I should flamenco-co-co
So I’ve been getting behind on this blogguing business. I wish I had a better excuse than my compound lameness and lack of very much free time. Except I do have loads of free time. It’s like tidying up. I’m a semi-employed semi-doing an MA ‘twentysomething’ in Brighton, which means I have a hell of a lot of free time but am easily distracted and there’s too much going on. I’m also completely broke. For several years we have wondered how the Brighton Coffee Industry works. At any time of day, Brighton is full of people drinking cups of coffee. Do these people have jobs? Perhaps those who work in coffee shops go to the many pubs and bars in the evening, only to be served drinks by those who bought coffee from them during the day. Which means it’s some kind of rota system, and makes everyone in Brighton either drunk or hyper-caffinated all the time. The middle ground involves handing flyers to people moving from coffee shops to pubs or back again.
Cities tend to be built in areas which have good transport, industry, commerce, etc, resources. But Brighton doesn’t, It would have made much more sense commercially to place it where Shoreham is, for example, with a fine natural harbour. Brighton was a fishing village (burnt down by the French in 1506) until the Prince Regent took a fancy to it. Possibly the only city in the UK without any real reason to be there. This probably says a lot.
So on Monday the tenth of July, we went to go see Dinomania, a ‘hardcore punk band who dress as dinosaurs’. I was drinking poor mans Black Velvet, which is half Guinness and half Cider. Traditionally the cider is replaced with Champagne, but that wasn’t going to happen. The first band were a plain old hardcore punk band. The Engine Rooms is a proper old skool downstairs dark dingy gothic heavy metal club. It’s cool. It reminded me of going to the Forum in Kentish Town during my teenage years, but a lot smaller and with no smashed up cars lying around. Once Steve tried to kick one of the smashed up cars we were sitting in whilst they played Sliver by Nirvana whilst we were sitting in it, and we nearly got thrown out of the Forum for trying to smash up a smashed up car. Anyway, the next band played hardcore punk whilst wearing motorcycle helmets. I realised at this point that I really don’t like hardcore punk. But we were there for the dinosaurs. Onto the stage came a seven piece band with dinosaur heads. They looked pretty good, especially the singer who was right in front of me. That was cool, their jaws bobbed in a most dinosaur-esque way and they did keep growling dinosaur-stylee into the microphones. I think the only I understood was “dinomania”. Music wasn’t that good, but it was fun. They played for about 25 minutes, and then it finished. Me and Tom popped into the Regency on the way back, where we talked about pigeons, seagulls, and the Smallest Rococo Room.
Tuesday night means Spanish Night. From the candlelit romance of a table in a big room and ales (all we needed was a wandering violinist) to the havoc of about a hundred Spanish people all flamencoing in time.
Wednesday morning I awoke and me and Rosanne made a packed lunch and set off to the countryside on the number 77 bus. Determined to spot somebody we knew as we open-topped it around town; “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road, darling! You haven’t got a chance!”. Alas it didn’t happen, but before long we were passing the Booth Museum of Natural History and then Devil’s Dyke was upon us. What a commute! We walked over the hills, surrounded by sheep (both mute and vocal) and a wild dog. Over several hills, and then down a chalky slope. Stopping under some trees, we ate our sandwiches, returned to the pub by the bus stop, where we had a pint, and found ourselves on the bus. On the top, we were surrounded by exchange students. Having rushed to the bus, we sat there for about quarter of an hour before it moved off. Windswept and poofy-haired, we drove back into town, searching once more for someone we recognised. We eventually saw little sweet Katy walking up past the station to Sevendials. It seemed a bit harsh to call out “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road!”, so we didn’t. But we did call a greeting as we passed.
Cities tend to be built in areas which have good transport, industry, commerce, etc, resources. But Brighton doesn’t, It would have made much more sense commercially to place it where Shoreham is, for example, with a fine natural harbour. Brighton was a fishing village (burnt down by the French in 1506) until the Prince Regent took a fancy to it. Possibly the only city in the UK without any real reason to be there. This probably says a lot.
So on Monday the tenth of July, we went to go see Dinomania, a ‘hardcore punk band who dress as dinosaurs’. I was drinking poor mans Black Velvet, which is half Guinness and half Cider. Traditionally the cider is replaced with Champagne, but that wasn’t going to happen. The first band were a plain old hardcore punk band. The Engine Rooms is a proper old skool downstairs dark dingy gothic heavy metal club. It’s cool. It reminded me of going to the Forum in Kentish Town during my teenage years, but a lot smaller and with no smashed up cars lying around. Once Steve tried to kick one of the smashed up cars we were sitting in whilst they played Sliver by Nirvana whilst we were sitting in it, and we nearly got thrown out of the Forum for trying to smash up a smashed up car. Anyway, the next band played hardcore punk whilst wearing motorcycle helmets. I realised at this point that I really don’t like hardcore punk. But we were there for the dinosaurs. Onto the stage came a seven piece band with dinosaur heads. They looked pretty good, especially the singer who was right in front of me. That was cool, their jaws bobbed in a most dinosaur-esque way and they did keep growling dinosaur-stylee into the microphones. I think the only I understood was “dinomania”. Music wasn’t that good, but it was fun. They played for about 25 minutes, and then it finished. Me and Tom popped into the Regency on the way back, where we talked about pigeons, seagulls, and the Smallest Rococo Room.
Tuesday night means Spanish Night. From the candlelit romance of a table in a big room and ales (all we needed was a wandering violinist) to the havoc of about a hundred Spanish people all flamencoing in time.
Wednesday morning I awoke and me and Rosanne made a packed lunch and set off to the countryside on the number 77 bus. Determined to spot somebody we knew as we open-topped it around town; “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road, darling! You haven’t got a chance!”. Alas it didn’t happen, but before long we were passing the Booth Museum of Natural History and then Devil’s Dyke was upon us. What a commute! We walked over the hills, surrounded by sheep (both mute and vocal) and a wild dog. Over several hills, and then down a chalky slope. Stopping under some trees, we ate our sandwiches, returned to the pub by the bus stop, where we had a pint, and found ourselves on the bus. On the top, we were surrounded by exchange students. Having rushed to the bus, we sat there for about quarter of an hour before it moved off. Windswept and poofy-haired, we drove back into town, searching once more for someone we recognised. We eventually saw little sweet Katy walking up past the station to Sevendials. It seemed a bit harsh to call out “Scrubbers! Throw yourself into the road!”, so we didn’t. But we did call a greeting as we passed.
posted by Rufus Moonshine at 8:16 AM
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