Brighton

You can never go back, that’s what they say. You can never go back.

Well, I did go back and of course it’s true, although the clichéd sentiment should be changed to ‘you can never go back because it’ll be a lot shitter than you remember it and caked with dog poo’ just to clear up any misunderstanding.

Dog poo

In fact, dog poo is my overwhelming impression of Brighton. It seems that as a nation of dog lovers, the British have decided, quite without my input, to turn Brighton into the country’s dog toilet, like one of those inconveniently placed bins you get on country walks, which seem to be always placed at least a mile from where your dog actually drops a load – not that my dog ‘does it’s business’ on a walk, very much like it’s owner the dog prefers to go on home turf, which did raise my neighbours’ eyebrows, me squatting on the lawn, shaking like an old man trying to explain to a teenager why everything was better in his day.

History (sort of)

When I lived in Brighton a decade ago I don’t remember it being so chock full of K9 doo doo. It does however seems to have the same number of pretentious alternative lifestyle wankers who have hung around after they finished their degrees and decided that they will drop out of the mainstream by claiming benefits from the government and smoking stacks of dope.

Brighton appears to also have the same amount of dope dealers, and gay folk (being the gay capital of England, or Europe or something). There are far more foreign workers in Brighton now, but frankly it’s a relief to have these hard-workers replace all the fucking Aussies that dominated all the bars, restaurants and pubs, with their cheery ‘everything about Britian is shit, mate’ attitudes – nah, they’ve all pissed off elsewhere I assume, maybe Bognor, who knows?

Toffs

Brighton also has more toffs, which I believe is a result of the terrific improvements in public transport between London and Brighton (yeah right!) and the fact that a few D-grade celebs lived here once – anyone remember Zoe Balls? But then again Britain generally has more toffs now doesn’t it?  Or is it simply that for some horrific reason they’re no longer ashamed of their privileged interbred heritage.

Kemptown

Area of Brighton in which I live, Kemptown, is probably the most gay part of this increasingly popular seaside town. Kemptown has stacks to offer the visitor, a couple of crappy shops, a half decent pub, some shingled beach, mr whippy dog poo by the arseload and a church which is also a venue for gigs. As for what it has to offer the gay visitor, I really don’t know. My ‘live-in’ eligible lesbian seems to like it, but then she did live in Birmingham previously so anywhere would be an improvement. Maybe not Dagenham.

Dangers

They say that Brighton is an artsy town, stack full of artists, writers, musicians, thinkers, lazy bastards, smelly bastards, drunken violent bastards and old Scottish gentlemen who frequently sit on the bench opposite Brighton Pavilion growling at passersby and occasionally standing to either relieve themselves or to inexplicably shake one another’s free hand, the other hand clenched with a teenage masturbators grip around a can of whatever will get them the most blind. 

Booze appears to be the main pastime of the average visitor to Brighton, along with gay-love of course. The two top the chart of the main reasons for visits to the casualty department, conveniently located in Kemptown (convenient to Kemptowners but not convenient to anyone else as the town centre is a good 20 minute walk). Alcohol related incidents and over use of ‘poppers’ for loosening up see many folk enjoying a 4 or 5 hour wait for treatment or an overnight stay if you’ve really pushed the boat out.

Places to eat 

I dunno, you can get a pizza or go to McDonalds. I like Thai food if it’s my choice.

Must visit

London, yeah, I’d suggest getting the train to London. Only 50 minutes from Brighton station to London Bridge, which in fact will be the part basis for my next thrilling travel blog.