Confessions of a part-time girl

A picture postcard from Brighton
9:52 a.m. -- 2009-05-19

I downloaded my pictures of Brighton. Some I like, some not so much. Here's something of everything, anyway.

The West Pier. Far more interesting than the other pier. This reveals something about my character, perhaps; that the rusting, dangerous ruin is more interesting than the 'living' pier crammed with candy floss and penny arcades.

Are piers a uniquely British institution? Who else would construct what is, effectively, a bridge to nowhere? (I mean, apart from L R0n Hu88ard's 'Br�dge t0 t0tal fr33dom'.) Piers are something of an endangered species now, because so many of us fly away to 'exotic' destinations like Spain, instead of toughing it out on the British coast... which is a bit of a shame.

A short walk along the beach, we find hundreds of superheroes running around the place. It's logical that superheroes have to keep fit, even more than the rest of us. All I'm saying is... it would have been a bad day to be a handbag snatcher.

This transvestite clearly needs some style tips. Once you've finished your legs, change to a fresh razor blade before you do your face, love... but hey: full marks for having the balls to run five kilometres in drag. And if you ever wondered about Wonder Woman...

...you were right to wonder.

Before I leave the subject of superhero runners, here's my favourite: V for Vendetta.

I'm not normally in the habit of re-touching boobs in Photoshop but I've blurred out her number, in case some asshole $ci�nto�ogist construes the wearing of a V-mask as criticism of the Cult of $ci�nto�og� (which it may or may not be) and tries to find out who she is, to 'fair-game' her.

Part of the Grand Hotel. (Most of it is ugly.) Not a place that I remember from my childhood holidays in Brighton (we were far too poor to stay there) but from watching the news back in 1984, when the IRA detonated a huge bomb inside the hotel while it was being used by the delegates of the Tory party conference. Say what you like about Mrs f_cking Thatcher... but that was low.

Seeing the paint-crusted ironwork of the beach shelters again brought back to me a little bit of Robert Calvert's writing, in which he parodies 'Protect and Survive' (or 'Duck and Cover' if you're American) by comparing a nuclear attack with the nuclear activity of the Sun. As soon as I got home, I had to look it up. It begins thus:

"This is an official government nuclear package holiday warning:

In the even of a dazzling Benidorm sunrise appearing over your grimy high-rise horizons, if you are within the minimum fifty mile radius: head for the shelters immediately. You will find them on the sea-front; the ones with the ice-cream cartons and cigarettes stubbed out in them. Do not forget your ration supply of Ambre Solaire to protect you from the effects of radiation bathing. Do not forget to cancel your newspapers, and milk deliveries..."

Calvert's seaside writings were mostly centred upon Margate, but I'm sure it wasn't so very different. Here's a classic British thing, that you'll probably find anywhere from Penzance to North Berwick:

You might think these are changing-rooms; static descendants of the Victorian 'bathing machine', but I've seen them in use. We Brits holiday at places that can be so bleak, some days, that the high-point of your outing is to retreat to your own little shed, and drink tea from a vacuum flask.

Sad? But true. Beach huts are iconic, with a beauty all their own. And y'know what? We were happy!

If you're wondering just how windy it can get at the seaside in mid-May...

Pretty blowy. And the sea was...

...rough. What better excuse to eat cheesy chips with chilli mayonnaise, and drink beer?

So we did.

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