Category Archives: Brighton

It’s getting colder, I tell X, but it’s a different cold here, a friendlier cold, tinged with the sea air from the south. Things are friendlier here, I say, even the cold. Aren’t you glad I brought you here? But he doesn’t answer.

In Brighton the buses have happy slogans and pictures of people smiling and waving. Quick, says X as one roars up the street, now’s your chance, jump. But it passes us, it’s too late.

Pat Metheny on a Sunday afternoon, an Indian summer breeze coming in from the sea through the windows, moving the curtains. The odd cloud, swirling seagulls. Bright reflections and shadows falling at interesting angles. The light’s different here, X and I agree as we look over the rooftops and drink our cold white wine. Brighter, friendlier.

X and I are walking down Western Road on a Friday night, past the pint-drinkers, past the outdoor diners, side by side, looking the pretty girls in the eye and feeling let down when they look away and pass us. We don’t want them anyway, we agree, and have to laugh at each other, laugh with all the others, laugh at everything, laugh the risus purus all down Western Road, in the soft evening breeze, all the way home, where we know a bottle is waiting for us.

This town’s out of reach, X and I agree, we more or less accepted that when we arrived. But it’s there, it’s definitely there, and we made it there, more or less, and that’s what matters, we agree. There are things to be glad about now and then, we agree, even proud of. Don’t get carried away, he tells me, it’s only a house move.

This town’s out of reach, X and I agree, we more or less accepted that when we arrived. But it’s there, it’s definitely there, and we made it there, more or less, and that’s what matters, we agree. There are things to be glad about now and then, we agree, even proud of. Don’t get carried away, he tells me, it’s only a house move.

Brighton seafront on a sunny bank holiday. What could be better? Conscience clean after a week of hard physical work. Pleasantly hungover, taking pictures of the ruined pier, listening to Morgan Geist, listening to Kelley Polar, listening to Michael Jackson. Remember moments like these, I tell X, these moments that approach joy, even ecstasy, they’re the ones you should be remembering, they’re the ones that almost make it worth it. As MJ rightly said, When the world is on your shoulder gotta straighten up your act and boogie down. If you can’t hang with the feeling then there ain’t no room for you in this town. Listen to MJ! I say. Straighten up your act and stop frowning for no reason, people don’t frown here, this is a happy town. This town can save us if we let it, I tell him, that’s why I brought you here, don’t you understand? He looks around gloomily, silent for once. Later he mutters, If we can’t be happy here we can’t be happy anywhere.

There’s such beauty in the world, I tell X, you wouldn’t believe it, wrapped up in yourself as you are. You have to get drunk to see it, I don’t. Okay, I’ll get you another pint while we wait for our laundry and you can help me contemplate the setting sun behind St Mary Magdalene’s spire, breathe in the sea air. Just be quiet for a second. This is a beautiful town, I tell him, can’t you see that? Tell you what, I’ll put Ali Farka Touré on the ipod and we can both have a little cry dreaming of the great man practising with his friends under a tree in a soft African breeze, would you like that? It’s getting cold, he tells me, I want to go home. Let’s get a bottle on the way back and have a quiet night in, he says.

Walking the streets of Brighton with X. It’s like walking with someone who keeps pushing you in the wrong direction. Always X and always this third anonymous man between us, or beside us, the more anonymous the more I try to locate him. Who are we to each other? I figured out what it is between us, X tells me. I’m the antithesis to your thesis. Or is it the other way around? What came first, the sickly chicken or the rotten egg? Why don’t you ever laugh at my jokes, he says, don’t you think I’m funny? Thesis, antithesis, synthesis, he says. So who’s our synthesis, what would such a creature look like? Is it the one you’re always mumbling to, he asks, the one you write your little notes to in your little book? Tell me, he says, then maybe we can talk together, fall on our knees together, in harmony, in synthesis. Whatever it takes, he says, I don’t care, I’ll do anything, I’m desperate. Can’t you feel it, he says, the desperation in the air? It’s coming from me, it’s all around me like a force field. Tell me, he says, you know everything about me, I know nothing about you. We’re stuck, they might as well have chained our ankles together, so what do you want to do about it? The point isn’t to understand, he says, the point is to change. Get with the programme, he says. This is a free-spirited town, people are happy here, there’s a holiday atmosphere, we can’t walk around scowling here. We need to step our game up, he says. Over to you, he says, the ball’s in your court. I’m waiting, give me something, for fuck’s sake.

Walking in Brighton with X, always with X. The streets slope sharply down towards the sea so that the sea looks like a wall of water at the bottom. The sea should give me a sense of freedom, says X, but it doesn’t, it’s like a wall, looming over us. We have to get closer, he says, let’s go down this street, we have to get closer so it flattens out, so we can see. I feel like I can’t breathe, he says. This is a free-spirited town, but not for us. Can you feel it, he says, this thing that looms over us? Look at you, he says, looking all calm, smiling at passersby, you don’t fool me, you’re as browbeaten as I am. Talk to me, he says, tell me all about it, there won’t be anything I haven’t felt, get it off your chest. We should talk more, he says, reach out and touch each other like in that old phone ad. No, not like that, he says, ow.