There is nothing about Brighton as a location I dislike particularly – it’s very pretty, there are various interesting things to look at, nice quirky little shops, and always something going on if you can afford it and so on – it is just that a huge number of the people who live there are massive cocks.
Of course, cocks scatter the planet profusely, but whereas in the average town I would say the ratio of cocks to non-cocks is about 1:3, in Brighton that ratio is, at the very least, reversed. If you are a Brighton resident and reading this, it is statistically likely that you are a massive cock. If you are not, then it is almost inevitable that a good number of your friends are. You may want to look into this.
It is very hard to leave your home and go out and do something in Brighton without someone, somewhere ruining things by behaving in a cock-like manner. Notable events that stick out in my memory include the time the shop assistant in a bakery kept me waiting for several minutes as he shouted ‘are you the mayor?’ repeatedly at a passing man who quite obviously was the mayor. Or the day I went to the library to do some research only to find I couldn’t, as someone had booked the pedestrian area outside for a drum ensemble to play and advertise chocolate. Or more recently, when I made a regrettable return visit with my baby daughter, only to find that in Brighton a pavement is considered an excellent location for a brawl, regardless of whether someone is pushing a baby in a buggy down it at the time.
Even in my Brighton home, I was not free of cocks. The landlord of the flat below me had a strict ‘cocks-only’ policy when renting it out. The first resident was the owner of a pair of enormous Dalmations, who ran around his tiny flat crashing into things all day while he shouted ‘no more food!’ every minute or so. If however, I as so much accidentally dropped a magazine on the floor, he would shout up, convinced that every slight noise was an act of aggression against him. The next resident was a Dad’s Army obsessive, and would leave the menu screen of his DVD on for hours at a time, the volume loud, and the theme tune repeating over and over. Sometimes he wasn’t even in.
One incident in particular sums up my time in Brighton. The neighbours next door decided to have an all-night party, completely unannounced, in which they pumped music at top volume into their garden where they had lit a sizeable bonfire. When it became clear they were not going to allow anybody any sleep that night, I went round to request that they wrap it up. I was given this reply: ‘You’ve got to expect this time of thing. It’s Brighton.’ So, because I lived in Brighton, I had to expect going into work after absolutely no sleep due to a party to which I wasn’t even invited.
This is the logic of utterly selfish hedonism, devoid of consideration or even awareness of others, that permeates so much of Brighton. It is a playground for children who have never grown up. But not just any children. You remember the ones I mean from when you were growing up. Those children who were cocks.
The historical nickname for Brighton – ‘Queen of Slaughtering Places’ – may be a considered an overly regal one, conjuring up glory days of yonder that included the infamous trunk murders and death-by-chocolates murderess Christiana Edwards. Now, what’s left is a city that can boast having the highest drug-related death count and second highest suicide rate in England. It also has several areas that can proudly boast as being in the top 1% deprived in the country. Anyone in the South who wonders how grim it really is up North need only make the short journey to Brighton.
I am fortunate to live in one of the more salubrious areas, and yet am not allowed to go to sleep until 3am some weeknights due to the ketamine dealing, music pumping couple and their crying child who live on one side. I then get woken up at 7.30am on the dot by the sounds of the wife beater on the other side verbally and/or physically abusing his partner. We looked out into the shoddy back garden in the morning the other day and saw the next door toddler walking around with a fag in its mouth.