Four of us went to Brighton today. A fabulous day: piercing blue sky and a blistering overhead Sun. So different to my last time there when everything seemed monochrome and flat; now it's lush and vibrant, paint fresh off the easel. Glowing
What happened on that hour long train? We boarded at Victoria, drummed through Sussex, and arrived in Nice, or that's how it seemed. The seafront could have been the Promenade des anglais: the strolling, the preening, the roller bladers, the cyclists, and the Sun, the Sun...
But it was n't Nice, it was triumphantly, riotously Brighton. Ten steps across the beach is ten steps across Copacabana beach, ten more steps Muscle Beach, another ten, it's Bondi, then Benidorm, further on Cannes. Brighton is our fusion beach city: from string bikini to burqa, from knotted handkerchief to turbans, from panama hat primness to funkily tattooed muscle men - all there. I loved it. I am an optimist, I firmly believe that we can all live together: London proves it, Brighton Beach proves it.
It felt European, the sensibility was European, it's moved on from the kiss me quick, deckchair angle, it's relaxed, fresh, open; almost like a bazaar with a twist of Marrakesh's colour and Rio's, well,...brio. Ethnic boutiques: Colombian, African, European. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
I fell asleep on the beach: the rhythm of the waves, the soft heat, the tang of the sea, like an anaesthetic. Surrounded by thousands, I love this feeling of community.
What happened on that hour long train? We boarded at Victoria, drummed through Sussex, and arrived in Nice, or that's how it seemed. The seafront could have been the Promenade des anglais: the strolling, the preening, the roller bladers, the cyclists, and the Sun, the Sun...
But it was n't Nice, it was triumphantly, riotously Brighton. Ten steps across the beach is ten steps across Copacabana beach, ten more steps Muscle Beach, another ten, it's Bondi, then Benidorm, further on Cannes. Brighton is our fusion beach city: from string bikini to burqa, from knotted handkerchief to turbans, from panama hat primness to funkily tattooed muscle men - all there. I loved it. I am an optimist, I firmly believe that we can all live together: London proves it, Brighton Beach proves it.
It felt European, the sensibility was European, it's moved on from the kiss me quick, deckchair angle, it's relaxed, fresh, open; almost like a bazaar with a twist of Marrakesh's colour and Rio's, well,...brio. Ethnic boutiques: Colombian, African, European. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
I fell asleep on the beach: the rhythm of the waves, the soft heat, the tang of the sea, like an anaesthetic. Surrounded by thousands, I love this feeling of community.
The town was full to the rafters, not just with beachhappy, carefree lazybones like us, there was a Gay Pride march in full swing. Felt like the Castro...and those two elderly leather clad biker clones we saw - they must have slow baked in the wilting Sun.
When that Sun starts to drop in Brighton, the Hen and Stag parties appear; I've never seen so many groups of women desperately trying to look unselfconscious in white leggings and fairy wings or bunny ears. First a handful flutter by, then a few more, growing and growing until there's almost a roost, twittering with their male opposites - the stag partiers, drunk, leering and wearing t-shirts with a photo of the bridegroom when he was six.
I've loved my day in Brighton.
When that Sun starts to drop in Brighton, the Hen and Stag parties appear; I've never seen so many groups of women desperately trying to look unselfconscious in white leggings and fairy wings or bunny ears. First a handful flutter by, then a few more, growing and growing until there's almost a roost, twittering with their male opposites - the stag partiers, drunk, leering and wearing t-shirts with a photo of the bridegroom when he was six.
I've loved my day in Brighton.
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