Fleshing it out

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

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

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

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 125 February 2017

When Worlds Collide

Given the large number of science fiction books I’ve read and the equally large number of sci-fi films I’ve seen, I always thought I'd be ready for a dystopian future. I knew exactly what I’d do if I found myself in the radiation-riddled ruins of Ringmer. My first stop would be the village shops, where I’d stock up with cake, award-winning sausages, bottled beer and a lamb dhansak, whilst avoiding any zombies lurking outside. I’d run across the road in sudden short bursts to confuse the killer robots. I’d build decoy bonfires to distract the heat-seeking alien predators. And, although an autonomous drone might not understand the tradition of religious sanctuary, the thick walls of St Mary’s church would prevent such a device from detecting me if I hid inside.

Next would come the resistance. If I wasn’t able to stow away on a rebel spacecraft, I’d stay in the village and start illicit radio broadcasts. ‘Free Radio Ringmer’ would offer post-apocalyptic news, anti-government satire and squirrel-based cookery tips. Naturally, we’d also jam state-sponsored TV propaganda with our programmes. Our secret headquarters – you won’t tell anyone, will you? – would be the football club bar. Not only is it close to the chemist for emergency medical supplies but the pitch could serve as a helicopter landing pad when we needed to evacuate.

But things haven’t worked out as I’d planned. Instead of malevolent computers and shape-shifting time travellers, 2016 gave us post-truth politics and Alan Rickman's funeral. Unbelievable.

Actually, the unbelievability of the past 12 months is further cause for concern. A number of scientists have suggested that we’re all living in some kind of virtual reality, a little bit like the citizens of The Matrix before they’re rescued and unplugged. The more I think about it, the more this makes sense. Although I don’t have any experience of creating artificial life, I did once have a model railway… and that’s very similar. When you’re a child with a model railway, you spend every penny of your pocket money on the contents of the Hornby catalogue. First comes a village halt with a siding. Next, a mainline station. You want a post office, some fields with livestock, a coal yard, a red telephone box, some weird spongy bushes and a level crossing. Essentially, you want at least one of everything.

Disconcertingly, Ringmer seems to have been constructed in the same over-enthusiastic way. We have butcher, baker, pet shop and pub – and another pub. And another. Village green with cricket club. Football club, too. Multiple industrial estates. A pond with a heron standing next to it. Schools. An electricity sub-station. Allotments. A petrol station. Even a farm with sheep and cows. That’s what really started me thinking about the reality of my current situation. I’ve not checked yet but I wouldn’t be surprised if the grass in the fields is stuck on with wallpaper paste.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 124 January 2017

My own Scandinavian drama

It's Saturday morning. I've fed the cats downstairs and have returned to the bedroom with cups of tea for me and Mrs B. "We could get the Nordic look", she says, unexpectedly. She's checking email in bed on her iPhone, which is wrong on any number of levels. "What's the Nordic look?", I ask. "Hang on", she replies, "I'm just about to find out". There's a pause while my wife taps her phone. "It's furniture like IKEA", she tells me, "but from M&S". I'm relieved. "We've already got the look", I say. Our tall, thin bathroom cabinet is actually an IKEA CD rack, although I'd not previously realised this meant we owned a Scandinavian-style bathroom. In case you're wondering, the height of a toilet roll is remarkably similar to the height of a CD case. Not only do they fit perfectly, I'm the only person in the house who can reach the emergency supply on the top shelf. My wife is not convinced. "No, we haven't. It's sofas. That one I liked has been reduced." I'm relieved again. We have a total of three sofas. The house is full, as far as I'm concerned. Still, I'm sensing a trap. "Are we short of sofas?" There's an exasperated sigh as my wife shows me the screen of her phone. "That's nice", I tell her, before using the emergency phrase I keep ready for all design-related concerns. "Very on-trend for the season."

Traditionally this is the time of year in which I rail against the ever-extending commercial Christmas period. (My mother's preferred garden centre started putting its decorations up at the end of September, barely beyond the last few days of summer.) However, this year I have a new target for my protests. It's hygge, which most so-called lifestyle magazines tell me is the Danish word for cosiness, as though we Brits aren't capable of understanding the concept without a bit of cultural appropriation. Surely that's an over-simplification, otherwise my comfy cardigan and fleecy slippers would make me a fashion icon – and that, frankly, is implausible. I needed an authentic Danish perspective on the subject, so I asked Copenhagen-born comedian Sandi Toksvig OBE what she thought about hygge. Well, I didn't so much 'ask' as watch a recent episode of QI on television, in which she offered an explanation. Her lengthy definition was "to get together with your friends usually in candlelight and to feel really mellow and enjoy yourself and in general that involves alcohol". It all sounds very appealing, yet it also sounds familiar. Friends, beer, relaxing, candles, no mention of the internet or TV... oh yes. It's not a traditional Danish custom after all. This is exactly what tends to happen in Ringmer when there's a power cut for more than 30 minutes. If only we had a decent sofa to snuggle on.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 123 December 2016

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

Eel meat again?

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

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

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

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 121 October 2016

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

Animal crackers

One of my mother’s friends turns the television off whenever Springwatch is broadcast because there's too much sex and death in each programme. (I imagine she isn't watching the BBC’s new drama Versailles either, for the same reasons.) I also find the natural world is often a sad place, but my chosen solution is to crack inappropriate jokes. With that in mind, here are a couple of true tales about creatures I’ve encountered locally.

My most recent brush with nature in Ringmer happened when I was driving over the hill to Glynde on Tuesday. A young pheasant wandered out from the undergrowth and turned to face me with what I assumed to be a puzzled expression. Fortunately there was time for me to brake and steer round it. They’re not clever birds, are they? Mind you, their lack of depth perception doesn’t do them any favours. I wonder how long it’ll be before pheasants start to evolve with large forward-facing eyes, like owls or tarsiers. Until then, the idea of people hunting them with guns seems mismatched. May I propose a more evenly-balanced form of pheasant-based sport, in which the hunters stand on the bonnet of a moving Land Rover with a Victorian butterfly net? Rather like fly fishing, you could release the creatures afterwards. They might even learn from their experience.

If you prefer your animals to be more closely managed, I’d recommend a visit to Raystede, the rescue centre on the edge of Ringmer. I have a soft spot for Raystede. Well, they cooked my dog a few years ago. You may prefer 'cremated' but I need that dark humour to deflect the realities of life and its apparently inevitable end. Ringo was a dear little Jack Russell terrier, crisped up after nineteen glorious years and sprinkled on the South Downs. Joking apart – which is rare for me – the whole distressing affair was handled very sensitively.

I'm not a dog owner these days. Neither am I a cat owner, although I am a cat feeder. And something of a drug dealer as far as my feline friend Rupert is concerned; he's been prescribed furosemide and benazepril hydrochloride to help with his dodgy heart, which involves me wrapping each tablet in a tiny parcel of ham to make it more palatable. Not so much a cocktail of drugs, more a medicated amuse-bouche.

But now I must take you back to my car journey. Returning down the road from Glynde, there was no sign of the young pheasant I’d avoided. Instead, I noticed a couple of magpies on the road. Could this be an omen of good luck, I wondered. Then I saw they were paying great attention to a pheasant-shaped stain on the tarmac. Someone’s not been so lucky. But look on the bright side, I told myself. That might not have been the pheasant I originally saw. It could have been its flat-mate.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 119 August 2016