My state of independence

Being a self-employed copywriter in Ringmer is often a thankless task. This is good. In the past I’ve crafted letters from various chief executives, I’ve given voice to a cartoon mobile phone, I’ve interviewed one of the greatest racing drivers of all time and I’ve briefly become an expert on international rail travel. All great fun - and without any sign of Mark Bridge, whoever he is. My name rarely appears in print. As a result, no-one stops me in the street to offer their opinion. No-one photographs me when I pop to the shops wearing pyjamas and flip-flops. No-one asks me if I’m him from that thing.

The freelance lifestyle is also unstable. This is also good. While some of my contemporaries get their thrills from driving fast cars, kite-surfing and wild parties, I get my adrenaline rush from wondering whether my invoices will be paid before our mortgage is due. This is much safer, with absolutely no chance of a twisted ankle.

A writer in a big city may talk about working in a different coffee shop every day for a change of scenery. Here in Ringmer, fewer choices mean fewer visits. Ruling out the local pubs - which is a good idea, because I'd be inclined to stay for a bowl of chips and a pint when I'd finished my coffee - I'm left with a choice between Café Ringmer, an outside table at the bakery and the regular ‘Souper Saturday’ fund-raiser at the village hall. Quite simply, living in a village saves me a fortune on my cappuccino budget.

Then there’s the freedom. I don’t have any set hours to work, as long as I get the job done. I can stay up late if I want (although, to be honest, I often start dozing on the sofa before 10pm. The Newsnight theme might as well be a lullaby.) I can work at weekends, without any of the annoying paperwork associated with overtime payments. And I can even start early, just like most other people with regular jobs.

Of course, there are disadvantages. By not commuting, I miss out on the camaraderie of fellow travellers as we stand nose-to-armpit on public transport, I don’t see the cheery gestures that drivers exchange at the Cuilfail roundabout and there’s no chance for me to boost my circulation as I sprint through the rain to my desk.

Let’s face it, I am a man of mystery. And I’m about to become even more mysterious, because this is my last East of Earwig column. To everyone who’s enquired about the new house (still delightful), the grandson (still delightful) or the late Rupert (still in his little packet on the bedroom windowsill); thank you for joining me on my voyage of discovery through Ringmer. Meanwhile, if you’d like to know what happens next… I’m open to commissions.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 138 March 2018.

Turf Wars: living next door to malice

Our home is at the centre of a discomfiting territorial dispute. It started when we moved house last summer and - despite our best efforts - hasn't gone away. Harry the cat has, understandably, claimed our garden as his own. The cats that live next door see it as more of a community asset, particularly as there’s a conveniently cat-sized hole in the fence. Despite Harry’s insistence that the hole was only intended for hedgehogs, his fellow felines still pop round for the occasional chat. All we can do is shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in sympathy whenever Harry looks to us for support.

That’s pretty much the only disharmony in our street: intermittent tail twitching and a muttered miaow. Fortunately there's no personal disagreement whatsoever. Loving our human neighbours is remarkably easy. On a broader scale, Ringmer’s neighbours are equally likeable. Obviously I can’t say a bad thing about Lewes. (That’s due to contractual obligation rather than any personal preference.) Occasionally we hear a little noise when you throw a party – there’s some kind of thing you do every November, isn’t there? – but we’ve got used to it now. Barcombe Mills: it’s a delight to have you alongside us, although a bit of a shame about your lack of mills. Firle brings joy every time someone from the village says your multi-syllabled name. Obviously Isfield is notable for having the only working railway line within a significant radius. And talking of machinery, I really ought to mention Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum, which is surely the only place in the country that successfully combines ducks and racing cars without any harm to eider.

But all this is missing the biblical point of ‘love thy neighbour’. Jesus told the story of a man walking from Jerusalem to Jericho, which is rather like walking from the spiritual beacon of Ringmer to the far side of Hove, except that the road was considerably more dangerous. Not only was there no separate cycle path, there were also gangs of bandits roaming the countryside. In the bible story, the traveller has his life saved by someone who – in other circumstances – would have been seen as an enemy. Totes awk, as the Samaritan might have said when he texted his mates afterwards.

So, as well as loving my neighbour's cats and all the friendly people in our road who popped a Christmas card through the letterbox last year, it seems I have a biblical mandate to love people who live further away. Not just those in surrounding villages or even born-and-bred Brightonians. No, if I’ve understood the parable correctly, it seems I am being called to love those from far-away lands with lifestyles I don’t understand. Despite their strange customs and unfamiliar accents, the people of West Sussex are also my neighbours.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 137 February 2018.

Mark gets militant

It was William Lonsdale Watkinson who coined the phrase 'far better to light the candle than to curse the darkness' in a sermon just over a century ago. Yet in a world that's threatened intermittently with nuclear war, depending on the availability of the US President's internet connection, it's easy to feel helpless against injustice. Of course, we can all prepare for the worst. Action films have told us the best way to react to unspeakable horror is to keep calm and carry on, walking unflinchingly through explosions. And I'm sure I'll find it pretty simple to substitute rat for free-range chicken in my post-apocalyptic cooking.

But all this metaphorical bunker-building feels a bit passive. Whilst it's good to have an excuse to stockpile tinned custard in the cupboard under the stairs, I doubt I'll have any opportunity to defend the village of Ringmer against a real attack. Or, at least, I didn't think I would... until my call-up papers arrived.

Like many people, I'm a little nervous about the delivery of any government document. I'm pretty sure that worming the cat doesn't qualify me for an MBE, which means a letter bearing the House of Commons portcullis is probably trouble. And indeed it is, but not in the way I expect. Local MP Maria Caulfield has written of her disappointment that East Sussex County Council is considering the closure of Ringmer library, along with six other local libraries. Her campaigning puts her in conflict with fellow Conservatives who control the council. Councillors say the planned closures would save money, although the inclusion of Ringmer seems counter-intuitive when the Village Hall building that contains the library has recently been enlarged and visitor numbers have increased. In fact, it was the Chair of ESCC who officially opened the new library last year.

Figures from ESCC mention a journey of 10 minutes from Ringmer Library to Lewes Library by bus, which would be absolutely true if there was a time machine waiting at Lewes Bus Station to save people from walking to the town's library. They also suggest the annual cost of running Ringmer library is around £8,000. That's just a quarter of the amount their councillors claimed in car travel for the last financial year. Sure, people from Ringmer could go into Lewes to use the library. But if that's the case, why stop there? Why not insist that Ringmerites could go into Lewes to use the shops, the schools and the pubs?

Anyone interested can respond to the consultation online at consultation.eastsussex.gov.uk or, if you prefer paper, by picking it up from the library. While you’re there, I’d also recommend borrowing a book. One day, you may even be able to pick up a copy of my favourite rodent recipes. I think I'll call it 'Cooking by Candlelight'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 134 November 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

Livin’ on a prayer

Occasionally the vicar at my mum's parish church will offer special healing prayers at the end of the regular Sunday service. "I didn't hang around for the extra prayer for health", mum tells me, with more than a hint of triumph in her voice. It conjures up a fascinating image of parishioners sprinting away from the altar rail as though they were caught in a game of spiritual tag. All that's missing is a David Attenborough voiceover, casting the vicar in the role of a predator pouncing on those who can't move quickly enough and are therefore most in need of divine assistance, rather like a medley of the films Cocoon and Logan’s Run.

I'm reminded of a Christian friend who'd pray in tongues if the church's ageing Ford Escort van wouldn't start. She insisted that her light-hearted but sincere praying, which was accompanied by the laying-on of hands, worked every time. Sadly I don’t have any evidence to prove if there really was divine intervention or whether her ritual simply gave the tired engine a little time to warm up. Personally, when it comes to non-functioning vehicles, I’ve tended to place my faith in PlusGas, an aerosol lubricant spray that's very likely to give you a religious experience if you use it in a confined space.

While Lewes is a place of ritual and tradition, we’re a much more practical crowd here in Ringmer. The closest I’ve come to discovering any kind of mysterious ceremonial behaviour was the elderly chap I spotted walking slowly past the shops. I wouldn't have paid him much attention if his talisman hadn't caught my eye. Around his neck on a loose leather cord he was wearing a large silver Aztec pendant inset with ivory. “Maybe he’s brought aspects of an obscure South American religion to the village”, I thought. “He may even be a member of a secret society". As I walked towards him, I realised his shiny pendant was neither Aztec nor ivory. It was a personal alarm button in case he fell over. A symbol of trust, just not the one I'd expected.

But what of my own personal rituals? I reckon I just have two, with everything else more accurately described as ‘odd habits’ or ‘unnecessary attention to detail’. Every morning I put my wedding ring on and then spend the rest of the day worrying that I might lose it, as though it’s a tiny homing beacon for my wife. (I’d strongly recommend matching tattoos for anyone with similar concerns. Worst case, if you divorce you’ll end up looking like a Japanese gangster.) And every night I go to bed hoping that inspiration for my next piece of writing will reveal itself to me as I sleep. Maybe one day it will.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 127 April 2017

Trying to help

I’m no Nostradamus but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this year’s Lewes Bonfire celebrations featured an effigy of Donald Trump straddling a nuclear weapon, rather like Slim Pickens in the film Dr Strangelove. Then again, there are plenty of local issues that have caused upsets during the past 12 months. Perhaps we’re more likely to see someone astride a railway carriage.

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The time of year when we Ringmer residents adopt a supportive role for our neighbours. November sees our village retreating into the flickering shadows as Lewes welcomes – if ‘welcomes’ isn’t too strong a word – thousands upon thousands of visitors. On 5th November, Ringmer becomes an unofficial park-and-ride site. Dozens of people heading south into Lewes take the opportunity to dump their cars outside the shops and pick up the bus. I’m sorely tempted to start my own taxi service, just for one night.

Recently I’ve been lending a hand even closer to home. In fact, I’ve nominated myself as Head of Operations whenever our grandson comes to visit. Before he arrives, I move the television remote control onto a shelf and hide Rupert the cat under a pile of cushions. And when he leaves, I tidy up – which is surprisingly upsetting. Not because the house is suddenly silent, except for an almost imperceptible feline sigh of relief. No, it’s because most of the boy’s toys have some kind of electronic element, which means virtually every one laughs or applauds ironically when I move it. It's like a scene from Poltergeist, except the possession is battery-powered rather than demonic. Almost inevitably, as I carry the repacked box of toys out of the lounge, a digital voice from the bottom of the collection will shout “yay”.

Arguably I’m sometimes a little too inclined to help others. One particularly traumatic incident happened several years ago, when I met a worm that was heading across the pavement towards the road. Towards an unpleasantly sudden demise, I thought. Now, I wouldn’t usually touch a worm – apparently it hurts them – but desperate times called for desperate measures. There was a six-foot wall surrounding the nearest garden, so I picked up the worm and flung it over the wall. Instead of reaching the lawn, it landed in the branches of a small tree, with the force of my throw causing the worm to wrap around itself like a bolas hurled by an Argentinian cowboy. Even from a distance, I was pretty sure I could sense its annoyance. So perhaps that worm is a modern-day fable. Perhaps it was a way of telling me that trying to help isn’t always appreciated, even if you’re certain you can make the world a better place. Or perhaps it’s telling me that I should practise my throwing. I have a grandson to entertain, after all.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 122 November 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

Mallets Aforethought

Tradition is a strange thing. Sometimes it leaves us with events that seem ill-suited to the modern age, such as torch-wielding Zulu warriors marching through the streets of Lewes. And sometimes it makes us wonder why circumstances ever changed. The Busy Bee garage in Ringmer falls into the latter category: a place where you can fill up with petrol, get your car fixed and even buy a new one. It seems strange that anybody would want to disconnect those three activities into separate sites, particularly when there's the opportunity of picking up a packet of fruit pastilles at the same time. Yet this type of all-in-one establishment is almost an anachronism in a world where vehicles are now sold in megastores, petrol comes from a supermarket and you're not allowed to open the bonnet of your own car without signing a disclaimer.

Opposite the garage is the Cheyney Field, home to another tradition. It's where Cheyney Croquet Club plays a game that can trace its roots back around 400 years. I really can't see why a mallet-based pastime isn't more popular. It sounds like the kind of sport that should be an integral part of every macho stag weekend, alongside quad-bike racing in Estonia and an impromptu session of British Bulldog at the airport. Anyway, if you're interested in learning more, there's an open day at the club on Sunday 5th June, which just happens to be National Croquet Day.

These two venues on the B2192 have been on my mind recently because I’ve sailed past them on the number 28 bus. I’m a big fan of public transport, even though it seems a little incongruous when double-deckers squeeze through the bottleneck outside Tom Paine’s house. One of the reasons for my fondness is the cost: a £3.40 return from Ringmer to Lewes is less than a couple of hours’ parking on the High Street. It’s more relaxing than the precision-timing required when trying not to exceed the limits of free supermarket parking. And I can claim a complimentary newspaper as part of my bus trip. You may be surprised how long you can sit in Caffe Nero if your empty coffee cup is hidden behind the Metro showbiz section.

But my main reason for not driving into Lewes is self-preservation. Tradition has gifted the town with attractive narrow streets of terraced cottages. Here in Ringmer, we're blessed with new-fangled architectural features, including driveways for almost every house and roads that are wide enough for two vans to pass without snapping off their door mirrors like a pair of rutting stags. What Ringmerite would choose to venture into a place where every car bumper is as scuffed as a child's football boot? Not without a warning sign on their vehicle, anyway. I’d recommend something along the lines of 'Watch out - I play croquet'.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 117 June 2016

Finding festivals on the doorstep

Writing on the subject of festivals from a Ringmer perspective is a bit of a challenge. Well, I really don't want to embarrass any of you Lewesians with the wealth of riches we have next door. The Lewes Live music festival? I reckon that’s almost entirely our side of the parish boundary. Glyndebourne Festival? Definitely closer to Ringmer than it is to Lewes. Love Supreme? Yup, same again. And that's before I start talking about Ringmer's scarecrow festival, the football festival, the dance festival and the earwig festival. (Okay, I made that last one up but I’m hoping for a sizeable percentage of t-shirt sales if it ever happens.)

Curiously, we also manage to promote our events without reverting to what's become a ubiquitous means of communication across Lewes. Whilst we Ringmerites stay in touch by phone, Royal Mail, newsletter, text message, Whatsapp, Snapchat and semaphore, it seems the only way to get your message across in Lewes is by printing it on a piece of A4 paper, laminating it and fixing it to a lamppost with cable ties or plastic ribbon. These notices are often seen hanging in place long after the relevant event has passed, with nothing but acid rain and casual vandalism to help them degrade. In the aftermath of the forthcoming robot apocalypse, when automated microscopic vacuum cleaners have tidied away the last remnants of humanity and the only remaining lifeform on the planet is a cockroach crossed with a Jack Russell terrier, I reckon the bus stop outside Waitrose will still be festooned with rainbow-coloured printouts advertising a pop-up Shamanic yoga weekend.

And then there’s the fashion. As far as I’m concerned, wellington boots are practical – albeit occasionally uncomfortable – footwear for especially wet or muddy situations. You put them on when the weather demands it… and you remove them when they’re not needed. Wellingtons are no more suitable for all-day wear than pyjamas or mittens. How they’ve become some kind of festival uniform escapes me. Yet switch on any TV coverage of summer festivals and you’ll see crowds of people wearing little more than beachwear but accessorising it with rainbow-patterned plastic boots and a crown of plastic flowers. Inexplicably, there’s even a trend for getting married in this sort of clothing. (Just search for ‘festival wedding’ on your favourite tax-paying internet search engine and you’ll see what I mean.) Personally, I think it’s actually an excuse for scaring elderly relatives away.

Still, enough of my ranting. Festivals are supposed to be about celebration. I may not understand your desire to carry a fluorescent pennant on a five-metre bendy flagpole but I shall rejoice in your decision regardless. Just as long as you’re not standing in front of me. I’m the guy in the dinner jacket, obviously.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 116 May 2016

Making your own entertainment

Last month I walked from Ringmer to Lewes, leaving at the same time as the 28 bus and arriving in town several minutes ahead of it. This was, admittedly, at the time of the Great Isolation, when roadworks on Malling Hill had reduced traffic flow to a crawl. Nevertheless, I felt victorious. Only the disappointment of a light drizzle as I walked past Waitrose prevented me from striking a pose like Usain Bolt and shouting "I am Bridge, master of all delays. Yield to me, you lingering commuters".

Some might say that's a sign I need to get out more. They'd say I'm living in a fantasy world, having conversations with myself. Nonsense, I reply. And I should know: a long, long time ago I was virtually king of Ringmer.

Okay, I'm exaggerating slightly. Back in 2014, which is indeed ancient in internet years, I was unofficial mayor of the corner shop in the village. And mayor of my local pub, too. This was thanks to an online service called Foursquare, which let you monitor the number of times you visited almost any destination. The most frequent visitor in any given time period - both fairly arbitrary designations - was automatically named 'mayor' until they were ousted by someone else. If you're not familiar with Foursquare, I can probably guess what you're thinking. It's something along the lines of "What's the point, Mark?"

There were, as far as I'm concerned, three reasons for using Foursquare. You gained a completely inappropriate sense of self-importance. You helped other people make decisions based on your recommendations. And then there was the competitive part: what is sometimes called 'gamification', where otherwise mundane tasks are given a fun element. It's a bit like walking down the street without treading on the cracks in the pavement, playing 'I Spy' on a long car journey or treating the vacuum cleaner as your Strictly Come Dancing companion.

After a while, the creators of Foursquare changed the service and - as far as I was concerned - knocked some of the enjoyment out of it. Or perhaps I got bored. Either way, I stopped playing that particular game. However, I still keep myself thoroughly entertained. That’s why you’ll occasionally see me accompanying my favourite songs on the car radio by drumming on the steering wheel (obviously only when the vehicle is in a stationary queue of traffic and the handbrake has been applied). You'll find me studying the length of supermarket queues and challenging myself to find the quickest. And you'll hear me correcting the synthesized voice on the bus whenever it pronounces 'Malling' like a non-Lewesian.

As far as I’m concerned, it's important for me to keep having fun. If I stopped, it would be a victory for... hmmm… actually, I'm not entirely sure who my opponent is. But I know I’m beating them.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 113 February 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

Looking for trouble in Ringmer

The Viva Lewes office was hot. Hotter than a Scotch Bonnet at Lewes Chilli Fayre. I took off my trilby and threw my trenchcoat over a chair. Sunlight squeezed through the Venetian blinds like a misdirected delivery truck driving down St Martin's Lane. My editor rolled up her sleeves and bit the end off a cigar. "The theme for September's magazine is Law and Order", she snarled. "You'd best make this one good. You don't want to end up like him." She gestured with her cigar towards a Norman Baker-shaped mound in the recently resurfaced part of Station Road. "And don't think you can get away with writing your column as some kind of Film Noir parody."

As if. Look, I’ve checked Ringmer’s police statistics and, whilst we’re not entirely innocent, the number of offences barely reaches double figures each month. That’s not much to talk about. It seems the youngsters are all busy stealing cars in the virtual world of Grand Theft Auto, not nicking hubcaps from their neighbours. So, in order to boost our local stats, I’d like to propose five new conversational crimes that town-dwellers need to avoid when they visit us.

1. Anyone in a group of people who sees a sign that reads 'Warning, electric fence' must not attempt to persuade another member of that group to touch the wire, no matter how great the potential for slapstick comedy. The penalty for transgression requires the perpetrator to stand in a puddle and touch the fence.

2. No one is allowed to complain about poor mobile phone coverage or to describe their location as 'the middle of nowhere'. That seems a bit like visiting a health spa and moaning about the lack of cream cakes.

3. Making comparisons with The Archers is forbidden, unless the discussion involves any technical innovation featured on the show. Any mention of high-tech animal husbandry is the equivalent of a get-out-of-jail card.

4. Under no circumstances is anyone permitted to lean over a five-bar gate whilst chewing a piece of grass and say "arrr", particularly not in an accent approximating a West Country pirate.

5. Referring to Ringmer as a 'large village' should be avoided. A large village is a town.

I walked back into the Viva Lewes office. I hadn’t started this thing, but it was up to me to finish it. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. I sat at my typewriter and wrote my five rules. Time crawled by like the Harveys dray going uphill. Eventually I gave the finished document to my editor. She put down her whisky and looked up from her desk. “Hey, Clyde”, she said. “You forgot one thing. Rule number six: don't try to talk in the style of a fictional 1940s detective. Too many clichés there. You might have gotten away with it if hadn’t been for that pesky kitsch.”

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 108 September 2015

An American doppelganger

As far as I can tell, there's no Ringmer in the USA. Although there is a city of Lewes in Delaware's Sussex County (named by expat William Penn, who may have been feeling a bit homesick), those of us living on the other side of Earwig Corner don't have any transatlantic clones. We Ringmerites are true originals. But what if Mr Penn had gone a step further?

Well, according to every Hollywood B-movie I can remember (and an old copy of the National Enquirer I once saw in my dentist's waiting room), this American interpretation of Ringmer would be located on a crossroads in the desert. Route 66, not the B2192. In my imagination, tumbleweed blows across the petrol station forecourt, where an old man in dungarees is standing by the pumps. Instead of a friendly pub there's a diner - advertised by an intermittently-working neon sign - that's run by a former Marine and an impossibly glamorous waitress. Customers have waffles for breakfast and, much to the confusion of residents in Lewes, order coffee by saying "I'll have a coffee, please" rather than "can I get a skinny decaf cappuccino, a little on the wet side?" Bowling takes place in an alley, not on a green. Oh, and most people shop at the drive-through supermarket where they buy high-fructose corn syrup and shrink-wrapped shotguns.

Somehow I suspect real life isn't much like that. However, Ringmer can (as I mentioned a few months ago) claim a couple of key roles in American history. In 1636, local vicar's daughter Ann Sadler married John Harvard. They moved to America, where Harvard's bequest of £780 helped to found the university that now bears his name. These days you'd be lucky if that money saw you through the first month of a new term. A few years later, Ringmer resident Gulielma Springett married the aforementioned William Penn. As part of a debt repayment, Penn was given a large parcel of land in America. He wanted to call it 'Sylvania' but King Charles II insisted he named it 'Pennsylvania', which duly happened in 1681. All are remembered in our village road names: Harvard Road, Penn Crescent, Sadlers Way and Springett Avenue.

And I can claim my own transatlantic connection. Back in the early days of the world wide web, when Dave Gorman was still learning how to use Google, I was contacted by a man in the USA who shared my name. This other Mark Bridge introduced himself as a singing cowboy. I was delighted; it felt rather like finding a time-travelling relative. And although I've subsequently discovered we both have a more-famous namesake who plays professional football in Australia, it's the folk singer I'm especially pleased to be associated with. But which one of us was the first Mark Bridge? That's a bit of a worry. Surely I'm not a pale imitation of myself?

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 106 July 2015.

Stepping out in style

I'm getting ready to head into Lewes. I've put my shoes on and I'm already slipping my left arm into my coat when I realise my wife has a kink in her eyebrow. I know what this means. I double-check my outfit. No fluorescent socks. No breakfast on my trousers. I give up. "What?"

"You're not wearing a jumper.” Indeed I'm not. I am, however, wearing a navy blue shirt. Dark colours for winter, pale colours for summer. Surely darker colours are warmer. But I can’t possibly explain this to her, so instead I choose the sensible option. "I'll just grab a cardie. Won't be a moment."

As a child, I was encouraged to wear a vest, despite the unfashionable nature of the garment. I rebelled for a while. These days I've progressed to something that calls itself a 'technical layer'. Technically it is a vest, although I convince myself I’m dressed like a mountain-climbing athlete when I wear it. Most importantly, no-one can see it. Despite having grown older and theoretically wiser, I still don’t want to look un-cool.

You see, many people make fashion mistakes by choosing clothes that wouldn’t really suit anyone. That’s not my style, if you’ll forgive the pun. Whilst I know it’s best if I stay away from flared dungarees and leather trousers, it’s taken me a while to realise that everyday clothes can also be worn in the wrong way. When it’s done deliberately – I'm reminded of a school friend who subverted the dress code by wearing two ties – the results are intentionally amusing. My worry is inadvertently breaking the unwritten rules of good taste. Since my teens, I’ve discovered that a perfectly serviceable pair of socks must never be paired with an equally serviceable pair of sandals. I’ve learned that Suzi Quatro is the only person allowed to wear a denim jacket with jeans. And I’ve realised that a tracksuit is intended for use on a track, not as a suit.

Yet there’s still one area of fashion that I’ve not quite mastered: holiday clothes. I’ve noticed that we Brits really seem to choose dramatically different dress when we’re on holiday, even when our destination isn’t that far away and our lifestyle hasn’t changed. Suddenly we’re donning storm-proof cagoules. Camouflage shorts. Climbing boots. Sarongs. All just for a trip to the shops.

There’s one problem. When I come to Lewes from my home in Ringmer, I'm a visitor too. So is it wrong to turn up in my regular clothes? Would it be better if I identified myself as a tourist by wearing an arctic explorer’s fleece and eating an ice cream? On second thoughts, forget the cardigan. I need a pair of plastic clogs. Accessorised with ski socks, naturally.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 102 March 2015.

Dancing for the fifth

There's one important thing I've learned since moving to Ringmer: 'bonfire' is a verb and an adjective as well as a noun. But this isn't the kind of linguistic error sometimes heard when over-enthusiastic broadcasters predict Olympic athletes may 'medal' and racing drivers could 'podium'. Instead, it shows how strong the bonfire tradition is in this part of the world. I imagine some bonfire society members are capable of holding entire conversations by using the single word ‘bonfire’ with varying intonation.

To be honest, I've always had a slightly strange relationship with bonfire traditions. As a child growing up in West Sussex, I'd often be taken to Littlehampton bonfire night. This took place on the Saturday before November 5th, which seemed inappropriately premature, although the presence of men in blackface makeup and African warrior costumes puzzled me even more. Why weren't they singing Al Jolson songs?

Sometimes, as an alternative, we’d attend the celebrations of Clapham and Patching bonfire club. These took place on the weekend after Guy Fawkes Night, which was no less confusing. However, eventually I understood these were all secondary to the fiery festivity that took place in Lewes.

I have vivid memories of one family trip when we snuck over the county border into Lewes for Bonfire night. The air was thick with smoke and paraffin fumes from the torches. But despite my imagining that the entire crowd could spontaneously combust, there was no real-life drama. Even as a youngster I was aware of 'volenti non fit injuria'; a concept my family tended to refer to as 'it's your own stupid fault'.

Finally, after all the societies had paraded, all the brass bands had marched and a few people in the crowd had tried to chuck a rookie into a passing tuba, there was time for one last mysterious tradition. This was the Going Home Dance, which wasn't just conducted by our family but by the entire conglomeration of visitors. It starts with a child standing on the kerb next to their parent's car. They lift their left leg, usually holding it by the ankle, while the parent shines a light on the sole of the child's left shoe. When the parent nods, the child hops to their right leg, taking care not to topple onto the verge. Sometimes this is when the dance ends. Yet if the parent issues the command "wipe!", there's a completely new set of moves as the child shuffles vigorously on any nearby grass. Only when the all-clear is given does the journey home begin.

Today, as an adult, I understand much more about the origins of bonfire. I’m proud to live near Lewes. And I’m planning to be in the bonfire crowd with my torch. Battery, not paraffin. Just in case I need to dance.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 98 November 2014.

Come on in, the water’s fine

There's something rather compelling about a large body of water. The ebb and flow of the river Ouse captivates me whenever I cross the bridge at the end of Cliffe High Street. Swans swim past when the tide comes in, large chunks of Barcombe float by when the tide goes out. I'm equally intrigued by the harbour at Newhaven, the shingle at Saltdean and the pier-and-a-half in Brighton. This is probably because my childhood was punctuated with family walks along the seafront at Worthing, often featuring one of my father's weather forecasts. "If you can see Brighton, it's going to rain", he'd say. "If you can't see Brighton, it's already raining." Eventually I got the joke, although I spent many years marvelling at dad's meteorological accuracy.

Here in land-locked Ringmer, we have nothing bigger than a pond. This is a relatively static body of water, disturbed only by the occasional misplaced cricket ball or empty can of extra-strength cider. I once saw a heron there. It looked disappointed.

We can also rustle up a couple of old water pumps, which are fascinating historical artefacts but don't work. We even have a few half-hearted tributaries from the Ouse making their way into the village. But we just don't have the volume of water that has inspired poets and artists through the ages. There is, quite frankly, very little romance to be found in a shallow ditch.

My first thought is to mount a campaign. Plans to allow Cuckmere Haven to flood have proved contentious... so let's move the focus inland. Maybe the football club would trade their pitch for an artificial lake. Better still, perhaps the controversial plans to develop Clay Hill reservoir could be revived and refocused on the village green. Ringmer would become the windsurfing capital of Sussex.

As I search the internet for inspiration, my mission takes on new urgency. I learn that a research study last year found people living in 'marine and coastal environments' were happier than those further inland. This means my quest for some kind of aquatic feature is an issue that should concern everyone. Not only do we like to be beside the seaside, our well-being actually depends on it.

And, dear Ringmer resident, I have finally found success. I have tracked down a large body of moving water on the edge of our village. Not the swimming pool. Not a dew pond. No, I've found something with considerably more volume and more movement.

In fact, it's full of movements. So forget about the river. Ignore the sea. Bring your deck chairs to Ringmer's sewage treatment plant. The air is undoubtedly bracing and it's not too crowded. Some might even say you'll be flushed with happiness.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine August 2014 and on VivaLewes.com 31st July 2014

Time and motion

Whenever people from outside the local area ask me where I live, I usually tell them Ringmer is a village around three miles from Lewes. That’s not strictly true. If I was talking to a flying crow, they’d evaluate the journey at closer to two miles. Anyone looking at parish boundaries might view us as neighbours. It’s all a matter of perception. My uncertainty about distances was prompted by a visit from friends who are based in London. They don’t measure distances, they measure time. For them, it’s fifteen minutes between the office and their home. The mysteries of underground travel render straight-line measurements useless. They even suggested meeting in Uckfield because it was ten minutes closer. It’s not ten minutes if you’re cycling.

When watching TV shows made in the United States, I’ve noticed that city-dwellers quantify their journeys in ‘blocks’. That seems to be around a hundred yards, although building sizes will vary – which makes it about as much use as the ‘country mile’ my grandmother sometimes referred to. In fact, if any American visitors are reading this, I reckon there are twenty blocks to a country mile. I hope that helps.

Down in Eastbourne, a professor from the University of Brighton devised a series of ‘fitness walks’ that gave an idea of how much energy could be used by walking a few miles. I think something similar should be introduced for Lewes. You could plan a route between coffee shops that would result in the entire journey being calorie-neutral. Rather than saying “I’ll be there in thirty minutes”, you’d be measuring your journey as a skinny cappuccino and a digestive biscuit. A chocolate caramel from Laporte’s would probably get me all the way back to Ringmer. Of course, a precise calculation also depends on the person’s weight and the enthusiasm of their walking… which means it’s still a little vague.

As a child, I was – quite rightly – mystified by the trust some people put in egg timers. We use a ‘football pitch’ to describe large areas and we measure height in double-decker buses, despite neither being fixed. And when my brother went shopping for a new car, he assessed the size of the boot by checking how many golf bags it could hold. It all reminds me of the response offered by an engineer I once worked with. When we went for lunch, customers would sometimes ask how much time we’d be away. “An hour or more, whichever’s longer”, replied Len.

So I’m going to revise my description of Ringmer. I reckon I should describe it in terms that are more poetic, as befits its rural location. As well as measuring distance in country miles, my grandmother would also measure a brief moment of time as “two shakes of a lamb’s tale”. Obviously that’s just a fraction of a second – but given my average walking speed, particularly when offered cake as an incentive, I think Ringmer is around 10,000 lamb-tail shakes from Lewes. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

First published on Viva Lewes 5th June 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

The village idiom

Are you a gentleman? That was the question posed by Country Life magazine last month. It also offered a series of commandments, ruling that a 'gentleman' is always on time, is happy with 'unfussy fare' such as an omelette, never forgets his wristwatch and doesn't own a cat. I'm not sure why anyone - ladies or gentlemen - would respond to an etiquette proclamation from a publication that declares itself 'the home of premium property' but plenty of people seem to have taken this relatively seriously. I didn't. I'm much more inclined towards the manifesto published by The Chap magazine, which includes "thou shalt always doff one's hat". Arguably it should be "thy hat" but I'll keep quiet because gentlemen don't split hairs.

Anyway, it's got me thinking about definitions: more specifically, the definition of a village. I often talk about Ringmer being a village - but where's my proof? I switch on my computer for clues. 'A village is larger than a hamlet but smaller than a town' says the internet. To help with this definition, it explains that a hamlet is smaller than a village. I've seen other suggestions that a village has a church but not a market: this sounds plausible but I can't find any convincing evidence.

So, in the absence of any firm rules, it's time for me to create some. Here's how you can tell whether or not you're living in a village.

1. In the centre of your community is a large grassy area with public access. You don't need to call it the 'village green', although this helps. Ideally a major road should run alongside it, making open-topped sports cars a valid target during cricket games.

2. The entire area smells of silage and/or manure for at least one day a year. Visitors who complain about the odour should simply be told "it's a country smell".

3. At least one resident parks a tractor outside their house on a regular basis. If a tractor isn't available, a pick-up truck with a sheep in the back is a suitable alternative.

4. You have a village hall. For comedy effect, it's preferable for the building to be uncomfortably small and dilapidated or brand-new and inappropriately large.

5. The number of pubs and the size of the local church give the impression that the village was once packed with hard-drinking worshippers.

6. One local person has a nickname that no-one knows the origin of.

7. A retired rock star or model lives within a 5-mile radius... and a friend of a friend once saw them buying cigarettes at the newsagents.

8. Award-winning food is available from at least one local shop. You secretly hope that Rick Stein will visit it for a new series of 'Food Heroes'.

9. Anyone who lives in a post-1960 house is taunted with talk of 'the old village' and how it's changed since the new development was built.

10. Whenever anyone from outside the village asks your address, you start by telling them the name of the nearest town instead.

Yes, according to my new definition, Ringmer is definitely a village. Oh, and if you happen to see Rick, please point him in our direction. Tell him we're a couple of miles up the road from Lewes. He just needs to follow his nose.

First published on Viva Lewes 8th May 2014: http://www.vivalewes.com/

The man with the golden croissant

I like living in Ringmer. As I've mentioned before, I reckon it's close enough to Lewes for me to enjoy the benefits of the town without subjecting me to any of its disadvantages.

However, there's one notable flaw in this plan. It's the croissant situation. Don't worry, we're not completely bereft of pastries here. Croissants are available in Ringmer... but only when the weekend arrives. It's as though a local bylaw prohibits their sale at the bakery except on a Saturday. Asking for one during the week prompts the kind of response usually reserved for someone ordering roasted ortolan in a vegetarian brasserie.

Therefore, if I ever want a mid-week cappuccino and a croissant, I need to travel beyond the parish boundary. Although I'll occasionally walk into Lewes when the weather is good, I'm most likely to rely on the 28 bus - or its lesser-known relative, the 143 - for a trip into town. To catch the bus, I simply leave home five minutes before it's due to turn up. At least, that's what I did when I originally moved to the village. These days I allow just two minutes. Some would say I'm getting lazy. I blame James Bond.

You see, I saw the latest Bond film when it was released in cinemas about 18 months ago. 'Skyfall' looked back at the fifty-year history of the 007 franchise while also preparing the audience for an equally lengthy future. And it did all this after making us sit through the longest set of on-screen advertisements since Pearl first met Dean. But commercial considerations aside, I was suitably entertained. Daniel Craig makes a compelling secret agent. He runs, fights and generally behaves exactly as an action-hero should... all while wearing a suit.

Which brings me back to the issue of catching the bus. Once, running for the bus would have made me look like a bit of a loser. I’d be a middle-aged bloke whose life was in disarray. Now, thanks to the work of Mr Craig, I'm the coolest man around. Even with a laptop under my arm and the power cable trailing behind me, I could be mistaken for an employee of MI6 rather than a chap whose watch is slow. Unfortunately I've not done the fitness training required by Her Majesty's Secret Service. Despite doing my best to maintain a stoic appearance, I'm a little shaken by the time I arrive at the bus stop. Similar to 007's vodka martini, you might say.

First published on Viva Lewes 13th March 2014: www.vivalewes.com

Looking down on creation

My broadband connection has slowed to a speed that still permits me to work but rules out the possibility of downloading any cat videos. As far as I'm concerned, the internet might as well be broken. It reminds me of the days when I had a dial-up modem plugged into the telephone line, when sending an email was always accompanied by a noise that sounded rather like The Clangers singing barbershop harmony. Before long I may need to find my mother’s old typewriter - stored in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box, along with a couple of blown TV valves and a mechanical cassette tape rewinder - and soak its desiccated ribbon in a bottle of ink. Or perhaps not. I'd probably better stop reminiscing before I start to sound like Rick Wakeman, who's becoming better known for his grumpy-old-man views on body piercing than for playing a prog rock tribute to Henry VIII’s wives.

This technological blip has resulted from living in a village rather than a town, I'm certain. Whilst Lewesians can enjoy super-fast broadband that arrives down translucent fibre-optic cables, we villagers are still reliant on wires that are made from... well, wire, I suppose. You could almost think that broadband providers didn't care about us.

It prompted me to remember a newspaper report I saw a few weeks ago. A recent study at Oxford University touched on the topic of 'short person syndrome', which is the phrase often used to describe someone who appears to be compensating for their below-average height with an aggressive or dominant personality. Researchers created a 'virtual reality' experience that made volunteers appear to be on a crowded tube train where everyone else was much taller than they would have been in real life. It seems the result was an increase of negative feelings and mistrust. It provided useful insight into treating paranoia... but that won't get in the way of a good headline. "Short person syndrome is real", shouted several newspapers, delighting in the opportunity to confirm another stereotype.

All this had me wondering whether there was a similar condition of 'small village syndrome' affecting us here in Ringmer. While many of our local businesses can more than hold their own against the 'big boys' in town, woe betide anyone who suggests any of the facilities here aren't as impressive as those elsewhere. Some may even say a few of those 'big boys' were trying to steal away business from local traders. Are they really ganging up on us?

I put the 'small village syndrome' theory to my wife. "That's rubbish", she told me sensitively. "Ringmer is actually one of the largest villages in Sussex." I dug around in the 'things that might be valuable one day' box and found an Ordnance Survey map. Ringmer certainly does look pretty large. Hang on a moment. The village is 40 metres above sea level. Ha!  We're taller than you.

First published on vivalewes.com 13th February 2014: www.vivalewes.com