Brighton. Think of three adjectives. They wouldn’t include ‘placid’, ‘sober’ or ‘quiet’. Brighton is a city which does not ask the question “why?”, but “why not?” It is, and always has been – party town. Where Britain comes to be naughty. Where international students come to learn English and…be naughty. And now it is shut. For the second time this year. The clubs are closed. The pubs are padlocked. The streets is emptied of outlandishness – the vibe is absent. Three hundred years of fun and now Tinsel town is temporarily tedious.
Having lived for eight years in Penzance, at the far western extreme of the country, I am used to seaside towns in the winter. When the tourists go and the gales blow, they hibernate. The hectic months give way to pub signs swinging in the wind, rain sodden roofs, empty streets. The world goes indoors. The elements rage and depression settles in for six months. Brighton ignores winter. Where its dullard seaside sisters scattered along the South coast – Eastbourne, Hastings, Worthing – revert to faded decrepitude from October onwards, Brighton just dons a rainbow coloured cagoule and carries on. Like in summer. But with rain. And wind. The seafront hums with hen parties. The pubs steam up with stag do’s. The money pours in from London come Friday evening and the coffers are filled. Sunday sees the sore heads in Sombreros and laddered stockinged flesh falling back up the streets to the station, London bound and back to work. Wage packets depleted and wallets replete with nothing more than receipts. Heads, wooden, dull with a hangover headache and hazy memories of a very good weekend.
But this winter, the winter of 2020, Brighton is trying on Eastbourne clothing for a good cause. We’re in unfancy dress. We’ve gone quiet. Less loud. Like the rest of the country, we are staying indoors and playing it safe. Yes, Sin City is in lockdown. But like a stripper disguised underneath a dirty old man mac, we can’t wait to reveal all and get raunchy. Like a butterfly wrapped up in a cocoon, we are desperate to emerge and show off our lovely colours. Loud, proud and pleaser to the crowd, we are like the fun fair shut up for the season: desperate to switch on the lights again and cry “roll up, roll up!” Sometimes it’s good to be the little bit of foolishness in everyone’s life. The place where people can let their hair down. Britain will need cheering up after all this serious stuff. It will need somewhere to illuminate our lives again. And Brighton will be waiting. Like an ostentatiously packaged, large, gaudy present sitting under the Christmas tree – desperate to be opened and tantalisingly tempting. Naughty but nice. But not just yet.
