Camel Trophy by Slawek Staszczuk
Via Flickr:
Night falls on Camelford Street in Brighton, East Sussex, England. 

Brighton Gothic

Someone, somewhere, is dancing. The dance is always the same.

Somewhere, Zoe Ball is jogging and eating avocado.

“Oh, I’m not from brighton. I’m from hove, actually. Never say I’m from brighton. Brighton is the forbidden land.”

You walk from the high street. Looking around, you realise you’re on another high street. You try to retrace your steps, but now you’re on a third high street.

Have you been to the beach? Have you been to the beach? Have you been to the beach? Do you go to the beach all the time? Have you been to the beach? None of us have been to the beach.

You decide you don’t want to go to subway today, not since they stopped the sub of the day. You turn a corner. There’s a subway. They are advertising the sub of the day. Please, they say. Join the sub squad.

The tiny houses aren’t part of Brighton, they’re part of hove beachfront. They are not on the beach. We do not talk of the tiny houses.

The palace pier! It’s the wonder of brighton. There are arcades, they say. And rides. The west pier is a forgotten carcass left at the border of hove. Nobody goes near the west pier anymore. It’s a warning.

There is no east pier.

In the centre of Brighton there’s a shadow. Sometimes local millenials share dark looks. There, pewdiepie once lived.

You are gay. Your mother is gay. Everybody is gay, unless they’re queer. The distinction is unspoken, but clear.

The Old Punks live here. Wander not beyond mount pleasant, lest ye lose yourself in the Patchouli Murk.

There are the lanes, and then there is The Laine. Do not enter the lanes unattended, lest you be lost forever. And never,ever enter The Laine without money.

The Skate Park has changed again. You no longer remember what it used to look like.

Do not bring your wood here. Here there are Elms. Here we are Green.

The Tories Do Not Come To Brighton.