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.

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

Teach your children well

"You're this week's number one girl
But one girl will never do"

That’s part of the chorus to ‘This Week's Number One’, a song started but never quite finished in the 1980s by teenaged songwriter Mark Bridge. Yes, me. I’ll be honest, the title was a cynical attempt to increase potential sales. I imagined hordes of my pop-loving contemporaries walking into their local record shops and being given a copy of my single after saying “I'd like this week's number one, please”.

There are three points to be made here. Firstly, although it may have seemed unlikely at the time, I have subsequently become a professional writer and – thanks to this very column – can now describe myself as a published songwriter, too. (So ‘yah boo sucks’ to the kid who laughed at me back then, just in case he’s moved to Lewes.) And secondly, my younger self clearly didn't have a clue about real life, did he?

At this stage I’d like to cite Elton John's Part-Time Love and Stevie Wonder's Part-Time Lover to emphasise my third point. I have clearly been influenced by the songs of my youth. Educated by them, you might say. And I'm sure I'm not the only person with such influences. As I’ve grown older – and smarter, I hope – I’ve treated my entertainment as entertainment, not as a behavioural guide. Just as well, really, when you consider that I grew up with Benny Hill on prime-time television. Fortunately I preferred the work of Frank Sinatra, whose apparently effortless style involved him hitting each note a millisecond before it was too late, and Buddy Greco, a man who chuckled to himself like a naughty schoolboy during the introduction of almost every song. While my school friends adopted role models like surgeon Christiaan Barnard, a remarkable man who transplanted an extra ‘a’ into his first name to keep it working longer, I was endeavouring to model myself after musicians who didn’t take themselves seriously.

This irreverence has stayed with me. Fast-forward to the first time I heard Eminem’s The Marshall Mathers LP. I laughed out loud. As far as I'm concerned, the song Who Knew had the same shock-value humour as Julian Clary's ‘Norman Lamont’ line or Stan Boardman and the Fokke joke. (If I’ve lost you here, you’ll find the answers on YouTube. Please don’t look if you’re at work or before the children have gone to bed.)

However, amongst all the comedy and the deliberately offensive material there’s also important stuff to be learned from song lyrics. Take Anita Bell’s 1979 locally-inspired chart-topping song of female empowerment, for example. Backed by an electronic drum and the sound of chimes she repeats her upbeat message: You Can, Ringmer Belle.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 120 September 2016

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

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

Walking the clean streets of Ringmer

I look around the house for inspiration, ideally in the form of chocolate. There’s none to be found, just an enormous ball of purple tinfoil and an Easter egg-shaped piece of extruded plastic. Perhaps I should get out for a while. I’m motivated by last month's Viva Lewes interview with walk-inspired writer Iain Sinclair. He calls it psychogeography. Go for a walk, say what you see. Channelling a combination of Diogenes and Roy Walker – cultural references for everyone – I tie my bootlaces and stride onto the streets of Ringmer.

The topic for this month's magazine is on my mind. 'Keeping it clean'. I spot one of those red bins for dog waste. Have I ever seen anyone emptying one of them? I don’t think so. Can’t imagine that’s anyone’s dream job. Also keeping the village clean are Ringmer’s litter-picking volunteers. I’ve never seen them, either. When I was younger, comic books showed park-keepers using a spike on a stick to stab errant pieces of paper, usually with an amusing aside that involved puncturing bicycle tyres and footballs. Ah, the good old days, when chasing children with a spiky stick was perfectly acceptable.

Further down the road sits a row of recycling bins in the car park; the newspaper container is taped off like a crime zone. Aylesford Newsprint went into administration in February. Is it my fault for not recycling enough? Should I have claimed more free newspapers from Waitrose? A quick internet search on my phone tells me the company’s local MP blamed cheap Russian imports. I imagine old copies of Pravda being smuggled across the Kent coast.

Past the shops, where a plaque for ‘best kept village in all Sussex 1985’ is fixed to the wall. Thirty years on and we’re still looking pretty good, I think. Over the road and past the church. Cleanliness is next to godliness, so John Wesley preached. He had a very short dictionary. I keep walking onto a quiet country road, speckled with litter on the verge. An empty cigarette packet. A crisp packet. A flattened drink can. A broken car wheel trim. A half-deflated party balloon in the hedge, perhaps escaped from a car window. Curiously, all vaguely silver. Maybe I should bring a bin bag for my next walk? I already carry a reusable supermarket bag. Who recycles the bags, anyway?

There’s a hint of manure in the air as I turn to head home. Farmyard recycling, I imagine. A better solution than having a big red bin in the corner of your field. Past the water treatment works and more unsavoury recycling before I arrive home.

Harry the cat is asleep in the back yard, next to a recently-deceased rat. A clean kill. I go indoors, put my hand in an old carrier bag to pick up the rat, then drop it in the dustbin. It’s dirty work but someone’s got to do it.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 104 May 2015.