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

Searching for reality in Ringmer

When I was a child, I liked to read comics. They helped make me the person I am today. I learned dog-training from Dennis the Menace and Gnasher, I learned social interaction from the Bash Street Kids and I learned feminism from Pansy Potter, the Strongman's Daughter. But it was The Numskulls that made me question the very fabric of reality. In this cartoon strip, six tiny people lived inside a man's head, controlling his thoughts and his body. It's a concept that was refined by Pixar for last year's animated film Inside Out, which featured five colourful emotions inside the brain of an 11-year-old girl.

Whilst The Numskulls were never going to win points for biological accuracy, they certainly scored highly when it came to surrealism. Brainy - the leader, naturally - worked in a room with a teleprinter and a suggestion box. In the mouth, Alf and Fred (whose names sounded as old-fashioned to me as 'teleprinter' does today) would break up food with pickaxes. There was a Numskull behind the eyes, one for the ears and another for the nose. Fortunately, everything else seemed to take care of itself. As I grew older, I swapped my comics for science-fiction, where I discovered more simulated reality in the stories of Ray Bradbury and Philip K Dick, and in assorted films, from Tron to The Thirteenth Floor.

All this helps explain why I'll happily argue that time isn't necessarily linear (which means I'll never miss a deadline again) and colours only exist inside your brain (no more mismatched socks). You may disagree with me, of course. But it's unlikely you'd suggest sending me to the Ringmer Asylum. Back in the mid-19th century, that could have been a very real threat.

In 1829, a couple of years after the Royal Horse Artillery had vacated its Ringmer barracks, the buildings were turned into what was described as a lunatic asylum. It was privately owned, charging its patients the equivalent of 75p per week. Records show that 20 patients were there in 1830, with eleven being restrained during the day and six at night. (I’d like to think the night-time restraint was nothing more than a particularly heavy duvet, similar to the 16.5 tog behemoth that Mrs B uses to keep me subdued in the winter.) Over the next 25 years, the Commissioners in Lunacy reported that conditions improved and then declined. Eventually, in 1855, Ringmer Asylum closed when the proprietor died. Today, the cries of patients have been replaced by barking, as some of those former barracks buildings are now kennels for the Southdown & Eridge Hunt. Mind you, I reckon I could probably stop the barking quite easily. If those hounds ever gneed extra training, I have gnumerous tips from a gnotable source.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 114 March 2016