Beautiful, bountiful Brighton

I was just sitting here having a little think, and I find myself in Brighton.

Brighton, Sussex, England.

I love the place.

There is so much of me in Brighton, that it is almost frightening to think that I am not a resident.

The last time I was there, in July this year, the sun beat down and the sea answered back in kind, reflecting every beam. It made me forget my troubles and enjoy the moment. It always does. Me and my heart lived it large those 3 days and nights, and it will be forever printed on my memory. Recalled for all time, with much, much love.

Just a couple of months before that, I kicked off my gigging year with my gigging buddy and confidante, to see Kasabian.

Shit, we had a ball that night. No alcohol, no smoking. Just pure vibes. One of the best nights out ever, and certainly the best this year.

There have been day trips and dancing, fish to see and eat, dinners in lane ensconsed hidey-holes, and moments of pleasure beyond measure. I love the place.

And then there is a sunny day in July 2002.

Me and 249,999 others on the beach and in every corner and crevice of Brighton.

I give you, Fat Boy Slim and his gang.

If you weren't there, you were probably very, very sensible when all things are considered by those of us that were. On the other hand.........

It was heaven.
It was hell.
It was shit (quite literally, if you ever care to ask me to elaborate. Be advised, this story contains real, strangers shit!).
It was amazing.
It was spiritual.
It was fucking mental!

We'd planned it for weeks and a little bunch of us were all booked up for a couple of nights, with the focus being the Fat Boy freebie on the beach.

The year before, when he did the first one, there were 40,000 souls on that slopey, stony, ankle-mullering stretch, but 6 times that number rolled up the year after.

And let me tell you lovely people, 250,000 is an immense crowd.

I mean, seriously.

You look back at it, and it UNDULATES like a living, single being. Shivers, even now

I saw some wonderous sights that day and night - a man of about 65-70, atop a lamp-post, with his legs wrapped tight for his own security, shouting 'COME ON!' at the top of his old lungs with every tune.

A couple, roughly the same age as him, chuffing away on a beautiful glass hash pipe, him holding the thing so sweetly to her lips as he lit it for her and kept it steady in this rolling, writhing crowd of lunatics.
They looked so very much at home, in that crowd and with each other.

A young boy of about 12 or 13, quite literally POPPED, like he'd just been born, out of the denser crowd, into the area I stood in at the end of the night, holding the hand of his mate. They were without parents, but held on to each other until they were free of the crush, one declaring to the other as they emerged, 'FUCKIN 'ELL!' , sporting grins the width of the beach!

I will not forget that day as long as I live.

I won't forget the friends I spent it with.

There are few places that would have been tenacious enough to take on the challenge (maybe Edinburgh) , but there is nowhere in Britain, like Brighton, Sussex, England.

You can fire my ashes from a rocket over that stretch of British coast. Off the pier no less.

We can then all rest assured, I'll be quite, quite happy.