It’s a problem that often niggles away at me as I lie in bed trying to get to sleep. It was during one of these rather prolonged bouts of doubt and fear that the answer hit me. Yes, just like a thunderbolt it was.

Ever since Palmers (the, sadly, apostropheless brewers in our town) have stopped churning out the barrels of Bridport Bitter (our dear old friend BB) the summers have got absolutely lousy.

True we have had some nice springs and the recent glorious autumn heat wave but July and August have been wet, cold and miserable and the winters freezing. The fault, the whole fault and nothing but the fault can be placed fair and square at the door of the medicine makers at the top of West Bay Road.

'Medicine makers': Palmers Brewery, Bridport. Photograph by Stephen Wlliams, reused under Creative Commons Licence.

Why would they want to do that to us? With one slash of a pen they not only took away a nice drop of wallop but they condemned the whole nation of dreary summers. The dates of the two events match exactly so there’s wriggling out of their responsibilities.

They didn’t stop there.

Far from it. Not content with one act of sheer vandalism they set about creating absolute mayhem in the Middle East by renaming IPA Best bitter. Think about and you will see the absolute connection between that act of wanton distortion and the present troubles the world faces. Once again the dates prove it conclusively.

I had always thought of them as rather benign providers of the essentials of life. No, they seem to be hell-bent on bringing the world, as we know it, to its knees.

Enough is enough, I say. Come on Palmers, leave our beers alone. Let the world enjoy decent weather for a change and stick to doing what you do best, we would all really appreciate it.

Editor’s Note: The Red Bladder is a former national newspaper journalist (broadsheet and tabloid, since you ask). He also lurks at http://theredbladder.blogspot.com/

“Thinking.

“Below is the result”

IN THE total absence of anything interesting in my life I’ve been thinking about Bridport a bit.

This is the sum total of a whole summer’s cogitations.

Wasn’t worth the effort really!

If all the scaffolding poles used in Bridport this summer were laid end-to-end they would stretch from the Town Hall to the Kilt shop in Prague High Street.

Southern Gas Networks leave the barriers around what used to be their holes for weeks on end so that spotters can fill in their I-Spy Holes in the Road books. What a caring company.

Two pints of IPA and a glass of wine in West Bay cost the same as the annual gross national product of many African nations.

It is impossible for anyone on holiday in Dorset to be run over. Hence there is no need at all for them to look in any direction before stepping off the pavement.

The tunnels under the Town Hall would make the ideal site for the disposal of nuclear waste.

The easiest profits Gundry’s ever made were from their annual end-of-line clearance. It truly was money for old rope.

A recent local government conference was attended by 144 councillors from Dorset. Now there’s gross incompetence.

If the President of USA has to be born within that country couldn’t Bridport have a Mayor who could, at least, remember Fenwick’s and the West End Dairy?

There was a popular ditty a few years ago entitled Why does it always rain on me? Well, I’ve worked out the answer. Because you live in Broadwindsor, son.

Am I the only person to get incensed by the total absence of an apostrophe in the title of our local brewery?

The Red Bladder plans a new career helping the people of West Dorset.

WHEN you reach my age, time tends to hang a little heavily, the days pass and then merge into weeks and before you know it, it’s Christmas again and another year has gone by without the offer of a peerage.

So, I decided to find myself a little part time job. But doing what?

Then it hit me, just like a bolt out of the blue. I shall help to make West Dorset’s streets safe for the citizens of the area and perform a valuable public service as well as earning oodles of dosh and having loads of time off.

I plan to be a copper’s grass. Not, mind you, your ordinary run-of-the-mill sort of grass. No, that’s not for me. I intend to be a super grass.

Now I realise that, as in every career, I shall have to start off at the bottom and work my way up. I shall probably begin by tipping off the traffic wardens when a white Transit van blocks the traffic in East Street, that should be worth a fiver a throw.

Then I’ll work my way up. Snide notes, bank heists and Post Office blags will very quickly become the order of the day. You see – already I’ve studied the slang and would soon be able to chat away to a rozzer out of the corner of my mouth in a completely inconspicuous sort of a way.

It’s going to be nearly as good as winning the lottery. It’ll be a pony a time with the odd monkey as a bonus. Obviously many of you won’t understand all of this but, unlike me, you won’t be familiar with the argot of the underworld and my, soon to be, chums, the Peelers.

The only thing is I don’t know how to set about it.

At the minute I know no criminals and no policemen. But that’s not a problem, it’s an opportunity.

It will soon be sorted out. I suppose that if I drop into the cop shop they’ll give an application form. I reckon that I could soon rustle up something that looks like a reference from Mr Big and then it’ll be the gravy train for me.

So from now on watch out all you ne’er-do-wells, footpads and villains.

One word from The Red Bladder could earn you a hefty stretch of porridge.

Don’t ever say that you weren’t warned!

The Red Bladder is a former national newspaper journalist (tabloid and broadsheet).

Dorset County Council's newspaper Your Dorset. The Red Bladder questions its value at a time when the council is planning to cut £31 million.

SO, EVEN in these straitened times, Dorset County Council has still managed to bring us yet another edition of that little belter Your Dorset.

A 16-page, full-colour publication that unashamedly assures us that the council is constantly striving to make our lot a better one and glorifying in its own spectacular achievements in a way that would make even the Communist-era Pravda blush.

Self-gratifying, vainglorious and Panglossian are words that might spring to your mind when thumbing through its turgid prose but they are not ones that I would use to describe it – I would be a lot blunter.

It comes at a time when old Eric ‘give him the money Mable’ Pickles, our much-loved Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, keeps harping on about what a waste of money these ludicrous rags are.

After all they have to be written, designed, printed and then, probably most costly of all, distributed to every household in the county. None of that comes cheap.

Still the bigwigs in County Hall are facing tough decisions, burdens must be shouldered and the pain shared out.

So come on then lads, which is it to be, lollipop ladies guarding and protecting the children of the area or another batch of free lining for the bottoms of their hamster cages?

We know that you are all wonderful on the Council, we know that you labour tirelessly both night and day to improve our lot and we know that making cuts hurts you just as much as it hurts us.

So for pity’s sake stop telling us about it in expensive publications  and, just for once, face up to your proper responsibilities.

Editor’s Note: You can download a PDF of Your Dorset by clicking on this link – that is, if you never got your copy, or you’ve mislaid it, or you’re visiting from elsewhere and you’d like to assess it for yourself.

Your Dorset is written by the county council’s communications team, designed by Deep South Media of Bournemouth, printed by Newsquest in Weymouth, and distributed by the Royal Mail. The council says the cost is about 12 pence per copy.

So I gave it a try for myself last night. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or so I thought.

Anyway, blow me down; I was accosted in the George Hotel by a civic dignitary who made a grave accusation against my person. One that I know to be libellous and may well have been overheard by others, possibly of a nervous disposition.

It was the sort of thing that used to give ladies the vapours, frighten the children and alarm the horses.

“Are you,” he demanded “the Red Bladder?”

Now when a stranger asks you that it takes your breath away. Well it did mine. I explained that whilst I might have one I am merely a drunk of normal proportions and not an heroic one in the style of the person mentioned who stood back with a silly grin on a funereal face and watched me squirm with embarrassment.

Anyway my interlocutor wandered off in the manner of a man seeking votes and I was left telling the real Red Bladder that I found it a bit thick that I was left taking the blame without a single word of support.

Was there any sign of remorse from that quarter? Not a bit of it. The Bladder actually expects that people will approach the fool with the ludicrous expression “you are The Red Bladder and I claim the Real West Dorset reward of five pounds”. Self opinionated or what? Now there’s delusions of being Lobby Ludd.

As time went on I forgave old Bladder, as I always do, and we wandered into the square at midnight.

The excitement in the air was bit like a Boy Scouts’ jamboree, intense.

The atmosphere was friendly and there was lots of laughter about and, for once, very little of it was directed at my companion. That’s the usual effect on people, a single glance at that raddled fizzhog could make a statue grin.

All in all not a bad evening but, like many in my life, slightly spoiled by being in the company of The Red Bladder.

Photograph taken near West Milton in Dorset on 28 December, 2010.

Here’s a closer look.

Closer up view of object in the sky photographed near West Milton in Dorset on 28 December, 2010.

I have to say, I don’t think it’s a UFO – it must be the moon – but I’ve never seen it in quite this guise before.

The way Strauss (110), Cook (235NO) and Trott (135NO) batted they are almost up to the standard of the team I used to play for in the Crosby Cup.

Certainly each of them could earn a place in the Chideock Veterans XI any day of the week. Mind you, they were always one of the weaker sides in the competition.

INSPIRED by a recent mention on this site of the poet William Wordsworth, who lived at Racedown in the far west of Dorset in the mid-1790s, the Upper Marshwood Vale parish councillor and former Bridport News reporter Ali Cameron, got in touch.

“To the seriously important stuff - Bettiscombe and daffodils,” he wrote – and he sent photographs.        

“This is my patch and from the Marshwood ridge we can see the lane from Horse Mill Cross past the Rowe’s fields and Waterhouse farm and on into Bettiscombe.

“Drifts of daffodils follow the field side of the hedges along the lane as well as down the small streams that trickle from under Pilsdon and eventually form the Char.

“These tinge the fields giving them yellow shadows.

“But the most spectacular occurrence of daffodils is to the south end of Bettiscombe… a small bank which annually turns to gold. Not the end of a rainbow but the smallest and most beautifully formed outcrop of daffodils, this is the Vale at its best…”

He hasn’t got any pictures of this bank, unfortunately. Nor have I.

It’s this bank of wild daffodils I remember once being shown by the poet James Crowden. It was a spectacular sight. Even if either of us did have pictures, they wouldn’t do it justice. (But next year perhaps, if I can find it again, I might try.)

Anyway my mind strayed from that august body and homed in, like a guided missile, on David Cameron, Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, as it would of course.

The news, that in these straitened times, when we’ve all got to share the pain and take a bit of a knock in the pocket, the news that Big Dave has appointed his own photographer, one Andrew Parsons, who will get his bunts out of the public purse, came as a bit of a stunner to me.

Adolf Hitler, a man who has not been generally held in high regard of late, also had his own photographer, a chap named Heinrich Hoffman. It was through his smudge boy that old Adolf met his own little Eva, not the one that sang The Locomotion, of course, but the one who joined the old reprobate in the bunker.

That, unerringly, led me to wonder if any members of our assembly of buffoons in the town hall might be considering a similar move, simply to assure their rightful place in history of course.

Well there might be one. A person not exactly averse to a bit of the old publicity, who has a head jam-packed with quotes just waiting to be popped out at the opening of a notepad and sharpening of a pencil.

Now I am not for one moment suggesting the leaders of our fair town have secret plans to start burning books, holding torchlight processions in months other than August or marching on Poland. Heaven forbid – they’d never be up to any of it!

Still this desire to see one’s own image reproduced everywhere often ends in tears.

It starts with trying to get yourself in the local press and before you know it, you’re claiming that the peoples of Chideock are Bridportians at heart and then holding an anschluss. Let’s not go there councillors, the quiet life is best I always find.

The only Weymouth man to become Lord Mayor of London told 187 members of the society at the annual County Dinner, held at Sherborne School: “I’ve now been President for 28 years and I have decided this is my last year.

“This is a great society, one of the very best county societies in the country.

“However, I will continue to give the Society my full support.”

Chairman Stuart Adam expressed members’ thanks to Sir Anthony.

He said: “You, my father Roy Adam and Gordon Hine have transformed the Society of Dorset Men into a very successful organisation.

“We thank you sincerely for your hard work and commitment to our Society, you will be sorely missed as our President.”

Members then stood to drink to the health of Sir Anthony and Lady Jolliffe.

The President of the Society of Dorset Men with his principal guests, before the County Dinner at Sherborne School.

Pictured above, from left to right: Gay Mole, Captain Peter Mole, Fran Leaper, Professor David Leaper MD ChM FRCS FACS FLS, Sophie Palmer, Hon. Tim Palmer [HM High Sheriff of Dorset,] Emma Jolliffe, Sir Anthony Jolliffe GBE DL DSc [President of the Society of Dorset Men,] Lady Georgina Jolliffe, Stuart Adam [Chairman of the Society of Dorset Men.] Photograph by Michel Hooper-Immins.

Message from The Queen

The County Dinner began with the traditional message from The Queen.

“Her Majesty sends her best wishes to all concerned for a most enjoyable gathering,” wrote HM Private Secretary.

Speech by High Sheriff Tim Palmer

Principal guest speaker The Hon. Tim Palmer, HM High Sheriff of Dorset, began by remembering the late David Woodhouse, a Deputy President of the Society, who had nominated him three years ago.

“Being High Sheriff takes you to all four corners of the county and beyond. I have discovered that there are a huge number of volunteers who keep the communities of this great county going.

Vikings

“The first High Sheriff of Dorset had his head chopped-off by the Vikings, but fortunately we live in more enlightened times,” he went on.

“The last Government was planning to abolish the shrievalty, but it never happened. High Sheriffs used to exercise great power in the county. They have always been associated with law and order; my predecessors had to stand witness at executions. Indeed, the rope for all English hangings was made at Bridport.

Libraries

“One of the modern duties of High Sheriffs is to get to know the volunteers of Dorset. There’s lots of talk these days about the ‘Big Society,’ but the fact is that it’s already happening in Dorset.

“A third of the county’s population are volunteers for some cause and I have seen some outstanding examples as I travel around Dorset, whose people are ever ready to support their communities.

“For example, the libraries of tomorrow will almost certainly be run by local volunteers. Dorset people know what it is to look after their neighbours,” concluded The Hon. Tim Palmer.

Gavin Henson

Weymouth Harbourmaster Captain Peter Mole, who grew up in the resort, talked of his interesting role in running one of the South Coast’s most historic ports.

He felt much at home back in Weymouth, enjoying meeting the sailors and yachtsmen, including Wales rugby international Gavin Henson, whose yacht was berthed in the harbour.

Martinstown vineyard

Surgeon Professor David Leaper spoke about his happy experiences of being in Dorset for seven years. Revealing he owned a vineyard in Martinstown, he had developed a love for Dorset.

Sir Anthony Jolliffe presented the Bryan Challis Cup for recruiting most members to Chairman Stuart Adam and the Hambro Golf Cup to Secretary Hayne Russell. The President closed the evening by thanking Stuart Adam for taking-on the Chairman’s mantle from his father.

“What a fantastic evening,” said Sir Anthony Jolliffe, “and we are grateful to Hayne and Pat Russell for all their sustained hard work on organising this and other Society functions.”

Master of Ceremonies Colin Fry, from Lyme Regis, donated his fee to the Youth Cancer Trust.