Prawn Cocktail – soggy prawns, probably defrosted under a worn tap, gloopy-snot sauce, limp lettuce

Garlic Mushrooms – floating in vegetable oil, like turds in the med.

Pizza -  half a pound of dehomoginised economy cheddar saturating the dough with oil

And best of all the waiter strutted around with a 24 inch pepper grinder.

The only contemporary touch was the Eastern European waiting staff. Very now.

So, are the management wittily tipping a wink at 1980s Italian diners or just lazy? Do they not know that Jamie Oliver has opened up around the corner. There was a time when going out for a meal could mean getting a Wimpy burger. Blue Nun used to be posh. They used to mime on the Radio One roadshows. Times change, we are all getting a bit more sophisticated. No? Actually, I shouldn’t grumble – it was really cheap.

Firstly, at the start of this week,  a freecycle splinter group was formed GreenCycleSussex . This is the moderators from Brighton Freecycle going it alone.

Then, some dude called Larry informed me that the original freecycle group is still going.

So, who, what, why?

It is all a big ego thing, everyone wants to be the boss, make the decisions. And just like the way fractured oppostion allowed Hitler to rise up and be naughty, the only loser will be the cause.

Or in a less dramatic analogy it is like when all the members of Boyzone launched solo careers. The only people to lose out were the fans. So, who is to be the Ronan Keating of the freecycle world?

And why is there a squabble over the use of the name “Freecycle” ? Does Al Gore object to the use by other of of “Global Warming” and “Carbon Footprint”? You can read some petty nonsense here

While the freecycle civil war rages, I suggest you just use Gumtree instead. (It works better anyway)

It feels rather bizarre cooping onself in the dingey confines of the Arc on a grey afternoon to watch bands, at least at most other festivals you’re in a field, here you’re where you would be on a Thursday night, except not drunk and – in my case – clutching a much needed coffee.  Well, this was all worthwhile because what I was watching was Canadian Blast, a showcase of some of the finest bands Canada has to offer.

The afternoon began with Dan Mangan, a really emotive, gruff voiced singer – who can switch to soft and fragile with ease – he instantly charmed the audience and led them all in a sing/stomp/clap along as he roamed unplugged through the crowd, singing ‘Robots need love too!’  The perfect start to the day.  He was followed by the hugely energetic Ultimate Power Duo, who, at first, channeled early Weezer and Green Day before displaying much needed classic rock licks laced with self-knowing, irony – but never less than ‘awesome’.  Particualr highlights being their song about a time-travelling serial killer; ‘It’s like Groundhog Day meets, er, Silence of the Lambs.’ and the genius track Cone of Silence that has to be seen live to be believed.

Up next was Hey Rosetta who craft lush country tunes, that seem to embody (in music) the great vistas that Canada surely offers.  Beautiful, passionate and rich.  After that came the rock bravado of Arkells, who seem to start where Kings of Leon leave off and – despite the early time – whipped the audience up into a sweaty, sing-a-long frenzy.  Closing the showcase was Ohbijou, a stage-filling act with violion, cello, a humongous (almost disastrously balanced) piano and much more; they, like Hey Rosetta, make a beautiful sound, though there’s is somewhat more twee and mystical.

After seeking out lunch I made my way to Salis Benney theatre to catch The Veils, who delivered a blistering if troubling set.  The lead singer is balanced somewhere between Nick Cave and Jeff Buckley and seemed on the verge of an emotional collapse throughout the impressive set, his voice was powerful and dramatic, but his eyes seemed full of genuine anguish that at times I just wanted to get up on stage and ask if everything was ok!

Micachu and the Shapes followed and were a stark contrast, which may have explained the frustratingly chatter-filled reception they received from the crowd (most of whom seemed to have just turned up ridiculously early for British Sea Power).  Despite this I found their set to be lively, fun and one of the most striking acts so far of the festival, a true 21st century junk shop band using tin can and bottles as percussion mixed with laptops and skittering, stop-start wonky guitars and erratic drumming.  Brilliant!

I then made a dash for Volks, eagerly anticipating Connan Mockasin.  Fortunately I was early enough to catch half of Meme Love’s set, and was treated to swoonsome, smart songs about broken hearts and romance; the lead singer’s vocals were particularly heart-aching, both sweet, giddy and innocent whilst laced with sadness and regret.

Connan Mockasin took to the stage, clad primarily in red, and launching into a helium-voiced, rickety showcase of his unique, bonkers pop.  Songs such as Sneaky, Sneaky Dogfriend, Egon Hosford and his awesome cover of The Teenagers Starlet Johansen went down extremely well with the audience and I can’t wait for the eventual release of his debut LP.  He was joined, for his last song, by the next act – Liam Finn, who then kept Connan around as he quickly began his own set.

Finn breaks the curse of sons in their fathers shadow by being, in my humble opinion, a heck of a lot better than Neil Finn.  This set was particularly impressive with Finn using loop pedals to create a cacophonous noise accompanied only by a backing vocalist and – occasionally – Connan Mockasin (also on vocals).  A particular standout was Second Chance that lurched towards a tremendous finale with Finn layering guitar upon guitar and pummeling the drums like a man possessed.

It’s funny sometimes what you end up accidentally watching, and this was proved twofold tonight.  Firstly I mis-read the festival guide and ended up in Coalition when I wanted to be in the Basement, this meant I got to see the end of The Charlatans set, and they were finishing off one track before a crowd-pleasing rendition of North Country Boy.  I then dashed to my initially intended location and got to hear – from outside the stage room – Elizabeth’s final song, and though I liked what I heard I can’t quite remember it enough to describe it.

The second instance of strange accidental viewing was in who I had gone to see at the Basement, there was something oddly familar about the name Mike Bones - though I couldn’t place it, until half-way through his set when I recognised the song and remembered the music video I had seen and the feelings of not-very-impressed I had felt at the time.  Fortunately, live Bones comes across far better than he did on Youtube, with the Bob Dylan-sound to his vocals standing out over the Lou Reed-like lyrics telling slightly seedy tales of New York life.  His set was crowd-pleasing, grimy and entertaining.

Alas, due to commitments that I have to wake up for I had to call it a night, but feel that I really got to see an interesting cross-section of music tonight and eagerly await tomorrow, which, I think, will involve a lot of running around…

There was a girl at a party in Bevendean. She was beautiful. I noticed her talking to some people on the other side of the room. After an hour or so of preparation I made my move. Assuming the guise of a normal person I casually strolled past, pausing at the sink. Then, whilst casually staring at a nearby kitchen utensil, I pricked up my ears. The purpose of my plan was to merely hear her speak. I was curious to hear what she sounded like. I was hoping, perhaps, to overhear the tail-end of some charming anecdote – or at least catch a snippet of whatever mellifluous sounds were blossoming from her perfect little mouth.

“When I’m in Primark I literally go insane.”

A second later I had run away. She had blurted it out with a kind of giggling gusto that appalled me. It sounded like a punchline to a joke, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. I tried for a while to think of what build-up such a joke would require, but I was stumped. Something about a massacre in a mall perhaps? I realised it wasn’t a joke, just a banal comment about shopping. The inanity of it depressed me threefold. Not only does this beautiful creature shop at Primark, she feels the need to talk about it at parties – and also gets so excited by said department store that she actually has a psychotic episode.

 a semi-corrupt quasi-fascistic system of linguistic repression is preferable to overhearing pretty girls talking crap about Primarks

But, of course, she didn’t mean it. Not literally. Presumably she meant: “When I’m in Primark I get somewhat enthusiastic about the prospect of purchasing clothes”. Phrasing it like that, however, would have merely compounded the utter naffness of what she was saying. So instead, this milky-skinned princess decided to pep it up a little by comparing her Primark-induced experiences with the onset of mental illness. Fair enough, compare high-street shopping with madness if you must – perhaps there’s a kind of political subtext lurking in there. But it was the word ‘literally’ that bugged me most. She could have settled for ‘virtually’ or even ‘almost’, but no, she had to insist on going all the way with ‘literally’. This golden-haired goddess thus overstepped the mark, and, in addition to labelling herself a shopoholic nutter, had succeeded with a mere eight words to say something equally inane, untrue AND naff. Needless to say, I lost interest at that point.

I only care because using words inappropriately means you’ll run out of decent ones when you really need them. If you call your mate a cunt for eating your Frazzles, what are you gonna call him when he fucks your girlfriend? It’s akin to the way horror films need to be more gory than the last to elicit any response from our cynical psyches – like notching up the voltage up on an EST machine. But horror films are nothing compared to nightmares. All the stuff that frightens you in real life is in there, all mixed up, which makes it even more fucking scary. Like just when you’re being chased by a manic killer, suddenly there’s your mother being shafted by an alien with an elderly, diseased version of your own face. With that in mind, would you care to rephrase your anecdote about not being able to find somewhere to park?

“It was a total nightmare!”

Was it? Is the fact you missed the train to London really comparable to the terrifying twisted imagery of a subconscious mind that is able to shit you up precisely because it KNOWS YOUR EVERY FEAR?

At least rappers and chavs have the audacity to make up words when they need them. It seems to work quite well up until the point where everyone else catches on and starts trying to sound ironically cool. However, not only do they supply the rest of us with a fresh stream of words, they also serve to resuscitate old ones (like bad, wicked, sick, etc). This is a fascinating but little-known scientific law. When enough rappers invert the meaning of a word for long enough, it is pushed in the opposite direction, undoing the effects of its prior exaggeration, thus leaving it fit for use once more. At which point the rapper will move on to something else, having performed his civic duty.

But it’s not enough. Language shouldn’t be bastardised in the first place, let alone de-bastardised. To rectify this problem I have taken it upon myself to devise a meritocratic system of language redistribution, which works as follows.

Every few years the Post Office will issue everyone on the electoral roll with a ‘permit to speak’. Those who have suffered genuinely traumatic experiences would be allocated a certain quota of suitably extreme words which could be used at their discretion – like high-scoring Scrabble letters. And vice versa. Thus someone who had lost their family in a shipping accident and been stranded on a barren island for a decade would be awarded 800 uses of ‘terrible’, ‘drowning’, ‘crazed despair’ and ‘aching loneliness’. Conversely, someone who mislaid their car keys for half an hour would get two ‘peeved’ and one ‘mild frustration’.

In addition, to ensure the permits were not abused, a small fine would be incurred if the survivor of the shipwreck ever spoke of their ‘crazed despair’ upon realising they had been overcharged for a carton of soup or that they’d left their scarf at the dentist. There are other foreseeable problems, of course, such as the likelihood that some of the more potent adjectives would find their way onto the black market. But even a semi-corrupt quasi-fascistic system of linguistic repression is preferable to overhearing pretty girls talking crap about Primarks.

26 Windsor Street, Brighton

The perfect vegetarian Sunday lunch is a hard thing to achieve, but it seems the Earth and Stars have come incredibly close.  Plumping for a vegbox pie which arrived like a fortified castle, surrounded by seven different seasonal vegetables and drowned, generously in gravy, it was – on looks alone – delicious!  Foruntately apperances weren’t deceptive.  The pie itself combined hummous, olives and tomato into something a little different to the usual Sunday fare (as I ordered at the bar I glimpsed a few of the meaty dishes passing me by, and even I couldn’t help but lick my lips).  With roast potato, brocolli, carrots, red cabbage and the ingenious addition of parsnip crisps this little banquet was quickly wolfed down, but filled me up for the rest of the day!  Afterwards I lounged about with a few pints of Old Rosie from the excellent range of drinks on offer and finished my idyllic Sunday filling out a crossword with friends.

The Earth and Stars food menu is put together by the same lot responsible for the Mash Tun’s grub (1 Church Street, Brighton, East Sussex, BN1 1UE) and sets the bar very high.  I imagine I’ll be spending a fair few Sundays camped out here, and I’m eager to see what else they have to offer.  This was the perfect way to treat myself on my first weekend living in Brighton, hugely recommended!

The Earth and Stars
26 Windsor Street, Brighton, East Sussex, BN1 1RJ
0871 917 0007

It had been building for some time, but it really came into focus one Sunday afternoon as I sat reading the Observer magazine in a moment of post-log-off relaxation. In it, Steve Coogan was pictured drinking tea from a polystyrene cup in the middle of a road, the inference being that this represented a moment of singular focus in his otherwise crazed existence.

That was when I realised that, despite being three paragraphs in, I had no idea what Coogan was doing in the road, nor what was being hawked through the pages. Moreover, I realised that I simply didn’t care. I gathered myself, folded the magazine and binned it. I had no opinion on the matter.

When was the last time you found yourself blah-blahing on about last night’s television, the new Batman, the sobriety of Amy bloody Winehouse, the overness or otherwise of Converse shoes, the Caucasus or the global recession with the words: “I really have no opinion about that.”

Know your place
Unless you’re a TV executive, Heath Ledger’s mum, Amy Winehouse’s dad, a ‘cool-hunter’ or cartographer, what you think means zero – at best. You may be affected by the economic nosedive but any thoughts you have are unlikely to filter through to the US Treasury and the World Bank and expose you as some kind of fiscal messiah.

But wait! The irrelevance of your opinions on this and just about every other subject is not a cause for despondency. Losing your opinions will, in fact, set you free.

Pushkin, in his epic Eugene Onegin – which, to be frank, I have no thoughts on one way or the other – gave his feckless protagonist the highest praise in describing him as “disburdened of the world’s opinions”. And the relentless pushing of a thousand issues which have no importance is enough to make Pushkin’s world seem almost attractive, where only earth-shattering news made it to the dinner table thanks to hopeless infrastructure and newsprint made from potatoes.

The hell of rolling news
Like a lot of Bad Things, the effluent we’re asked to care about on a daily basis can be traced back to 11 September, 2001. Before that, rolling news was just something braying futures brokers and other news journalists watched. Sure, like kids watching an illicit horror movie that both thrills and disturbs, we stayed up late the first time around to watch Baghdad get greased live on CNN. But it was those 9/11 boys that really turned us into fodder for the news networks.

The dread phrase “a report out today…” began to head up stories as pressure groups and think-tank briefings replaced journalism in the slog to fill endless schedules. And then, and this is the real crack cocaine of the news world, some shark fresh out of telly school came up with the idea of “interactivity” or worse “citizen journalism” and the phrase “let us know what you think” made it a crime not to care about school league tables, Andrea Corr’s rectal reconstruction, or whether plastic carrier bags account for 1% or 0.7% of landfill sites.

Along the way to losing your opinion on these trivialities, you’ll notice just how much of your brain-space is taken up with the gestation of pointless factuality and the dissemination of little bits of unwisdom through countless lift conversations and phatic communion grown from a sense of duty rather than a willingness to engage. You’d better prepare to fill up that vast Serengeti of consciousness with something useful (not this article): nature abhors a vacuum and will fill it with wibbling madness and venal obsession if you drop your guard.

The irrelevance of your opinions on just about every subject is not a cause for despondency. Losing your opinions will, in fact, set you free

Road less travelled
This is a dangerous path, and one that will surely set you apart from your fellow man.
There’s a vast difference between ditching the intellectual junk-food and becoming totally disengaged from the world. It’s true, there are those who have done so and have gone on to become high achievers: they’re called ‘sociopaths’ and their finest hours have usually involved dismembering a hobo in a dank basement, wearing heavy makeup and their mother’s skin. What’s required here is a sense of proportion.
Remember that the maxim “no news is good news” is too frequently taken to mean that hope is always extant, or to put it in colonial vernacular: “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.” Another, wiser, reading is that the absence of intrusion bypointless goings-on is a blessing.

There will be those who’ll argue that human history has been served well by our restless curiosity, but in fact the lessons of history suggest that when something happens that you really need to have an opinion on – say, the Black Death, or Kristalnacht – you’ll probably get to hear about it. Until then, save your Wisdom of Solomon for something that’s more than cerebral white noise. Because a report out today claims noise is a cause of stress for 54% of Britons. Let us know what you think about that…