Brighton Rock
As a child you have no comprehension that things are other than you know. So, when I first visited Brighton beach as a child with my family, my antipodean understanding of a beach came to a crashing halt.
Not only was there no sand (what the?) but there was also no surf, and no salt spray.
Even as a child I can remember looking out and being bitterly disappointed with the vast lake-like mass of water that is Brighton “beach”. Especially given all the hype.
However, as I have previously banged on about, I like to confront my childhood memories to see how accurate they are and so I am just back from a weekend by the sea.
Despite the fact that I have had some kind of TB related Tube illness for the last week, resulting in me feeling like I’m gagging down gravel every time I swallow I packed up my “summer” clothes, filled my mp3 with summer songs and headed to the beach.
I’m Australian. I may not have mentioned this. I live in Sydney. I live within 2 hours (at most) of some of the world’s best beaches. I could snorkel off Coogee Beach or body surf off Narrabeen each morning if I so chose (mostly what I choose is shirt loads of espresso and little else, but I COULD if I wanted to…) And having grown up on the east coast of Australia, I have grown up in a Mambo, Rip Curl and zinc cream culture.
When my family and I weren’t living in the UK or New Zealand we were holidaying by the beach (basically we moved about a lot what with the witness protection lifestyle and all…) and so a beach to me requires sand that will scorch your feet and result in the hot, hot sand dance that is amusing to witnesses (not so much to the victim); a rolling surf (complete with rips and a few breakers that will dump kiddies into unseen sand bars); the ubiquitous yellow and red flags that anyone beyond the age of 10 never swims between and a spray of blue bottles/seaweed when the surf gets choppy.
So, needless to say, when I arrived in Brighton on the weekend to discover my childhood memory of a rocky beach looking out onto a flat as a tack body of water was still accurate, my seaside excitement rapidly dissipated.
None the less I had been commanded to go by a mate who was clearly going to keep hassling me until I made my way slightly further south and so I went. And he had lined up mates to take me out to fully experience Brighton, so I pushed aside my increasing desire to just crash at home in bed and sleep off my illness and went sea-side.
I tried to read Brighton Rock when I was about 15 – I was going through a Graham Green phase and wanted to impress a guy. I have a photo of me somewhere as a school girl, dressed in Nabokov-inspired uniform carrying around Brighton Rock. I think I actually carried it for about 12 months and got through about 2 chapters, both of which bored me witless.
Despite all this and an alleged resting state of cyncism – I arrived in Brighton with no preconceptions. However, when I wandered down to the beach and saw pod after pod of teenagers sitting around disposable BBQs on their rocky beach I laughed like a crazy person. And poms think Australians are bang up for a BBQ!
Brighton as a town manages to deliver pretty much every stereotype you can imagine when thinking of England. There are bucket loads of relaxed quaint English pubs, an entire street of fish and chip shops, an army of right proper geezers wandering around reading the Sun or the Mirror while wearing their George Cross shirt, and a scary assortment of really ugly body art. (Interestingly it also has a Mambo shop, something I have not seen for 12 months now and which added to my general sense of nostalgia.)
I’d bang on more but I’m feeling rubbish and basically just want to post this and go back to bed. Why do doctors, when you’re in a doctor’s surgery always start the consultation with “and how are we feeling today?” Surely being in the surgery should give them a heads up that you’re not feeling top notch?
And why do they always use we as the pronoun? I’m guessing they have a better idea how they’re feeing than I do.
I also went to York a few weekends ago where I tested my heathen status by attending a service in Yorkminster.
I proved my heathen status by leaving after about 10 minutes. I wasn’t christened as a child – I know I’m going straight to hell and so see very little point trying to rectify that now.
Dublin in a few days. My liver hurts just thinking about it actually.
Brighton Beach pier
Not only was there no sand (what the?) but there was also no surf, and no salt spray.
Even as a child I can remember looking out and being bitterly disappointed with the vast lake-like mass of water that is Brighton “beach”. Especially given all the hype.
However, as I have previously banged on about, I like to confront my childhood memories to see how accurate they are and so I am just back from a weekend by the sea.
Despite the fact that I have had some kind of TB related Tube illness for the last week, resulting in me feeling like I’m gagging down gravel every time I swallow I packed up my “summer” clothes, filled my mp3 with summer songs and headed to the beach.
I’m Australian. I may not have mentioned this. I live in Sydney. I live within 2 hours (at most) of some of the world’s best beaches. I could snorkel off Coogee Beach or body surf off Narrabeen each morning if I so chose (mostly what I choose is shirt loads of espresso and little else, but I COULD if I wanted to…) And having grown up on the east coast of Australia, I have grown up in a Mambo, Rip Curl and zinc cream culture.
Coogee Beach, Australia
When my family and I weren’t living in the UK or New Zealand we were holidaying by the beach (basically we moved about a lot what with the witness protection lifestyle and all…) and so a beach to me requires sand that will scorch your feet and result in the hot, hot sand dance that is amusing to witnesses (not so much to the victim); a rolling surf (complete with rips and a few breakers that will dump kiddies into unseen sand bars); the ubiquitous yellow and red flags that anyone beyond the age of 10 never swims between and a spray of blue bottles/seaweed when the surf gets choppy.
So, needless to say, when I arrived in Brighton on the weekend to discover my childhood memory of a rocky beach looking out onto a flat as a tack body of water was still accurate, my seaside excitement rapidly dissipated.
None the less I had been commanded to go by a mate who was clearly going to keep hassling me until I made my way slightly further south and so I went. And he had lined up mates to take me out to fully experience Brighton, so I pushed aside my increasing desire to just crash at home in bed and sleep off my illness and went sea-side.
I tried to read Brighton Rock when I was about 15 – I was going through a Graham Green phase and wanted to impress a guy. I have a photo of me somewhere as a school girl, dressed in Nabokov-inspired uniform carrying around Brighton Rock. I think I actually carried it for about 12 months and got through about 2 chapters, both of which bored me witless.
Despite all this and an alleged resting state of cyncism – I arrived in Brighton with no preconceptions. However, when I wandered down to the beach and saw pod after pod of teenagers sitting around disposable BBQs on their rocky beach I laughed like a crazy person. And poms think Australians are bang up for a BBQ!
Brighton as a town manages to deliver pretty much every stereotype you can imagine when thinking of England. There are bucket loads of relaxed quaint English pubs, an entire street of fish and chip shops, an army of right proper geezers wandering around reading the Sun or the Mirror while wearing their George Cross shirt, and a scary assortment of really ugly body art. (Interestingly it also has a Mambo shop, something I have not seen for 12 months now and which added to my general sense of nostalgia.)
Brighton Royal Pavillion
I’d bang on more but I’m feeling rubbish and basically just want to post this and go back to bed. Why do doctors, when you’re in a doctor’s surgery always start the consultation with “and how are we feeling today?” Surely being in the surgery should give them a heads up that you’re not feeling top notch?
And why do they always use we as the pronoun? I’m guessing they have a better idea how they’re feeing than I do.
I also went to York a few weekends ago where I tested my heathen status by attending a service in Yorkminster.
Yorkminster cathedral
I proved my heathen status by leaving after about 10 minutes. I wasn’t christened as a child – I know I’m going straight to hell and so see very little point trying to rectify that now.
Dublin in a few days. My liver hurts just thinking about it actually.
