For a short time I took over a phone number from a cafe that had closed. The majority of phone calls that came through were trying to sell me stuff, the most interesting ones were trying to sell me advertising. The offer usually went something like this.

1. I book and advert.

2. They write a glowing review of my cafe.

3. We all jump into bed together for a special massage.

The third point was implied, but not actually spoken. The fist two were a given.

The end result of this fine and incestuous bargain leaves both parties sated. But the problem is that it means you can’t trust the reviews you read. Newspapers are obliged to label adverts to differentiate them form news, but at a local level this seems to be ignored and doesn’t apply to magazines anyway.So, other than word of mouth, how do you find out what is good/shite in Brighton?

I have recently fallen in love with www.qype.co.uk it is a user submitted review site. Most importantly it allows everyone to say what they really believe about the service that they use. There is the obvious issue that a venue/cafe/pub could give itself positive reviews but the more people that use the site the more the majority opinion will out.

The idea  isn’t new ( toptable, tripadvisor, yelp, etc) but Qype is tryinget the to involve a social networking aspect to it all, which might encourage some of the FB/twitter fans to join in the fun. The Brighton part of the site has mushroomed since the start of this year.

If you fancy contributing then look me up -  my qype ID is hartingale

Join a democratic movement to kill the advertorials…

Spin produced by Madame Geisha’s PR team has sucked me into their vortex.

I was particularly struck by a full-page write up in a local free mag that was so conflated with praise a cynic might be mistaken for thinking that it wasn’t a review at all but actually a regurgitated press release. I am a sceptic, not a cynic; so I took myself off to investigate.

My pre-dinner googling informed me…

“uniquely positioned in the heart of Brighton’s boutique quarter and just a stone’s throw away from the city’s world famous sea front, Madame Geisha is a brand new concept in dining, drinking and entertainment.”

Bloody hell – a brand new concept in dining, drinking and entertainment!! You would have thought a brand new concept in any one of those three would be enough for a lifetime. I tried to think of all the concepts that could have been considered “brand new” when they originated.

Food: Sandwiches to an 18^th Century card player, potatoes to an Elizabethan, cooked food to a Neanderthal, sushi to a man-in-the-street in 1991.

Entertainment: Breakdancing to a Tibetan monk, Big Brother to everyone, Lady GaGa (just kidding), Elvis to 1953

Drink: Beer to ancient Egyptians, tea to Marco Polo, Singapore Slings to a Singaporean, Special Brew to a vagrant in 1950…

You get the point. So, I was prepped and ready for an epoch defining evening.

The Décor

They say: blends old style with new design to great effect.

I say: inspired by something that was inspired by a Blade Runner inspired idea of Asia. Exposed ventilation ducts, harsh lighting, perhaps they blew the design budget on PR? There is a random bamboo trellis by the entrance, perhaps that is the “old style”?

The Service

Kind of odd. The well-briefed waitress was trained in soft-hard selling. This is something expected in France, USA or anywhere that the frontline staff are paid a percent of sales, caught me off-guard in Brighton. When we ordered two glasses of wine, “why not get a whole bottle?” well, because we don’t want one. If we went to buy a car would the sales rep suggest, “why not get three?” and anyway it is illegal for barstaff to encourage alcohol consumption. When we ordered two dim sum, “they are really small do you want more than two?”. When my wife ordered her green curry with rice, “wouldn’t you rather have noodles?” no “why not, don’t you like noodles?” bloody hell, fuck off.

The Food

Bit-of-this; bit-of-that. All quite nice and overpriced in the annoying but not offensively so bracket. The randomness of the “if it’s Asian we serve it” menu had me thinking… in Asia do Pan-European restaurants serve any native food found within seven timezones? eg. Haggis pizza with stilton and dry cod? The main course was accompanied by the now famous Zilli Stack, nine chips in a perfect little pile, 3×3x3. Nothing offensive, but I think the money ,must be going to the PR department rather than the kitchen.

Towards the end of the meal the lighting changed and we were informed by the waitress that we where “changing into disco mode”. Time to go…

So we left the confused madam.

Fans of the five finger discount should definitely be considering a trip to Jamie’s Italian on Black Lion Street. If you enjoy the crafty acquisition of ‘souvenirs’ from the scene of every good time, then forget the food, tasty though it is, and concentrate on the loot. 

In order to recreate a suitably rustic Italian scene, the easy to reach shelves that run around the dining area are crammed with expensive cans of vine tomatoes and heavy bottles of olive oil.

Given that they are attempting to sell olive oil at some rather interesting prices, you’d be forgiven for helping yourself to a free bottle.

The antipasti plank is placed triumphantly atop two of those tins of tomatoes when it is brought to the table, and what self-respecting waiter has time to notice those disappearing? Indeed, what self-respecting customer would choose to leave them there?

There’s also a rustic bread board full of enormous loaves of ciabatta, which the staff frequently leave unattended, and meat strung from anything that looks like it could take the weight. Easily plucked down and made off with during a busy period. Or help yourself to a serious lump of the decorative cheese that grace every counter.

Best of all, the napkins on each table are available to purchase at £12 each, so provided you don’t get clumsy with your spaghetti, you can easily sneak away with a pristine set.

No booking required, just big pockets.

I Had been ignoring all but the most appetising messages.

That seems a bit of a waste and I am sure many nights worthy of a promotion slipped beneath me unnoticed. So, I have decided to chuck it all out there.

If you have something to promote email events@thehussy.co.uk and if you can spare a couple of tickets then I can send someone along to see what you have to offer.

If you are interested in writing reviews of live music, then fill in the form below and I will pass some of the good stuff your way. Please fill in the form below so I can keep your details. You need to be registered with the Hussy to fill the form in, but you can opt out of The Hussy’s newsletter if you don’t want it.

cforms contact form by delicious:days

From the pictures downstairs to the big wooden robots on the ground floor and the thing reaching down from the ceiling on the first floor there is a lot of great stuff here.  The building is quite nice as well with its faded elegance.

Pics by someone else.

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.

Orchid Thieves brought every ingredient to the Prince Albert that makes watching a live band such a treat; gorgeous vocals, fantastic stage energy, multi-layered percussions and guitar chords as raw and ripped as your old Levi’s. From the very first note a thick beautiful noise belted out of the speakers and filled half of the street. 

Jones’ vocals were so dirty you’ll be washing them off for a week

The songs are well-constructed with adorable beginnings which reel the audience in while lead vocalist Rhiannon Jones holds her expression of stern-intent, thumps her foot into the stage floor and starts that hypnotising hip-swinging thing she does. Orchid Thieves are sexy and you know it. They work themselves into a whirlwind of dynamic lively rhythms and absorbing complex melodies which are well balanced with a rich and dense backing.

The lyrics have been put together like a finely tuned engine. They are an ode to life and all its fickle highs and lows. Jones’ vocals were so dirty you’ll be washing them off for a week. Her voice varies from a sultry-huskiness which will leave you sobbing on your best friend’s shoulder to full-blown belting which will rock your trousers, shoes and socks off. This band reeks of passion and they charmed the pants off the audience. Their sound is so potent it had the rats in the basement stomping their feet. Orchid Thieves went in, played every last song with heat and zest, leaving in their tracks a large group of people with smiles on their faces, humming the chorus to “After Tomorrow” as if it were an anthem.

Orchid Thieves have stormed their way on to the music scene with a series of successful gigs across the South East. They already produce a sound which is a strong rival to some of the newer bands at the Reading and Leeds Festivals; they certainly would not be out of place here and their music would transition well from the intimate venues they have been playing. They are doing everything right to set themselves up for an exciting and bulletproof future. If you have not heard their music before then you are missing out on some serious oral gratification. They are currently in the studio working on their debut album and if the track listing is anything like their current records then it’s going to be one to keep at the top of your CD collection.

By Paul Theoret

Bearded Beauty: William Fitzsimmons

Feeling lucky enough to be provided a chance to see William Fitzsimmons at on his latest wiz-round-tour round the U.K I headed out to the freebutt, to watch him play, and promote his latest album, “Goodnight”.
This bearded beauty of a man – rated as one of americas finest finest folk musicians – fuses his own emotive lyrics with simplistic guitar folk melodies. Hailing from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, born the youngest of two blind parents, his relationship with sound began. Having to communicate through sound in a variety of different ways, the house being covered with the likes of pianos, talking birds, guitars, trombones, and a huge pipe organ (which his father built with his own hands), including parents with very varied music styles, the mother being more interested in the contempery folk artists of the time, including Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, and James Taylor. His dad resonating with a more classical taste, you could say that along with his own passion for music he was destined to be a fantastic musician.
His history in working has not however been straight into music,being a qualified threpist in the U.S.A his lyrics retain an outside view point, and a melonconic quality about them. His latest album about his parents divorce, was said by him to be an important album in in releasing the regret and pain, and moving on.
Arriving at the freebutt venue at 7.30pm, the venue  conspicuasly hidden with hardly any frontage and not ready for any punters, me and a couple of other punctuals were asked if we were actually in the band.
If anyone has been to the freebut the layout is sunwhat unusual a seperate room for the bar, and a mirad of pillars scatter a small room with a stage at the far corner, its deffinetly a personal experience. To start a young lady sung meodic pop and got the crowd started, and a band called “The sea will decide”  bored me to tears.
William entered the stage with just one other member on guitar a very simplistic band outfit. Laughing, connecting and making relationships with the audience, he would tell the audence what particular songs meant ask questions, and have fun, being such an intimate venue it seems we could really get a feel for the real William, his voice so peaceful and quiet was so beautifully different and unique, songs such as “the song of the sparrow”, shone through for me, and also “you still hurt me” His voice was not forced it seemed he did not have to try hard to get his voice across, his emotions being resolved through his music. His music will deffinetly fill apart of you and nourish the soul, reccommended listening.

Reviewed by Luke Tonks

In the Dome, as the lights went down, the stage lit up to show banks and banks of flash looking  keyboards.  Then in came the Hartnoll brothers with their trademark glowing glasses and the crowd went mad. 

Orbital @ The Dome - 10/6/09

What followed was two hours of thumping techno the like of which the Dome hasn’t seen for a long time.  Drawing heavily on the early albums and finishing with a couple of tracks from Insides, the brothers gave the crowd exactly what it wanted and never let the pace drop for a second.  Even my least favourite, The Box, got a drum heavy make over which drowned out most of the harpsichord.

The light show was a series of small screens hanging over the band.  These could have things projected on them or they could be folded away.  The political side of the band, not really apparent in lyricless tunes, made itself visible here.  And as the lights flashed in time with the drums, the sea of glowing cameras in the audience gave the impression of the show leaking into the auditorium. 

It was worth noting though that most of the crowd were in their 30s and 40s.  The ones down the front were too busy being deafened but the ones at the back were still throwing the shapes they learnt as teenagers.  This coupled with the recent Prodigy gig at the Centre mean that “Raving” can now be considered a middle aged past time.

 

My Fair Lady is a charming and cute musical insight into class divides, which follows the bet wagered by linguistics-pert, Professor Higgins, he can coach the cockney tones out of flower girl Eliza’s voice. Why? Well, to turn her from a “guttersnipe” into a “lady”, of course, who could impress even her Majesty with her command of the Queen’s English!

The lovely Dame Julie Andrews played the lead in this musical’s first theatrical production so to have her very own great niece, Rosie Evans, playing the lead of Eliza Doolittle was exciting with a capital E.

And how did she fare? Brilliantly. Cheeky, warm, and ‘real’ Evans played Eliza deliciously well. Add a beautiful voice that audience members kept commenting on and she did her Nan proud!

All of the key cast were, as Eliza would have put it “top class”. They even looked like their original counterparts, which was a tad uncanny. Support was also strong from a fab set of extras that tapped, waltzed and sung their roles with ease. The costumes too were stunning to the point that we could have been at a couture show.

Add a picturesque set, accomplished live orchestra and you had to pinch yourself that this really was, in fact, an ‘amateur company’ also know as our very own Brighton Theatre Company. Bravo!

My Fair Lady, 2-9 June 2009. Theatre Royal, New Road, Brighton.

Tel:08700 602516 or see www.ambassadortickets.com/brighton

May I suggest Iydea on Kensington Street?  I am not a big one for Vegetarian food but I have to say this place is great.  It is a bit like the old Food For Friends (before it went upmarket) in as much as you queue up at the counter like you used to do at school.  They normally have about six dishes on offer ranging from curry, to lasagna to something a bit more original.  The meals come in two sizes, the difference being how much salad and bits they fill your plate with.

It is all freshly made, organic and fun, without being too boring and wholesome.  The only downside is it is popular and it does get very busy. 

Brighton Engine Rooms Friday 15^th May 2009

Reviewed by Amy Russell

It was a horrendous night in Brighton as I made my way along the seafront to the Engine Rooms, and being my first visit to the venue I was a little lost when I asked people outside a bar where it is. The lad stepped aside to reveal a hand painted sign stating that I had in fact found the entrance to my desired destination.
Much to everyone’s relief the doors opened a little after seven and we shivered as we took in the warmth, and walking down a spiral staircase I actually got a little nervous – the place is dark, mysterious and underground. I took it all in, the little rooms with sofas off to the side and the dancing pole that I suspected was either a construction fault or a deliberate attempt to add to the quirkiness of this place. Chris Murray was playing over the speaker as the Meow Meows set themselves up to play.
With two singers and so many instruments it would be easier to just say they didn’t have a tambourine player crammed onto the stage as well. They played some upbeat ska tunes that had some of the – notably male dominated – audience dancing around the space in the venue that had not yet filled. I couldn’t help but notice at this point that they did in fact resemble a group of pigeons in the park and I found myself giggling away at the funny dancing. Not for too long though, the Meow Meows were a captivating band, dancing amongst themselves and obviously enjoying making the music that they did very well. Brilliantly put together, brilliantly played.
The place filled up a bit more towards eight o’clock as The Slackers set up their array of instruments, and appeared to have a spot of bother with the microphones. After all was ready, the five men from NYC, casually, unannounced, begun their two hour set. To a cheering crowd they eased into their first two songs without saying a word to the audience, who didn’t seem to mind, the room filled with bodies bouncing in time to classic songs like ‘Married Girl’, ‘Bin Waiting’ and ‘Sooner or Later’.
Their appearance was wonderfully unique, bassist Marcus Geard sporting a white tux with a matching white bowler hat, supporting his bass on a stool and playing it upright in a way I have honestly never before witnessed and thought was utterly fantastic!
Lead vocalist Vic Ruggiero was on top form, his clear, strong voice not wavering at all. There is definately something different about his vocals that I just can’t pin down, but they are every bit as wonderful live as they are on record. Glen Pine shared his voice for a lot of the songs as well, I don’t about anyone else, but I was mesmerised by his facial expressions! Saxophonist Dave Hillyard wore a smile under his hat all night, clearly loving the atmosphere – which was incredible through the whole set.
Before an encore featuring a much sought after ‘Sarah’, they played ‘Peadophilia’ which they followed with an awe inspiring instrumental, in which each musician shared their talent and Pine and Hillyard took a wander through the crowd with their instruments. Who absolutely loved it. The band worked with their audience throughout the night, Geard reaching and shaking hands with the audience in intervals between songs, the band having a bit of banter on the stage and even inviting someone up to sing for Glen in ‘Sarah’, only for the poor lad to discover the microphone was off. They shared a hug and he hopped off the stage. This was a fine example of the camaraderie felt on this evening.
To summarise, they played fantastically, and it was wonderful to see a band enjoying what they were doing, and being able to play their instruments well. As a member of the audience, I not only felt I was watching them, I was with them. Like Vic Ruggiero said, everybody had ’ska fever’ or even ‘reggae flu’ and if they didn’t to begin with they certainly did by the end of the night.

This is an entry for the Beachdownwriter competition.

The prize is a Press Pass for the Beachdown Festival

To see all of the entries www.thehussy.co.uk/tag/beachdownwriter

 Starting in a cinema in the woods and finishing at the home of a Brighton character who once worked with Salvador Dali, the quest takes many strange turns.  Compare of a comedy club, neighbour of Genesis.P.Orridge and member of many a strange cult/club, Davids time in Brighton was certainly eventful.  Whether he eventually finds the owner of the moustache is a) debatable and b) beside the point.  David spends an hour or so reminiscing about the Brighton of the 90s, back when the weirdoes could afford to live here. 

This show was pert of the Brighton Fring Festival and was on at Fletch at St Andrews Church, Hove.

We all fancy a bit of that, don’t we? There’s a reason that song hung around for so long. And it isn’t because it was actually any good. It’s because most of us yearn for, or at least occasionally crave a personal jet on standby, a queue of quivering fans offering to lick us all over and a healthy disregard for the rules of modern society, ‘cos they don’t apply to mofo-ing superstars. Hedonism is great fun. If you can afford it.

Well, there is one way to feel like a genuine star of rock, without having to take out a second mortgage, or bite the head off something small, innocent, and still breathing. Go somewhere posh and exclusive. Behave very, very badly. Get kicked out. Take a seat in the gutter and revel in your newly acquired bad ass.  Instant credibility. Sort of. Well, it works for Liam Gallagher. Sort of.

The Hanbury Club, 83 St George’s Road, BN2 1EF

“ The club evokes the old school supper club feel of the 20’s and 30’s but with an up to date vibe.”

Excellent. Assemble yourself an entourage, don a monacle and book a table. Best eat beforehand though, because you should be flicking the food at each other, rather than rolling it around your well-trained pallete. Extra points for gargling with the award-winning cocktails.

Blanche House, 17 Atlingworth Street, BN2 1PL

If you want to wreck a room, there are 12 to choose from. Put it on somebody else’s credit card though, as they range from £100 to £230 a night. Maybe stick to stealing towels. But make sure the staff see you leaving with them. The bar here was a finalist in the Best in Britain competition, so I suggest you straddle it without delay, and try and get the other customers to join in a chorus of ‘Come on Eileen’.

MyHotel, 17 Jubilee Street, BN1 1GE

“where Freddie Mercury meets the Maharishi”

Oh yer? Well how about we give it a temporary makeover – Spinal Tap meets Amy Winehouse? Not only will you get to mingle with the elite here, there’s a good chance you can also ruin their exclusive evening. Send the Cumbrian air-dried ham back to the kitchen, insisting it tastes damp. If your slow roast Sussex lamb doesn’t make it to your table in under ten minutes, turn the table over.

 La Fourchette, 104-105 Western Road, BN1 2AA

Peruse the wine list. Insist on sampling the most expensive choices, at £45 a bottle, the Puligny Montrachet 2006 should do nicely. Declare they all taste like Toilet Duck. Produce four cans of premium lager from your bag. See if you can crack one open before being asked to leave.

Browns, 3-4 Duke Street, BN1 1AH

“Browns has a history of investing in interesting and often historic or listed buildings as premises – with striking features such as high ceilings, panoramic windows and wooden floors all providing focal.”

Do try not to piss up against a period feature now won’t you? From 4pm, Wednesday to Sunday, Browns host Martini nights. After a few of these, you and your entourage should have no trouble getting loud and abusive and easily earn yourself a coveted place on the bans list.

After busing to and from Eastbourne for a prior commitment I ran past the ’secret’ Babyshambles gig that was taking place outside of Audio and to the Spiegeltent for the last minute acoustic set by Ben Kweller.  Kweller seemed happy and at ease, flatterd by the sing-a-long on tracks like On My Way and Walk On Me, and he closed his little performance with rousing renditions of new track Fight and country number Penny on the Track.

I then hurried over to Volks to catch Threatmantics, a band I’ve known for a short while and this is the guitarist Ceri’s farewell tour, so, in lieu of me possibly not making it for the Cardiff based band’s final gig with this line-up at the end of May, I made sure I didn’t miss them here.  Threatmantics make music that’s direct, punchy, cacophonous and at the same time very sweet and innocent; this is apparent on tracks like new song Apple Tree or the almighty, anthemic Don’t Care.

With my running shoes on I dashed to the King & Queens to catch Colourmusic, a band from Oklahama (though one member’s actually from York), who are currently my favourite contemporary act.  This set was a wall of glorious sound, exploding from the speakers and threatening the ear-drums, but I’d be pretty happy if Colourmusic was the last thing I ever heard.  In amongst an array of new songs were some of the fantastically quirky yet blistering tracks from their recent album, including Rock and Roll Polar Bear and the air-punchingly, uplifting, robo-mantra of Yes!

I then dashed back to the seafront and managed to catch Ben Kweller again, this time with full band, and he again performed another joyous batch of songs across his four records so far.  Afterwards I ducked out quickly and nipped down the front to the Honeyclub where I found a high perch in the packed club to watch Idlewild, a band who at one time seemed on the verge of becoming stadium-filling pop-rockers, but went a bit maudlin, then lead singer Roddy Woomble grew a big beard and recorded a few down-beat solo albums and now their back.  This set leant heavily on both earlier, noisier fare whilst throwing in a couple of new songs – that seem to have that pop-rock sensibility that won them many new fans on The Remote Part – and bigger hits like You Held The World In Your Arms.

Betty and the Werewolves were playing their brand of punkish surf-rock upstairs in the Fortune of War, so I thought I’d check that out, but then began drinking some whiskey that was given to me by an Italian and now it’s Sunday morning…

This year’s Great Escape had many fantastic acts dispersed reasonably well across the city, sometimes you had to make a commitment to see an act you weren’t planning on seeing in order to guarantee you’d see a bigger name band; but this seemed to lead to many pleasant surprises.  Ultimately the Great Escape is a brilliant showcase for a lot of new, up and coming or ‘best kept secret’ bands that really deserve, or are about to get, their shot at the limelight and the bars, pubs, theatres and clubs of Brighton are some of the finest places to get your first aural peek at the best new music.

Getting off to a late start due to work and acting commitments I made my way into Jam for the tail end of We Were Promised Jetpacks, a band with a name close to my heart.  Their Scottish indie-pop sound was instantly appealing and emotive, and once I’d found a perch to see above the maximum capacity crowd a good live viewing experience.

The real reason I’d made my way to Jam though was The Twilight Sad, from somewhere near Glasgow, their particular brand of emotional pop is characterised by the distinct accent of the lead singer, between embittered drunken hollers and remorseful, swoonsomeness.  At times they sounded like Explosions in the Sky with lyrics, then The Cure but, y’know, Scottish.  The highlight however was the opening song; That Summer At Home I Became the Invisible Boy, a glorious anthem to the dispossesed and a genuine, contemporary classic.  The rest of their set, though powerful, lacked the directness of this first song.

Afterwards I dashed over to Hector’s House and saw the last half of Magic Magic, a skittering, ska-vibed pop group who also impressed quickly, though, as before, it was a shame I only had a brief glimpse into their world.  Afterwards was Norwegian act The New Wine who seemed determine to prove that disco is not dead in Norway.  Their lengthy dance odysseys quickly became dull and lifeless, and reminded of those 12 inch vinyl singles tucked away in my parent’s record collection that seemed to last for days.  Sometimes you want to advertise to the people around you that you’re enjoying a band with a degree of irony, and this was such an instance.  Their buoyant nature diluted the effect of the much-hyped Hockey, and, needing to seek musical pastures new I ditched them two songs in.

Following a confused trek around many Brighton streets I found the mysterious Basement and caught the final song of singer-songwriter Birdengine, it was a smart, wry, beguiling sound and I feel quite frustrated that I didn’t get to see any more.  He was followed by Blue Roses who has been dubbed ‘the new Kate Bush’, but, fortunately for me, this tag didn’t fit (I’m not too keen on Kate Bush).  Instead Blue Roses crafted beautiful, slight and warm songs with piano, violin, guitar and occasional cardigan-covered drums.  I was, in the most positive sense, drifting off whilst she sang, lulled into a beautiful dreamland.

And thus ended my first, hasty day at the Great Escape.  More tomorrow!

Ever fancied appearing in your very own episode of Footballer’s Wives? No? Then at all costs, never allow inebriation to get the better of you and propel you through the doors of Oceana. Although you won’t get in if you’re wearing trainers.

However, if you like to show off your wares in laminated gold hotpants, twirl you hair extensions round your fake fingernails and have your lipstick tattooed on. Or you buy your smart shirts from Burtons and have your mum iron them whilst you have a pre-going out, pre-drink, drink and spray some Lynx Africa down your trousers. If you enjoy music that features the same three words repeated over and over and over, and at times resembles the monotonous buzz of an electric toothbrush. Then this place will put the schizzzle in your nizzle, and you may well meet your very own footballer, and who knows, become his wife?

Seven themed rooms – experience the world in one night! The Deep Bar is where the adventure begins, think the lost city of Atlanta with a Posh Spice makeover. Hold on to your cut-price drinks though guys, we’ve only just begun.

Villa Tahiti is the next stop. If you’ve checked your coat, you might want to borrow somebody elses. It’s surprisingly chilly in this tropical saloon. Probably because the ‘excellent smoking facilities’ are located to the rear. A penned off area on the King’s Road. The wind chill factor out there would finish off a yeti.

Then why not gather ye bunions, slip your heels back on and totter down to the New York Disco? Or lads, if you’re not quite drunk enough to start strutting your stuff, how about a beer or 16 in the Monte Carlo? Do try and take in the classic art deco, if you’re still capable of focusing.

Met somebody special? Suggest you take a seat in the Parisian Boudoir. The music is ‘french and funky’, that oughta get things going.

If you are unsuccessful in your efforts to secure some sexy time, head to the Reykjavik Icehouse and get that groin a thrustin’ to the booming R&B. Or retreat to the Aspen Ski Lodge and have a good sulk and another 16 beers on a lovely plush sofa. Be careful not to stick to it.

So there we have it. Phew, the world in one night and all for the price of a curry. Just don’t wear trainers. Or leave your drink un-attended.

Oceana, Kingswest, Brighton BN1 2RE

From the off, the show contains a stream of song and dance numbers that parody the celebrities and the parties they represent. It is all dry ice, high kicks and jazz hands to a thumping eurovision style beat.  As you would expect, it is more about the songs than the politics and Shilpa and Sharon (or should that be Shirley Bassey) come across best.  The audience does however get to text their vote in at the end with the most popular winning the show.

It is at the Brighthelm Centre in the North Lanes, Brighton until the 23rd May.

The individually superb cabaret acts are made doubly-good by becoming part of the whole; the whole is made doubly-good for being performed in a church.

So, that means this show is four times better than superb.

Devil Des O'Connor

The circusy bits may not have had the Vegas dollars of Cirque or the perfection of a Chinese acrobat stolen from their family and offered the choice of circus contortion or Red Army conscription. But it had a theatrical intensity that gave freshness to what are probably the same-old-same-old skills I watched Billy Smarts’ girls perform in 1978.

The musicy bits, brilliant Frisky and Mannish made me happy. Funny, clever and musical. They could carry their own show, which is not something I often think when seeing cabaret.

The acts were stitched together nicely by The Devil himself with the audience voting to decide wether each act went to heaven or hell.  I am still undecided which was considered a victory, considering the production was set in Hell and everyone seemed very happy there.

It was the venue that really set the night off, St Andrews is a bone-fide, god-fearing church. Normally the most sexually charged event to occur in a place of worship would be a priest chaffing his cassock whilst watching choirboys perform and even that doesn’t happen quite as often now that litigation trumps humiliation. But, here at St Andrews you can watch HoneyLuLu disrobe burlesquely before pouring milk over her nipple-tasselled self. An altarpiece display which could not fail to get the youth back into the churches.
 

Top show, top acts in a big-top-beating venue.

Performances each day (not Weds) until 22^nd May

www.fletchproductions.com for tickets

Coalition.  This one has been running for a while now and is based in the Coalition night club down on the seafront.  It is thursday nights and starts fairly early as there is a club night afterward.  The sort of people who play there are those that have been around a bit but haven’t made it to headlining the Komedia or getting their own Channel 4 TV show yet.  You will have seen a few of them on TV though.  90%

Forager.  This one is out in Hove in a pub round the back of Tescos.  As well as lovely Sunday lunches they have comedy nights on the last Tuesday of the month.  The bill usually consists of half a dozen acts ranging from the first timers to those who are new on the circuit.  10%

Caroline of Brunswick.  The knock Knock comedy club is worth a mention as it is in everyones favourite scary pub, the Carline of Brunswick.  As well as regular shows they are currently booking for a bunch of start comedians who are down working on their Edinburgh shows.  80% (but only for the Edinburgh previews)

Upsairs at the Three and Ten.  Hidden away down the bottom of Kemp Town is the 3&10.  As venues go, it is just a bit bigger than my lounge and the stage is non existant.  It is however home to Brian Gittins a comedy star in the making who has a regular night there with plenty of special guests.  60%

Jaggers Comedy Club.  This is a new one on me and it seems to be part of a chain of comedy clubs.  The website makes a big thing of being stag night/hen part friendly so take that as a warning if you decide to go.  30%

Sunday Roast in Brighton

On a typical Sunday, a typical Brightonian will be nursing a hangover head, lying in front of the three-hour-long Hollyoakes omnibus for the best part of the morning and using all remaining brain cells to work out where on earth to go for a traditional Sunday roast.

 We have many, many wonderful pubs in Brighton, it’s true, but there is nothing more disappointing than a roast dinner menu that is just not up to scratch or a kitchen that closes before you’ve even managed to get out the shower.

Too fancy, too rushed, no Yorkshire pudding with your beef (seriously, what are they thinking?), no crackling with your pork (yes, I’ve actually experienced this anomaly) or simply no vegetarian option on the menu which rules out half of your friends.

So, in a concerted effort to put a stop to the tedious-ness of searching for the perfect Sunday roast and actually having to make a decision about something when you should really be resting, The Hussy has put together the top five, best value, no frills roast dinner’s, just like your mum used to make 

Here we go then, in no particular order:

Blenio

Blenio on Seven Dials, is a modern-European bistro with a bit of a French slant. The staff are welcoming, and nothing is too much trouble for them to organise, they actually really go out of their way to make sure everything is perfect. Traditional roasts of Chicken, Pork or Beef with all the trimmings are served all day Sunday in a really quiet quaint setting.

With white tiled tables, duck egg blue paint and fresh fruit, vegetables and herbs spilling out of the décor, everything here is designed to make you feel like you’re in the South of France.

There is even a beautiful mediterranean-style courtyard which catches the sun at just the right time in the afternoon. The council, otherwise known as the fun police, won’t let you eat out there mind, but it is the perfect spot for a cigarette and a glass of rosé after your perfect roast.

Reservations in advance strongly recommended:

http://www.bleniobistro.com/
01273 220 220

Hove Place

Just tucked away off of First Avenue in Hove, The Hove Place pub swiftly serves a no frills roast with a great selection of vegetables and possibly the best gravy I’ve ever had.

 Because Hove Place is such a hidden spot it never gets overly busy on a Sunday so you are pretty much always guaranteed to get a nice table, which is exactly what you need if your head is pounding from the night before.

 All traditional roasts are served up until 8pm every Sunday, with good menu options for vegetarians to choose from too, all for under a tenner.

The gorgeous Italian gardens out the back are without a doubt the best feature of the pub catching the afternoon sunshine over lunch, and then gently heated in the evening as the sun starts to set 

For more information go here:

http://www.goldenliongroup.co.uk/Hove-Place.html

Or call this number: 01273 738 266

The Earth and Stars

Organic pub the Earth and Stars is situated in the heart of Brighton on Windsor Street. With no outside area apart from a terrace for smokers, this pub is the perfect place to wind down and cosy up for the evening.

Served throught the day, the Sunday roast menu carries all the traditional options, each with there own interesting twist. Honey and chilli glazed chicken, Slow roasted pork belly and lamb which has been marinated for 24 hrs. The portions are good too as they promise a selection of seven different vegetables with each meal.

Being an organic pub, the veggies among us are well catered for, with a well thought out menu to choose from.

The pub does get realy busy though, so it’s probably best to give them a call and reserve a table in advance.

Give them a call on this number: 01273 722 879

The Shakespeare’s Head

A local gem and set just behind Brighton train station towards Seven Dials, The Shakespeare’s Head has a range of interesting beers on tap and is covered with lovely fairy lights. A great fun atmosphere in here with friendly staff and good music.

Although The Shakespeare’s Head specialty is sausage and mash with ten different types of locally produced sausages, their Sunday roast is pretty darn good too, offering big portions, good roast potatoes and a great veggie option.

The nice set of picnic tables outside the front of the pub is the place to sit and people watch and stay out late drinking Leffe in the evening. It’s home from home.

This place is a local’s haven and very popular on a Sunday. Give them a bell to see if you can get a table first. 01273 329 444

The Sussex Yeoman

The Sussex Yeoman is a little pricier than your average roast, but well worth the money – this is food that has been made with love. Not many people know about this place as it’s just off the beaten track, but that doesn’t stop it being packed out when it comes to Sunday lunchtime.

The pub itself is tiny, pulling off the right balance of intimate but not over crowded. Just make sure you get here early if you want a table, plus bear in mind that they stop taking food orders a little earlier than the rest of the pubs listed above – so it’s best to ring and check before you head on over.

The roast is done to perfection everytime and the standard of food here is better than most more expensive restaurants.

If the Sussex Yeoman is calling you, then call them on 01273 327 985 to see how busy they are.

Written by Sarah L Sharp

Spin produced by Madame Geisha’s PR team has sucked me into their vortex.

Madame Geisha at work

I was particularly struck by a full-page write up in a local free mag that was so conflated with praise a cynic might be mistaken for thinking that it wasn’t a review at all but actually a regurgitated press release. I am a sceptic, not a cynic; so I took myself off to investigate.

My pre-dinner googling informed me…

“uniquely positioned in the heart of Brighton’s boutique quarter and just a stone’s throw away from the city’s world famous sea front, Madame Geisha is a brand new concept in dining, drinking and entertainment.”

Bloody hell – a brand new concept in dining, drinking and entertainment!! You would have thought a brand new concept in any one of those three would be enough for a lifetime. I tried to think of all the concepts that could have been considered “brand new” when they originated.

Food: Sandwiches to an 18^th Century card player, potatoes to an Elizabethan, cooked food to a Neanderthal, sushi to a man-in-the-street in 1991.

Entertainment: Breakdancing to a Tibetan monk, Big Brother to everyone, Lady GaGa (just kidding), Elvis to 1953

Drink: Beer to ancient Egyptians, tea to Marco Polo, Singapore Slings to a Singaporean, Special Brew to a vagrant in 1950…

You get the point. So, I was prepped and ready for an epoch defining evening.

The Décor

They say: blends old style with new design to great effect.

I say: inspired by something that was inspired by a Blade Runner inspired idea of Asia. Exposed ventilation ducts, harsh lighting, perhaps they blew the design budget on PR? There is a random bamboo trellis by the entrance, perhaps that is the “old style”?

The Service

Kind of odd. The well-briefed waitress was trained in soft-hard selling. This is something expected in France, USA or anywhere that the frontline staff are paid a percent of sales, caught me off-guard in Brighton. When we ordered two glasses of wine, “why not get a whole bottle?” well, because we don’t want one. If we went to buy a car would the sales rep suggest, “why not get three?” and anyway it is illegal for barstaff to encourage alcohol consumption. When we ordered two dim sum, “they are really small do you want more than two?”. When my wife ordered her green curry with rice, “wouldn’t you rather have noodles?” no “why not, don’t you like noodles?” bloody hell, fuck off.

The Food

Bit-of-this; bit-of-that. All quite nice and overpriced in the annoying but not offensively so bracket. The randomness of the “if it’s Asian we serve it” menu had me thinking… in Asia do Pan-European restaurants serve any native food found within seven timezones? eg. Haggis pizza with stilton and dry cod? The main course was accompanied by the now famous Zilli Stack, nine chips in a perfect little pile, 3×3x3. Nothing offensive, but I think the money ,must be going to the PR department rather than the kitchen.

Towards the end of the meal the lighting changed and we were informed by the waitress that we where “changing into disco mode”. Time to go…

So we left the confused madam.

Have you seen the government’s current healthy living campaign, change4life? It’s probably been coming at you regularly through your telly box. Featuring non-threatening cartoon characters with palatable regional accents, less chips, more jogging, is the general message. Unless you want to appear on a documentary entitled ‘My 20 stone toddler and me’.

Assuming that you don’t, it is of course, important to watch what you eat, take regular exercise, yadda yadda. We all know that, Mr Government.  But it is also equally important to let yourself off the leash occasionally. Seeking solace in a tasty indulgence is perfect for providing some valuable respite from the pressures of everyday life. It can be oh-so good to be a little bit bad.

Sometimes we all need pure, calorific gratification. Even if we don’t actually need it, sometimes, we just want it. So, in the spirit of ‘why the hell not’, here are a few places can supply everything you require to stretch out, kick back, feel fat and be happy:

Cyber Candy, 15 Gardner St, BN1 1UP

This place is like a party bag, but one where you get to choose the contents. I used to have a painful dependence on Jolly Ranchers, and was bereft when they went out of stock. We were gleefully reunited at Cyber Candy. They stock sweets from all over the world, so if you really can’t think of a decent excuse to indulge, then tell yourself it’s all in the name of broadening your horizons.

Shakeaway 8 Bond Street, Brighton, BN1 1RD

Ever been tempted to bung a selection of sticky ingredients in a blender and drink the contents? Well, you could do that, or you could tell the professionals exactly what you want (Maltesers, popcorn, carrot cake) and let them take care of it. These shakes are truly a thing of beauty.

Buddies 46-48 Kings Road Brighton

You could finish a night out with something soggy in a bun. Or you could go to Buddies, which never, ever closes, and serves up an impressive range of good, cheap and tasty food – seafood, salad, all-day breakfast, pizza. Buddies recently enjoyed a visit from Queen of the Mammaries, Jordan, and we all know how fussy she is.

Kensingtons, 1 Kensington Gardens, BN1 4AL

Kensingtons is lovely, just lovely. The menu, chalked up on the wall, stretches to a good few feet. Once you manage to make your choice, slot yourself into a booth or if it’s sunny, and the pigeons aren’t feeling too ferocious, amble out to the balcony. The breakfasts are reasonably priced and plentiful, side orders are never a problem and even vegetarians and vegans will be feeling fat and happy after a visit.

Sweet William’s Fudge Shop, 26a North Street, BN1 1EB

A proper sweet shop, selling hefty chunks of fudge in a cosy range of flavours. The banoffee pie variety is as addictive as crack, but far more reasonably priced.

This is an entry for the Beachdownwriter competition, all the entries are here

 For the Beachdownfestival itself, www.beachdownfestival.com

 The Sell: The Space is a monthly media and arts event that provides an excellent opportunity for networking and gaining valuable contacts.

This statement contains the reason why I was not particularly interested in attending.

Networking: creatives-types feigning altruism whilst leaching the contents of your mind into their snuggling it into their blackberrys.

Plus, if everyone is there to gain valuable contacts, what is the point of the speaker on the stage? Why not just meet-up at Dukes Mound and take it in turns to make furtive dives into bushes, stroke PDAs and move on?

But, I am nothing if not polite. I was invited; so I went.

Latest Music Bar’s troglodyte theatre was the venue. Lots of people -standing room only- and on the stage; a little round table with two chairs.

First up was NME Editor, Connor McNicholas. He was an engaging speaker and gave the kind of “anyone can achieve their dreams” talk that Mrs Obama used to inspire London’s primary school kids.

Question One: How did you become Editor of the NME?

Answer: Worked really hard, never turned down an opportunity, better to try and fail than fail to try (or some such stuff).

I was left feeling inspired to go and do something successful and make something of my life, the enthusiasm that coursed through my veins must have drained down the urinal because it wasn’t there by the end of the interval.

Next speaker, Terry Rawlings, Film Editor on, Alien, Watership Down and lots of famous films. Really, LOTS of FAMOUS films, ask google. Terry seemed to stress skill as the foundation of his career. And patience.

So, the evening’s speakers nicely illustrated generational approaches to life/careers/success. Connor McNicholas is thirty-six running an empire. Terry Rawlings is seventy-six and once spent a jolly nice afternoon drinking/chatting with Barbra Streisand.

Both were good speakers, both had lots to say. I could happily have listened for much longer to either of them. I failed to network. I didn’t make any valuable contacts. Had a nice time. Resolved to win an Academy Award or become the editor of a significant publication. Just as soon as I get chance…..

The Space, thoroughly recommended.

For info tickets and stuff www.thespace.me.uk

 Do you remember that scene in Jurassic Park, when fellow scientists Dr Grant and Dr Sattler, lay their disbelieving peepers on a dinosaur for the first time? There’s a reminder to your left if you don’t, or you had the good sense not to see the film.

Grant and Sattler obviously knew that dinosaurs existed at some point. They’ve dedicated their careers to brushing the dust off the evidence. But their overwhelming surprise at being able to cruise past a flock, or a herd, or whatever it is you call a group of dinosaurs (a school, a pride, a gathering?) in a gaudy 4×4, as if this were just a day out at the West Midlands Safari Park, beggars their belief. As you can see by their faces.

Something very similar happens to my face every time I watch a film or TV programme that features characters smoking in enclosed spaces.  Sparking up at the office for example, or on a plane. I obviously knew that the freedom to smoke wherever you damn well pleased existed at some point. But if I were to cruise by in my own gaudy 4×4 and encounter a group of smokers exhaling freely in a public place, well, it would bugger my belief. You’re just not allowed to do that sort of thing these days. It doesn’t seem possible that you ever were.

I never agreed with wantonly blowing smoke wherever I fancied, but an outright ban does seem a little harsh. Although there are some advantages. Because you can’t light up when you like any more, people tend to announce their intention to have for a fag, and wait to see who joins them.  Going for a cigarette has become almost conspiratory, a naughty little adventure to be shared with your equally deviant friends.  If nobody cares to join you, well, it’s a chance to have some time outside to contemplate, pontificate and hopefully miss your round at the bar.

So, with that in mind, I’ve compiled a list of some smoker friendly haunts for when you are out on, and probably tripping over, the tiles in Brighton. These places sure beat hanging around on the pavement, struggling to inhale despite a serious case of smoker’s nipple, brought on by the disapproving winds that seem unique to this city.

The Hop Poles, 13 Middle Street, BN1 1AL

These people seem to be having a good time don’t they? This is no doubt thanks to this dedicated smoking area, which is covered to retain the ample heating. It also boasts audible outdoor music and of course, foliage. A good place for when the pub becomes inevitably over-crowded.

The Hop Poles

The Barley Mow, 92 St George’s Road, BN2 1EE

The smoking area boasts an awning, which is something to celebrate. Not least because you can pretend to be at an Ascot after party, should the fancy take you.

The Office, 8-9 Sydney Street, BN1 4EN

What used to be the yard has been given a splash of paint and some picnic tables. Shabby chic, but I spent a winter’s hour or so hanging out here with some mulled cider and it feels like a proper Brighton joint.

Grand Central, 29 – 30 Surrey Street, BN1 3PA

This roof terrace, with its round wooden tables and generous patio heaters, could lead you believe you were somewhere else entirely more tropical of a weekday night.

The Grand Central

The Royal Sovereign, 66 Preston Street, BN1 2HE

I’m not a huge fan of this pub, but carpets and palm trees line the generous outdoor space, which does mean you can spark up and chill out.

If anybody has any further suggestions about where to consume the evil weed in comfort, please do leave them in the comment box below.

Next week – the best places in Brighton to have an argument with your lover.

This is an entry to win a ticket for the beachdown festival, the winner will be the one that receives the most visitors. So if you like it use the bookmarking links below.

All the entries for this competition can now be seen here

@The Brighton Coalition

Saturday April 4, 2009

One of the best things you can do on a Friday night in Brighton to wind down from a busy week is nip out for a few drinks and a spot of live music, even more reason if it’s in the name of charity. 

For all of those reasons, last night my friends and I ventured out to trendy seafront nightclub The Coalition.

The Brighton Coalition is not your average nightclub, full of beautiful people, the 7 day week programme always carries a variety of live music, comedy and achingly cool DJ nights that embrace the local culture.

Last night we were there for Bright-AID, a live music event held in the name of raising money for Cancer Research, the Polycystic Kidney Charity and The Macmillan Hospice. What better reason to put our dancing shoes on?

The fully local line-up included Gloria Cycles, The Third Man (with Max Rafferty from The Kooks) and Rock ‘n’ Roll-er’s I-Koma, all this for a minimal £5 entry fee.

Kicking the night off at 9pm was Brighton-based foursome I-Koma www.ikoma.co.uk .  Warming us up nicely, front man Davey Perry was on form filling the stage with a massive energy that they kept up the whole way through the gig. Giving us the songs we wanted, including the already familiar ‘La La La Hey’ and ‘Wasting My Time’ they got us hip-shaking and hair-flicking all over. By the time it was finished, all we wanted was to hear more.

Next up was The Third Man www.thethirdman.co.uk, a first time see for me and they certainly didn’t disappoint. Vocalist and guitarist Max Rafferty held the audience captive with a fresh indie sound that felt new and progressive. The whole set list was perfect, but it was latest song ‘Better Days’ that captured our chilled out vibe perfectly.

This lead us nicely into the concluding act, the just fabulous, Gloria Cycles www.gloriacycles.co.uk.

With clear influences from The Eels, Supergrass and Talking Heads among others, vocalists Glaswegian-born Kenny McCracken and Brightonian Jen Dalby gave us the magic that capped off the evening nicely. When the crowd wasn’t dancing it was because we were completely enchanted by Jen Dalby’s somewhat hypnotic voice and stage presence – These are the ones I’ll be watching closely this summer.

All in all a fantastic line up and The Coalition works incredibly well as a live gig venue – a true Brightonian’s night out. 

To find out more about what’s on at The Coalition visit: drinkinbrighton  

Written by Sarah L Sharp

This is an entry for the competition to win a ticket to the Beachdown Festival.

The winner will be the one whose writings recieve the most visits.

See all of the entries here

For details of the festival www.beachdownfestival.com

The Hussy is giving out a press pass for this years Beachdown Festival. The ticket will go to the contributor whose work receives the most visits on The Hussy.

If you are interested go to our competion section to find out more….

This is an entry for the competition and a review of last year’s event.

The toilets. They were supreme. My previous experiences of festival toilets have been swing doors and precarious holes. You perch, hover or take a chance and sit, and pray that the entire structure isn’t about to collapse into the swirling pit of hell below. You bring your own toilet paper. And you don’t look down.

Yes. I don’t sound like a hardcore outdoor party queen. But I’ve done my share of festivals. I know how to sneak in my own booze, accessorise with nature, and survive off nowt but bread rolls and fizzy sweets for four days.

I certainly don’t expect a seat, a sink, a flush or a mirror! But that’s what the organisers of virgin Beachdown saw fit to provide their festival goers last year. I thank them from the bottom of my jaded heart.  The almost constant supply of big yellow buses also meant that us local types with more vanity than sense could nip back home and freshen up between sets.

I think that most of the people who attend festivals have some sort of appreciation for, or affinity with, nature. They like their partying to have an aesthetic edge. Otherwise why bother to lug the best part of your comfortable home to the middle of a field? 

There were plenty of aesthetics for when your eyes, and your brain, needed a little respite. You can see the sea, and feel that little bit closer to the sky than you would anywhere else in Sussex. If your tent or indeed, your head, needs airing – well the breeze up there is relentlessly stiff. Last summer gave us a pretty pathetic performance, but when the sun did stop by you felt warm inside and out.

OK, so I’ve talked about the toilets and the views. You probably the rightful place for this review is in Homes and Gardens. So let’s get on to the good stuff shall we?

Obviously, the music. Why didn’t I start with the music? Last year’s line up included The Maccabees, De La Soul, Fun Lovin’ Criminals, and Jose Gonzalez. Lots of local talent. Not bad for £85. And the site is small enough that you could get round and see everybody you wanted to without having to synchronise watches. Thanks to a combination of over-indulgence and the discovery of the dance tent, which, once I’d finished bouncing about in, I decided to lie on the floor of, I didn’t get to see that much. The Maccabees were wonderful though. Chirpy and impressively competent and got the freezing cold crowd thawed out. Because, I’m not gonna lie to you, it is bloody chilly up there. Bring layers. Get your nan to knit you something cosy. Nobody will care what you’re wearing. This is something else I really enjoyed about this festival. The absence of over-styled, super-preened fashionistas. Half the fun of these things is checking out what everybody else is wearing, if it’s nothing but Top Shop then you feel a bit cheated.

In addition to the bands, there were lots of opportunities to bob about al fresco. The disco dance shed, for example, a valuable addition to any atmosphere. The DJ’s judged the mood of the crowd perfectly i.e. we’re drunk, play something that’ll make us go waaaaay! I’ve already mentioned the dance tent, needless to say, I enjoyed that a bit too much. When you are sticking to your wellies with the sweat of your exertions, you can toddle off and get yourself a paella. Or a steak sandwich. Or a gourmet pie. A nice change from the usual Friday night cold chips or wilting kebab. I felt almost virtuous, being able to soak up all the excess with such healthy food stuff.

 Of course, it wasn’t all gravy. I did get the distinct impression that the organisers were still finding their feet. Sorry to bang on about the toilets, but, beautiful as they were, there weren’t nearly enough of them. There was also the promise of the showers, but these never materialised. The setting up still seemed to be going on 2 days in. And I know I’m not supposed to complain about this sort of thing, but the security was fairly rigorous. You had to know your stuff if you wanted to get anything past those guys.

Still, we don’t expect perfection in England, do we? We can put up with a lot for the promise of a good time. And that promise, overall, was kept. In the words of Travis from Clueless: ‘two very enthusiastic thumbs up’.

 To find out more and buy tickets for Beachdown 2009

www.beachdownfestival.com

Written by Emma Cave

Andrew Mockett

When my three year old comes back from nursery then potato prints and corrugated card models are to be expected. But they are the sorts of thing only a parent could love. Andrew Mockett on the other hand has produced an exhibition that even people that didn’t give birth to him can enjoy.

Printed packaging card cut-out to make models and wood cut-out to make prints of packaging. Clever.

Primary colour. Naïve patterns. Retro-sweet-wrappers. Nostalgic.

The hand made books made collated prints had me thinking….

I keep getting emails from Taschen promoting “Limited edition” art books, often tipping over the thousand pound mark. But they are still made on the same machines that produced any-old book.

On the other hand Mockett’s handmade books are truly limited editions. And you could cut out the pages and sell them separately and make a tidily unscrupulous profit.

The exhibition is in the ever-so-lovely, seafrontally-situated Castor and Pollux gallery-cum-bookshop.

On until 20^th April

Dear friend,

You are a friend of a friend, about whom I know even less than I know about crop rotation in the fourteenth century, or marine biology, or correct programming syntax. Having said that, I can claim to know more about sheep farming in the twentieth century, and about quantum physics, and pre-Renaissance art, than I know about you. Give me one reason why either of us should continue to keep our names on some mindless list in Cyberspace.

(Excerpt from Friends Like These by Colin White)

“Nobody writes letters anymore,” explains Colin White, the London based author of Friends Like These. “They poke each other, they fling sheep, they scrawl on their Humpty Dumpty walls…” White is disillusioned.

After signing up to Facebook in autumn 2007, White abandoned any dealings with the site around the time his subscription to it hit the one year mark. Or at least, he eased off. Struck suddenly by the site’s innocuousness, White began ruminating on what friendship actually meant to him, and indeed what it seems to have become thanks to platforms like Facebook.

“It is a medium which does not inspire communication. It merely breeds narcissism…rewards the apathetic and celebritizes mediocrity,” he says: “It anaesthetises its users…I’ve had the most lacklustre conversations with characters from the previous chapters of my life, you wonder why they added you in the first place.” White packs no punches with his opinions, very much like he refuses to hold back in his book, a 138 page expose of the foibles of social networking.

As such sites become an ever increasing staple in our lives, supposedly, so does the inability to communicate in real-time. Inspired – no, appalled – by the fact, White composed 258 ‘letters’, one to every ‘friend’ nestled amid his popularity roster on the Facebook. Interspersed with apposite quotations from the likes of Bill Hicks (”The day I uploaded [the book] coincided with the 15 year anniversary of the death of Bill Hicks, which swung my decision whether to include his quote in my conclusion,”), Beethoven, Aristotle and even Love, Friends Like These is sectioned into tenuous chapters thematically tinged with anything from love and admiration to disapproval to profound dislike.

Admitting that the initial spark for the book in its entirety began as a reaction against “one particularly annoying soul,” the subsequent dialogue developed “like something stuck in my teeth, giving way to a cavity. It was like therapy…” Cleverly using the format of a letter, White explains that such an “old fashioned” way of communicating could in turn “now be considered novel”.

Compelling (I read the book comfortably within 40 minutes), frank and viscerally revealing, Friends Like These might sound like a bit of a waste of time for anyone not known to White, and of course, anyone not featured (anonymously, I might add) in the book. Happily, that’s balderdash. For anyone who ever had their doubts about the way their lives and friendships were tipping, this is an essential piece of reading.

“There’s now a universally fanatical interest in self-portrait photography,” he says: “You hear people saying things like, ‘Ooh, that’s gonna be my new profile pic,’ or ‘That’s classic!’ or ‘That’s well random!’ And it’s all absolute shite.”

With astringent integrity and grit, White’s gonzo writing style is absorbing, entertaining and concise. His sharp tongue is both helpful and apologetic and at all times, laugh-out-loud funny. Plucking at the voyeuristic strings to our human bows, and somewhat ironically reflecting one’s own morbid curiosity for such lambasted carryings on on the likes of Facebook (think photo album after photo album of a snap happy clone), White’s opus is a weighty and worthwhile introduction to a writer who has every potential of garnering a cult following.

Friends Like These by Colin White is out now and available to order in print or download version at:-

http://stores.lulu.com/boredbrand

By Plum Woodard

by Francesca Jones

This is an entry for the Beachdown Photographers Competition

Voting for the winner will take place in June.

If you want to see this photographer win, you need to  VOTE HERE

All Photographs by Francesca Jones

 If you want to see this photographer win, you need to  VOTE HERE

This is an entry for the Beachdown Festival photographt competiton.

The Hussy is going to send a photographer to capture all the festivalness of Beachdown, if you are interested in participating see the Hussy’s competiton section for details.

It is Free to enter.

The Brian Jacket Letdown

‘White Sky’

It’s been a good ol’ while since TBJL hit us up with their sonic airbrushes. Lying largely fallow since ‘07, the band’s ever changing line-up have since enlisted the help of bassist Alyssa McDonald of Scritti Politti fame. Along with Alyssa, newcomer Gemma Ware fans The Jacket’s flames with her oddball box of musical wonders, peppering the band’s signature whimsical with sax, reed organ and glock nuances among other aural tickles.

Plucked from their debut album Darling Bit Me, TBJL release ‘White Sky’ this spring. Fabulously eerie, ‘White Sky’s’ melancholic cha-cha recalls the ephemeral roll of a new and brighter season. With cocky little cowbell tunks icing fuzzy guitars and throaty basslines, the record stabs somewhere in between Wilco and Seabear and the very visceral nostalgia therwith. The single’s B-side, ‘Devil In My Room’ takes a horny bow to Eliot Smith waltzing to the Hispanic shimmer of Buena Vista Social Club. An understated gem of a record, it’s quite easily a chunk of any self-respecting music gorger’s summer soundtrack.

Released on 25^th May through Genepool Records

www.thebrianjacketletdown.com

by Plum Woodard

Dirty Stop Out

‘Cuntro Classics Volume 1′

As the play on words in the title suggests, Volume 1 in a succession of similar releases is a brazen, filthy, fuck-mouth dollop of psycho billy, country punk and rock’n'roll. Comprising seven tracks, Volume 1 is hosted by three whip-ass collaborators who make up the bases of Dirty Stop Out: bastion of high-end lingerie and founder of Agent Provocateur, Joe Corre; ‘Filthy’ Luca Mainardi; and Mick Jones of The Clash. Sure, dab the sweat from your brow, but that ain’t half of it.

Seemingly following in his parent’s footstep’s, Corre’s dealings in music comes as testament – albeit it both quite sweet and rather bent at the same time – to Malcolm McClaren and Vivienne Westwood’s associations with The Sex Pistols. Dirty Stop Out aren’t just punk, though: they’re fuck punk. With a little help from their friends (that’s Bobby Gillespie, Les Rita Mitsuko and Nina Hagen to me and you…), Dirty Stop Out’s first offering in the sound stakes is high octane, tongues (and tits) out catharsis. A bag of goodies in every way, the suspense for Volume 2 is killin’ me…

Available now on Agent Provocateur Entertainment

www.agentprovocateur.com

by Plum Woodard

Sunday Driver

‘Rats / The Gayatri Mantra’

It’s both a shame and no surprise that the Cambridge sixpiece, Sunday Driver, haven’t garnered the recognition they perhaps ought to have during their nine years as a band. A melting pot outfit of characters, they marry traditional Indian sounds and instruments with very eccentric Englishness: maybe where they stumble.

This double A-side, taken from their album In The City Of The Dreadful Night, is a spectral whammy of instrumentation and mellifluous noise. The mischievous ‘Rats’ could easily lend itself as a backdrop to some creepy story by Neil Gaiman as Chandy Nath’s crystal cut vocal soars and bounds to muted sitar riffs and acoustic guitar. In contrast, ‘The Gayatri Mantra’ is a swathe of traditional tabla, sitar and clarinet with “repurposed Sanskrit” lyrics, Crispian Mills’s idea of heaven, no doubt. This kaboom of fusion listening is most certainly worth the pennies, if exclusively for those who can cope with the stop and change aspect of Sunday Driver’s musical nature.

Released 16^th March on Bakul Bagan Records

www.sundaydriver.co.uk

www.myspace.com/sundaydriverinuk

by Plum Woodard

Eternal Light Tour 2009

To begin with, I should just make it absolutely clear – I know nothing about dance.

My personal involvement doesn’t go much beyond bad disco and my frame of reference for dance-as-an-art-form stretches from the aspirational saccharine of Billy Elliot to the leather trousered, clog-hopping, dwarf of River Dance. So if you want to read a knowledge-based review of this evening I suggest you go here or here.

If you are still with me at this point then you share my finely balanced traits of curiosity and ignorance, so welcome aboard and read on.

I had time to snatch a few words from the programmes before the lights downed and the curtain upped.  This background research was all I had to go on for the first act. So the key phrases of The Raft of Medusa and ideas about Rapture were to be my guides for the evening. The Raft of Medusa was a giant surfboard on which 150 semi-clad Frenchmen cannibalised themselves. This was going to be interesting.

Eternal Light: A Requiem

I kind of got the raft formation of the dancers so was happy to go with the metaphor. OK, so first thoughts after heaping praise upon myself for getting the raft-thing – they didn’t all seem to be moving in time. The pussycat dolls may not have much classicism under their basques but when they writhe, they writhe as one. Then the raft formation broke up. Remember in primary school PE music and movement lessons? Well it was a bit like that with elements of Dead Head look-at-me-I-am-a-free-spirit-ism thrown in there.

Everybody off stage, all change.

When the next erm…act? scene? movement? began, I noticed the music. Up until this point I had been so busy trying to analyse something that was far beyond my understanding that I hadn’t even registered that there was any music. Suddenly everything was transformed. From this moment, some primal quarter of my brain took over.

Latin chanting and half remembered poems dragged up stuff I can’t describe from places I dare not go. Twelve crucifixes were lowered over the stage. Here was a trick learnt from masters, Madonna, Metallica, Ozzy Osbourne all new the power of this stuff. “In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row” overlaid with “Dies Irae”. Bloody hell! Literally. Judgement Day. This would have little Billy Elliot pissing in his pants. Doom laden death ballet. Or was it full of hope? That probably depends on your glass half-full, half-empty status. And anyway it’s a yin-yang thing.

More of the same up until the interval; which isn’t a bad thing – coz I was loving it.

Two Solos as a Tribute to Norman Morrice & See Me

Part two was good, but not as good. The resonant chanting of penitents was replaced with the yeah, yeah, whatever music I expected. The lighting made me think of the scene in Face/Off with Nicholas Cage totally out acting John Travolta. As I thought this I realised that I was no longer in The Zone. I started to notice that the dancers’ footsteps were very loud on the stage – which was very shiny.

During the second interval, I debated with myself as to wether I should go/stay.

I was distracted from my inner arguments by three plums in shiny suits standing next to me at the bar. They were debating the quality of the dancers and Rory – a fat goggle eyed twat – announced that he would “do” the second girl from the left.

I stayed. I wish I hadn’t.

Carnival of the Animals

The third part was carnival of the animals. To my layman’s eyes/ears it was plinky-plonky music that was intended to sound like an animal accompanying a dance that represented said animal. Some retrospective googling proved this guess to be fairly accurate. It was the Lion King without the costumes or music. I am sure Fat Rory got off on seeing his favourite dancer portraying flirtatious chicken. But I didn’t get it. The backdrop portrayed Henri Rousseau in one of his jungles and I could hear him thinking, “my paintings of animals are childlike and unrealistic, but this takes le biscuit” Well-said Henri.

The Rambert Dance Company’s press officer agent told me that three parts of the production was like a box of chocolates. I like the metaphor; I will stretch it beyond its elastic limit.

To begin with I picked out an orgasmic liquor. I bit into it tentatively and was pleasantly surprised as liquid seductively ran all over my tongue before warming my throat. The vapours infused my mind leaving me feeling light-headed. Part two was a strawberry cream. The finale was that hard caramel that gets thrown way with the packaging.

 When: 04/03/2009

Where: Theatre Royal Brighton

For more info www.rambert.org.uk

Patti Plinko

Upstairs at Three and Ten, Kemptown, Brighton. www.otherplaceproductions.co.uk

Friday 13^th February 2009.

A year ago (almost literally bar a week) saw Ms Patti Plinko kick off her sesh by being untied from her lace blindfold to perform a sultry, sexy set. This time around there’s no blindfold (don’t worry, Her Boy still wears a gas mask) and a lot more talking in between songs of the whys and hows, which is a good thing because it then all starts to make sweet sublime sense.

The songs are the same deliciously dark ditties with tongue-in-cheek lyrics about death, murders and sex, all wickedly crooned in a honey-esque tone.

Patti Plinko still pours herself whiskey but this time less often and with more haste. Maybe because she has more songs to sing a year later or maybe because she and Her Boy share lots more giggles and banter with each other and to us, the grateful audience.

Ukueles are strummed, Piaf style notes are rasped and the two still deliver a memorable, unique performance everyone listening will remember forever more. And that’s really not an exaggeration. This gal’s vocal chords have been compared to Marilyn Monroe, Regina Spektor, Bessie Smith, and Jaqued Brel so there! Oh and Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls didn’t describe Patti as ‘like a mad fucking Doris Day meets PJ Harvey’ for nothing.

The only teeny criticism to be given which, yes is a personal view but hey, this is a review not a press release, is that there was a tad too much ‘mad’ theatrical eye rolling and raspy screams for moi and my pal. For us, the dramatic lyrics spoke for themselves and the constant scream-like noises just detracted from a fab, original voice we just wanted to hear more of.

Welcome to the surreal, black comical world of Dada Noir a la Patti Plinko. You’ll so be back for more!

See www.myspace.com/pattiplinkoandherboy

Album out now!

By Monica Perdoni

McClusky’s in Kingston is an odd place for a band like Friendly Fires to play, in fact it’s an odd place for anyone to play. An accurate description would be a Wetherspoons with live music. To be fair the stage and dance floor could be any small venue in the world and for the euphoric art-house pop of one of 2008’s best breakthrough artists it worked pretty well.

Friendly Fires quietly slipped in last year, arriving after the initial wave of horribly dubbed ‘nu rave’ bands such as Klaxons and NYPC they managed to avoid all the tacky glow-stick hype and neon. Having seen what’s subsequently happened to Shit Disco and The Sunshine Underground and without trying to forge conspiracies perhaps it was no coincidence that it took them two years to produce their ten track self-titled debut album.

The album is a cracker and the band do a good job converting it to a live show. Lead singer Ed MacFarlane manages to transfer all the energy from the record. They open up with previous single, ‘Jump In The Pool’, the breakdown is reminiscent of late Talking Heads with its strong influence of world music, cowbells and all, which works well to get the crowd into it.

They continue to work through the high points of ‘Friendly Fires’, crowd favourites ‘Paris’ and ‘Photobooth’ have the crowd singing back them giving a real show of just how catchy  and uplifting the lyrics are. The chorus of ‘Paris’ allows MacFarlane to really let rip on the vocals and Edd Gibson’s synths sound almost E.L.O.-ish, it’s great stuff.

The pace is frenetic and impressively Friendly Fires manage to pull it off for the whole show, any lull is just a build up for a crescendo. ‘White Diamonds’ provides no finer example with the toe-tapping slowly building to foot stopping and by the time the hook comes in no one in the front is able to stand still. The penultimate track is twinkle-pop beauty ‘Strobe’ which really should have closed the set but with a single to promote they close with ‘Skeleton Boy.’ By this time the crowd have calmed down and serves as a reminder that Friendly Fires are by no means the finished article.

They’ll be back in London with the ‘NME Awards Tour’ at Brixton Academy on the 21^st of February and despite an inevitable hefty price for the corporate variety show a chance to see them shouldn’t be passed up lightly.

Tickets are available for all UK venues from seetickets

www.myspace.com/friendlyfires

Review: 13th February 2009

at The Prince Albert, 48 Trafalgar Street, Brighton, BN1 4ED

Upstairs at The Albert, a hop, skip and a jump from Brighton Railway Station, was another evening of quality music in the cosy, upstairs bar.  Opening the evening was Charlot Webster, a singer-songwriter armed with a half-size electric guitar or ukelele and backed up with a friend on drums, glockenspiel, keyboard and kazoo.  The first and most noticeable thing about Webster is her voice, which, within seconds, silenced the entire room; it’s somewhere between the quick, spritely and emotive tones of Fiona Apple and the dark, beguiling, jazzy sound of Cat Power, but more importantly it’s beautiful.  Fortunately the songs Webster sings are beautiful too, musically and lyrically, with melodies that ring around your head and inventive arrangments; though one track did get quite close to Kate Nash territory.

Second act Duke Raoul (a mixed up Hunter S. reference?) and though they had a tough act to follow they didn’t need to worry, their indie-pop sound was energetic and catchy and again bolstered by their lead-singer(Alex Painter)’s voice which was refreshing and, when required, stirring and powerful; especially on their penultimate song a rousing, slow-number that – for me – was the stand-out of their set.  Otherwise their upbeat indie didn’t fall into many of the pitfalls that a lot of current acts stagger blindly down and provided a pleasingly spiky mid-point to the night.

Closing the evening was Stars and Sons, who said they weren’t used to headlining an evening, but they did a damn fine job of it.  Their closest cousin, sound-wise, is Ben Folds Five, with lead-singer Mike Lord also hammering the keys of his piano, a lot of their songs really brought back memories of the early days of Ben Folds Five when their music was full of life, wit and noise.  Though they do bare a slight resemblence aurally, they did not feel like a rip-off and had an overall musical feel of their own, with songs exploding into life and the band performing them with visible passion and skill.

On a downside the audience were a little timid tonight, keeping their distance from the stage (a side-effect of the Albert’s seating plan), any newcomers to the venue throughout the evening masochistically forced themselves through the tightly tesselated crowd and made their way into any available nook at the back of the room.  Elsewhere there was a brilliantly stocked merchandise table, mainly crammed with the arts and crafts of Charlot Webster that included a ‘zine, CDs with hand-sewn packaging, framed artwork and a flip-book; also present was her mix-tape exchange, a charming lo-fi, retro concept where you bring a mix-tape you’ve made, drop it in a box and take one out in return and, fingers crossed, listen to some good music.

All in all the Albert has managed to host another great evening of music, this time showcasing three of the finest Brighton-based acts around at the moment.

Showcasing unsigned musical talent from across the UK, the ‘Red Stripe Awards’ offer unsigned artists the chance of securing slots at three of this summer’s most celebrated festivals including Brighton’s very own ‘The Great Escape’. Boasting itself as ‘completely and utterly unbiased to trends’ the ‘Red Stripe Awards’ are true to their word. Although not quite WOMAD the promoters certainly went to an extra effort to offer something more diverse than the forefront of Brighton’s ‘indie pop’ epidemic.

Two piece act ‘The prjct myhm’ kicked off the show, multi-mentalist Captain Crunch was in charge of grimy dubstep drops while the lyrical bluntness of MC Princess Sections ensured all the underage kids in the room puked  when she announced ‘you want my DNA dumpster that’s what you gona’ get’. Just a bit more onstage unity between Princess and the Captain might’ve been what was needed to cement their brave and undeniably interesting concept.

Next up were ethereal electro pop act ‘The Blueskies’, demonstrating intellectual harmonies, and a fantastic gizmo that apparently turned the guitar into a violin, they were enough to win over any music geek in the crowd. A futuristic live soundscape with soulful yet withdrawn vocals makes them possibly the closest thing you could get to a soundtrack for a particularly emotional episode of Star Trek.    

‘BangBangBang!‘ however left the greatest impression of the night; it wasn’t so much that their predecessors lacked anything but possibly because furious, three-chord, guitar rape from the 90s seems brutally superimposed on the bureaucratic debauchery of the sheepishly coined ‘noughties’. The female fronted grunge trio, tantrumed and stomped all over the stage unfortunately receiving little sympathy from a decidedly pastoral looking crowd who perhaps would have been considering the practicalities of  on-stage safety belts had they not already been busying themselves queuing up for ear plugs.

No, seriously, as we all know too well now, health and safety is the essence of happiness, and as the front man of  final act ‘The Die Vibes’ vigorously yanked at the rail dividing him from the crowd I didn’t feel I could totally condone his risqué behavior. With Ricky ‘Kaiser’ charm and a chirpy wink for the audience, they are most definitely a peoples band. Fans in the crowd were singing along for most of the set and commendable in-between-song banter had the most cynical of punters trying desperately to purse their lips. So long as they keep their fringes beautifully aligned these boys have all the ingredients of perfect pop prowess. 

Words by Will Gore

 This article is an entry for the Beachdown writers competition 

A cynical parody voicing the cyclical nature of abusive relationships or  just the kind of weird-sexy fetish stuff you discovered on your second read through the pages of vice, privately noted as a ’sado-masochist goldmine’ and then continued to sheepishly indulge in at the back of the bus. Florence and her machine pound through the blues in full rockabilly swing, raucously accounting for a few smashed plates, a broken leg and an incinerated mattress. With a soulful but perfectly misplaced voice reminding you of inappropriately applied bright lipstick ‘Kiss with a fist’ is perhaps reminiscent of KT Tunstall after she actually admitted to committing bestiality with her Black Horse.

Words by Will Gore

Review: 28th January 2009

at The Prince Albert, 48 Trafalgar Street, Brighton, BN1 4ED

Being new to Brighton I asked someone, as I finished watching soundchecks, if upstairs at the Prince Albert is a good place for live music.  They said, No.  From the standard of the three bands playing tonight they were wrong.

Opening the evening on this leg of a rotating-headliner tour was Video Nasties, a five-piece from London crafting catchy indie-pop with spiky flourishes.  They quickly won the crowd, oddly squashed around an array of tables and seats, with their chop-changing and energetic songs reminiscent of The Libertines covering Los Campesinos!  They hammered their instruments with a great deal of enthusiasm and a wonderful array of hairstyles.

Up next were Cardiff’s Threatmantics (they either followed me to Brighton, or I followed them).  This unique folk-rock trio distort nursery-rhymes through a wall of guitar noise, battered drums and plonking keyboard and screeching, or tender, viola, with lead-singer Heddwyn Davies trilling about such things as apple trees or little birds.  Their songs are instantly catchy, playing around memorable hooks and then distorting and warping them or doing a complete 180 and switching from innocence to angry and back again.  Their debut mini-album Upbeat Love is highly recommended.

Swanton Bombs were tonight’s finale, a lead-singer/guitarist and a drummer, unleashing angular, scruffy indie post-punk with charm and smart arrangments.  Like a half-size The Clash, their songs are oddly buoyant and see them channeling the spirit of 80s alternative through a modern filter.  Live lead-singer Dominic twitches and coos around the mic, stabbing at his guitar and drummer Brendan is an alarming counterpoint as his arms flail around his drum-kit with elastic flexibility.

A jaunty, cacophony of noise which juxtaposes awkwardly against the seating layout and the bizzare choices for between band music.  And, looking ahead on the Prince Albert’s MySpace, one of a numer of appealing gigs coming to this little nook above a very pleasant little bar tucked away just behind the train station.

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

Mr Hyde

He thinks too much

elissa elwick

 It was one of those days when the weatherman’s predictions of fire and brimstone had been thwarted by the protective power of the South Downs, the mighty mountain range bouncing the clouds back to drench the good folk of London village.

“In this millennium, in this town, who thinks they can pass off strong instant coffee as an espresso?” 

I took the opportunity to glide along the seafront from Kemptown to Hove. I am not good at rollerblading, in fact I am barely competent but as I cruised past Hove lawns a tourist photographed me. My role in his holiday film was that of a solitary flamingo drifting through a safari on Kenya’s Lake Nakuru. I am not suggesting that I was either a natural wonder or a lanky, nock-kneed caricature with a hooked nose; I was just doing what a tourist expected to see in the place where a tourist would like to see it. A red rock in most places is just a red rock; put it in the middle of Australia and people will ooh, then aah, then photograph.

Transformed into an eight-wheeled juggernaut by my brief flash of celebrity I continued to roll westwards until a wobbly encounter with some flint pebbles reacquainted me with my mediocrity.

Time for a coffee break at the Lawns Cafe, but what should have calmed and soothed irritated and nauseated. What was described as an espresso on the menu was actually a cup of freeze-dried, instant astringent. In this millennium, in this town, who thinks they can pass off strong instant coffee as an espresso?

We are all judged relative to our neighbours. Having masqueraded as a schoolteacher, where exaggerated-to-the-point-of-absurd praise is a sad necessity, I know that when you are told “Excellent!” the truth is more likely, “You’re crap, but not as crap as the person sitting next to you.”

“A red rock in most places is just a red rock; put it in the middle of Australia and people will ooh, then aah, then photograph”

So I accept that if anybody else was rollerblading with any degree of elegance, it would have been them and not me that was immortalised. The Lawns Cafe should realise that establishments surrounding it think its the class dunce, and are grateful for its cheapskate coffee ineptitude for making them look half decent.

Here are the rules: Ugly befriends uglier; stupid finds stupider; smelly hangs with smellier. Until the pyramid scheme of life collapses and crushes us all.

Illustrated by Elissa Elwick, www.elissaelwick.co.uk

.

An essential part of my weekly routine is my Saturday morning croissant. Last weekend the ritual led me to re-examine the ethereal glue that holds our universe together.

This being England the couple that own and run the local newsagents are from India; this being Brighton the newsagent sells freshly baked pain-au-chocolate. Every week, after my morning coffee, I stride out through Kemptown village to gather in two croissants and a Guardian. It’s what insufferably smug Brightonians do at the weekend.

The man who bakes the croissant is extremely short – he needs to stand on a box to reach his own till. I like him; he makes me think of good things, immigrants carving an entrepreneurial niche, a nation of shopkeepers. He bakes extremely good pastries, as good as any I’ve tasted in France, better than any I’ve eaten in Italy. As you enter the shop the fresh-baked aroma rises above the expected odour of cornershopiness. It elevates me.

I gather in two croissants and a Guardian. It’s what insufferably smug Brightonians do at the weekend

This ritual is an essential part of my life, it separates week from weekend, it forces me to walk along the seafront. On this particular morning, as I cut back along Marine Parade, what I saw brought to mind a half-forgotten image of beautifully bikinied ladies riding bareback along a beach and joyfully tossing rugby balls to each other – a picture of glistening bliss and youthfulness. The image was from a New Zealand TV advert, the tag line went along the lines of “Girls in bikinis, ponies, rugby, beaches – individually good, better together.” It was an ad for Burger King’s cheesy chicken and bacon burger. The follow-up ad featuring girls, trampolines and a shower was banned.

So what was it that dragged this memory into my frontal lobes? It was a Smart Car, or to be more precise a fat man getting into a Smart Car. To be even more precise, it was 300lb of obesity stuffed inside 1,600lb of well-meaning ugliness, his proudly domed beer-belly rammed up against the front window. Some things are moderately unpleasant on their own but completely unpalatable together.

Thus as I nibbled my pastry I was left to ponder the delicate yin-yang balance of the universe. The diminutive shopkeeper and his patisserie are the moon and stars, a match in heaven; a fat bloke in a Smart Car is a paedophile clown at a kids’ birthday party

Illustrated by Elissa Elwick, www.elissaelwick.co.uk