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.

Seasonal sport

The phone rings. It's mum. There's a low level of exasperation in her voice, which makes me wonder whether she's been visiting the garden centre that can't make a decent cappuccino. But this isn’t the problem. "I've been putting Vaseline on the pole", she announces. "It's not slippery enough." I'm pretty certain mum doesn't have a part-time job cleaning the fire station. I'm reasonably confident she's not adopted a new way of keeping fit. I don't remember seeing any so-called Gentleman's Club within walking distance of the family home. The awkward pause prompts my mother to explain. "Squirrels have been climbing up the bird feeder", she tells me. "I can't have them stealing all the bird food."

As a result, mum's garden is designed to be a rodent assault course. Bird feeders are mounted on greased poles or suspended from springy wires, with food hidden in double-layer cages under a metal dome. I'm not convinced by all this. I reckon there's a possibility that mum is inadvertently training the next generation of squirrels to be ninja-smart. It's certainly a sporting challenge for all concerned. I'll be studying their progress with interest.

Mind you, we've already had our share of genuine local sporting challenges this year. Although Rooks supporters are breathing a sigh of relief at the end of an occasionally stomach-churning football season, it's been a disappointing time for the faithful at Ringmer FC's Caburn ground. A troubled season ended with a disastrous 8-0 defeat that left the first team heading for a drop into Division 2 of the Sussex County Football League. Well, that's where they would be if the Sussex County Football League still existed. Instead, from the end of May, it's been transformed into the Southern Combination Football League. I'd be prepared to argue that it's not relegation if you're starting the next season in a brand-new league. Pioneers, not victims.

And some of our local footballers are sill playing. In fact, many of the youngest are preparing for a major tournament. It happens during the weekend of Sat 13 and Sun 14, it's hosted by the Ringmer Rovers Junior Football Club and it takes place on the well-appointed sports field of Ringmer Community College. Hundreds of visitors are expected for what's now the eighth annual Summer Football Festival. I'm told there will be tea, coffee, cake, ice creams and a barbecue... so everyone wins, I reckon. Alternatively, if you like outdoor sport but football's not really your game, Ringmer Cricket Club has an assortment of teams catering for various ages and abilities. Better still, the club’s picturesque home on the village green is enhanced by a pavilion that contains a bar. On a sunny afternoon, there's every chance I can be persuaded to enjoy a pint on their balcony. In pole position, you might say.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 105 June 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.

Disharmony in Ringmer

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

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

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

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

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 103 April 2015.

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.

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.

Shopping for the purr-fect present in Ringmer

“Mip” says Rupert the cat. “Mip, mip.” He’s speaking in Morse code, as usual. Harry, his companion and occasional sparring partner, joins in. “Marup, merup, morup.” I’ve no idea what Harry’s saying. Either Latin or Martian, I’d guess. He nibbles my ankle to encourage my translation efforts. Ah, yes. Time for cat dinner.

In recent years, the two cats that share our Ringmer home have increasingly been happy for me to prepare their food. Harry still occasionally makes a menu suggestion by carefully placing a fully-functioning mouse under the kitchen table, but he’s generally satisfied with a sachet of whatever’s on special offer. Their current food supply claims to be “independently taste tested by experts”, according to the box. I’ve had some bad jobs in my time but that really would top the list. Equally disturbingly, their biscuits are branded as “food cats would naturally choose”. Would my feline guests pop them in the shopping trolley if they had a chance – or would they rather be baking their own? Either way, I’m not convinced.

The ankle-biting is also a timely reminder that the boys will expect a Christmas present. Or, at least, will need a little distraction when the turkey’s being cooked. Local butcher Lew Howard has an ever-growing list of orders at this time of year but I’m not placing an extra one to please our cats. No, it’s off to The Pet Store, a.k.a. Creature Comforts.

That’s one of the great things about living in a village. Although you may not be able to get everything you need, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll have at least one specialist shop that puts many big-city rivals to shame. We have a wealth of such professionals in Ringmer, from home-based businesses to a warehouse or two. And right in the heart of the village, a pet shop with a dog grooming salon. Not merely a retailer but an entertainer. Watching an afghan hound being dried is more fun than most reality TV shows.

When I call in and ask about Christmas gifts, I’m told it’s dogs rather than cats that tend to receive most presents. Apparently this is because dog owners tend to indulge their pets more. I have my own theory. I reckon it’s about the animal’s sense of humour. Dogs like slapstick comedy, while cats prefer irony. You see, there are plenty of amusing dog gifts – clip-on antlers, knitted jumpers, chewy boxes, tinned Christmas dinner – but not so much for cats. I even wonder about buying them an automatic cat feeder before I realise I’d be rendering myself useless.

And then I spot an advent calendar with a catnip treat hidden behind each door. Next to it, a treat-filled fishnet stocking for December 25th. I buy both. Traditional and ironic. Let’s hope the joke is appreciated.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 99 December 2014.