I would like to introduce you to my home town of Bridport in Devon, home of Bridport Beetroots, where I am head of IT, and the Euro-Abattoir, Europes largest meat processing and packaging facility. The town bustles with life, from early morning when the lowly prison workers head for the Meat Plant, or to Old Smokey – Bridports infamous prison ship and home to 113 of Britains most notorious prisoners. Generally the lowly workers who start so early wear smocks, topped with brightly coloured cravats and hand knitted straw hats and sport the traditional”full-bloom” a giant – sometimes ankle length beard. They often carry bundles of “lunch” wrapped in hankies on the end of sticks – and sport wooden shoes – known locally as Clags. Their horny feet clack across the cobbled streets from as early as 4.00 am when Old Smokey sounds its summons- breaking the curfew only 4 hours after the bell was rung! Those unable to find work for the day gather grunting and scratching outside the centres of the middle class, the arts centre, the museum, the brewery or the supermarket. By 7.00am the town is fully awake, from first light the eery howling of the nocturnal radioactive monkeys whose super intelligence is matched only by the ferocity of their hunting techniques has enlivened the dawn. A clutch of divorce lawyers may be seen travelling in convoy through the streets, their paunchy faces lit up by their fat cigars, or an Albanian Folkshow might be setting up outside one of the Pubs, The Kings Head or the Woodman – their players enjoying a breakfast pint. Small packs of feral dogs and their mysterious human leaders fade into obscurity during the day, as the industrious people of Bridport set about their work. In the so-called white collar departments of the Beetroot factory, the Amish like quality of working class life is abandoned – we are all perfectly modern, our abacuses click away and we use the computers that our emplyer has found abandoned on the beaches of Lyme Regis to their fullest !! The great steam engines of the “root mashers” pour out their detritus into the sky, and add to the purplish sheen which always hangs hereabouts. Others travel out of town – to be uranium handlers, garbage eaters and other locally favourite occupations as far afield as Poole, Lyme Regis, and Winfrith ! We are a cosmopolitan town. By mid- morning the “Mayor” will have begun his daily tour of the streets – as tradition demands always accompanied by two comely young maidens who he keeps warm and safe by hugging them constantly – tradition dictates their skimpy dress. He collects the so-called “tribute money” from every business with the warm greeting “Safe for another week!” As sweepers bow and scrape before him he always treats them to a warm rum, or a couple of uppers from his personal pot – never forgetting to squeeze the cheeks of small children – some of them don’t sit down for a week! Landlords from the busy taverns swill down their steps washing the vomit into the drains which run down the middle of each street, and as fires are lit, drugs exchanged, bread baked and stolen meat distributed all is noisy and smokey! A stocks stands at the junction of West Street and South Street – extra arm holes were added in the 90s to cope with the influx of “mutants” – usually some miscreant is held there for a day or two before either expiring or being transferred to Lyme Regis or Penzance for extra interrogation! On Magdalen Hill the Ladies of Magdalen are searching for an early morning punter – their thin white legs splayed according to Town Council rules, the so-called Chideok Convoy – starvelings who walk into town are often visitors! The doomed animals for the abbattoir arrive in truckloads through the day, the queue often extending for many miles as the blades chop and churn and the blood gullies fill! Similarly up the Hill towards Boon Aldestock beetroot lorries often driven by the farmers themselves sell their bounty at the factory gates.
The day in Bridport is not long – usually by 4ish the workers are all drunk and the night is coming with it attendant frolics (see Bridport Customs Explained) so we all head home. From my tiny bedsit in the shadow of the abattoir I like to watch the poor at play- ever ready to call out old Doctor Scrutcheon should there be a need. Evening are devoted to drinking, singing, fighting, attacking foreigners and crystal-meth, until the sounding of the Curfew at Midnight. Usually the Police catch someone out too late – beware women! if you are captured the Police enjoy the so-called Seigneurs Right to Spit Roast!
The needle-park rings out with the cries of addicts going cold turkey as they try to escape from the “trussings” arranged by the Bridport Police. As well as attacking foriegners, killing animals, imprisoning people and making beetroot products Bridport often hosts “Literary Festivals” Circuses, Travelling Orgies and the Like. It is a wonderful place to be and I invite you to visit us soon! Please see the pages on Bridport Customs Explained and consult a doctor for informatioon on vaccines, also see our sponsored links Bridport Hotels, Dining out In Bridport and The Bridport Literary Festival – coming soon!
