearest butcher rather than a supermarket. Here in Ringmer, we have an outstandingly good one. He's definitely able to assure you of the provenance of his produce - yet too much information can sometimes seem uncomfortably personal. I'm reminded of a holiday during which the local butcher recommended the lamb because "you can taste the heather from the hills here". That's only one step away from meeting its parents and seeing photos of it as a baby.

In case you're wondering, I've been a vegetarian but at the moment I'm a carnivore. My return to flesh-eating started innocuously enough: I wouldn't buy meat although I'd eat it if invited to dinner at someone else's house. Seemed rude not to. But before I knew it, I'd begun feeling sorry for left-over food. A couple of reduced-price kidneys at the end of the day?   I tracked down a recipe and dined on devilled kidneys for just 50p. Three miserable looking sardines?   Grilled with a green salad (and gutted with guidance from Delia, who helped me discover that the fishiest smell in the world could be found inside a fish. A bargain nonetheless). I had become a kind-of culinary St Francis, saving the least loved creatures for my plate.

Today, I've put my 'sad food' phase behind me. But it's left me thinking about a solution to the crisis that's hit our meat industry. First of all, if you're worried about what you're eating, simply buy something recognisable. Rabbit looks a lot like rabbit. A pork chop will contain 100% pork. You're unlikely to mistake a chicken for too much else. Oxtail is disconcertingly tail-like. Retailers need to start promoting animal-shaped meals.

And if that doesn't increase sales, I have a second plan. I suggest giving every animal a name that engenders sympathy - maybe Brunhilde for cows, Enid for chickens - and labelling its products with a photograph of the creature looking particularly depressed. I reckon that would work well... at least until someone asked "why the long face?"

First published on vivalewes.com 21st February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/