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

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

A tale of two homes

I'm out for lunch with mum. As we walk into our chosen cafe, next to the bowling green by the retirement flats, I'm assailed by a high-pitched wailing sound. Mum appears not to have noticed. Initially I assume it's one of those mosquito-noise deterrents that only young people can hear. But, as we walk closer to the counter, the source becomes obvious. It's the whistling of several hearing aids, all generating feedback at high volume while their wearers remain oblivious.

We order food, I grit my teeth and we finish our meals, then I take mum home. When we arrive, she points out a patched-up hole in the garden fence. "I've put some food out for the rats", mum tells me. It's a military-grade euphemism that’s only a whisker away from saying she’d called in ground support with minimum collateral damage. These rats aren’t being given a picnic. They're being poisoned… and not in a nice way (if, indeed, it's possible to poison someone nicely). The anticoagulants in the bait mean their demise is not far removed from the scene in Live and Let Die where James Bond force-feeds Dr Kananga with a capsule of compressed air. Yes, I have a soft spot for rats. Mind you, I don’t have them living in my neighbour’s shed and popping round for breakfast.

I arrive back in Ringmer with a jar of mum’s home-made marmalade to distract me from my rodent worries. My wife likes neither rats nor marmalade. “I don't know how you can eat that stuff”, says Mrs B. “It's sweet. It's bitter. And it's got lumps of orange in it. That's my 'food hell'. I hate it so much, if I'm ever on Saturday Kitchen and I'm asked what food I can't bear, I'd have to choose something else. Perhaps mint sauce. I like mint sauce. They'd never find out, anyway.”

That evening we're sitting on the sofa, separated by the snoring form of Rupert the cat, whilst debating whether or not to watch a black comedy on television. I've voted against, on the grounds I don't want to see people die in faux-amusing ways. Mrs B calls me a sensitive soul, which somehow sounds like criticism. "They're not real people", she insists. "These are characters played by actors. No-one's really dying." Once again my compassion is in vain. After 15 minutes of the show, my wife turns to me. “You needn’t have worried. There’s no chance of you liking any of these people, is there?” She’s right, although it doesn’t help. If I like a character, I don't want to watch their comedic demise. If the characters aren't sympathetic, I'm not interested in watching them at all. In many ways life would be much easier if I could simply turn my hearing aid off.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 115 April 2016

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