Where Albion Ends

June 29 2016

Where Albion Ends - Week One - First Times Free

A bit Newslettery this, to be honest I’m experimenting with it because I’m thinking of starting a Patreon account and a newsletter would be one of the rewards. You’d all chuck us some pennies right?

The more things change the more they stay the same. That is to say I’m in a dirty pub with loud guitars squeals poking through the hub-bub and the downpour earlier makes the crowd smell like wet dog. A sign on the door in front of me reads


Home but never home, but I'm trying to change that. I live in Brighton now, welcome to my happy ending.


A Brighton Kind Of Day

Brighton, or “B - Right - on” as the local graffiti has it, has its own quirks and today I’ve had a day that could only really happen here. This morning was shades weather, some errands and a congratulatory pint with my giant irish friend. Between pubs we cut through the Laines, a warren of independant, hip shops selling not only mere things but the idea of cool, a chance to be part of a younger more colourful world. It has a tension between the local freaks that make it cool and the tourists that fund their freak lifestyle. Minutes later my celtic companion’s wallet has gone, if it was lifted, it was done well. Nothing lost that couldn't be replaced, but a warning none less.

Later I find myself at a “Stand Together” rally, but at this point the sky is pissing rain. The sort of bright sky rain that would have you looking for the rainbows if lifting your head didn't mean drowning. It's hard to tell how many were there, it was a tightly packed hedgehog, the top umbrella spikes and brightly colored canvas covering the crowd entirely, the side guarded by bicycles jutting out every metre or so. In the middle of this phalanx of hippies the speakers delivered impassioned speeches with the usual rhetoric that has been boiled down to soundbites with such efficiency it was easy to tune out and take in the throng. A diverse crowd (not racially of course this *is* the South East), middle aged men in cycling shorts and cagoules with rain dripping from their noses, young hippies covered in scarves, dads with pushchairs, some people overly prepared for the rain, vegan moms wrapped in layers of plastic, some not like the man in the t-shirt sheltering under a neighbor's umbrella. All clapping and cheering at the greatest hits, hope not hate, solidarity, calls to action, and even a poem.

Personally in a week I found out my views we’re in a minority, and the country in which I live a lot nastier and sharper than I ever hoped, it was good to be amongst people, however twee and lame, that not only wasn’t, but prepared to stand in the pouring rain and declare it.

Hold Britain by its ankles, give it a shake and all werdos will pool at the bottom. I'm going to like it here.


Night Of The Long Chives

People have asked why I haven't written about politics or our current situation, and I honestly haven't wanted to. Mainly for three key reasons

  1. The situation is moving so quickly that anything written becomes wrong and dated as soon as the publish trigger is pulled. And there’s nothing worse for an egotard like me than appearing wrong and dated.
  2. There's already a lot of insightful and sensible voices out there, I’d rather signal boost them then add another to the cacophony.
  3. I really don't know what to think, I'm as sad, and confused, and defiant as the next person.

I will say this though, if Corbyn is ousted that's another generation scratched from the political discussion, I was around the last time that happened, when over a million people marched through central london to protest a war that happened anyway. People went from politically engaged to venomously disinterested overnight. Which might be the point in the pantomime, turn people's heads away, apathys a greater sedative than television.


Okay that's it for now. I dont have comments, so any discussion can be pushed over to twitter where I’m @probablydrunk or my email dan@dirtybristow.co.uk

Read others