Shite on Brighton

Shite on Brighton

“Like many provincial towns,” the Private Eye reviewer stabs, “Brighton, as depicted in this hacked-together tribute, defines itself more by what it isn’t than by what it is. It’s not London, for one thing.”

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ince we’re having to move, the very fact of being in this particular town Brighton has risen in my attention. What, am I ready to leave already? Such a non-committal hand at this particular fishingboat should probably disqualify me from being listed on the Brighton Bloggers website. Nonetheless, we’re still here, even if my most common notion at the moment is partzifluchan. What does that mean? Weenie, I guess. Hollow, soft, airy-fairy, effete, goodygoody. Vapid.

This doubting of the place may partially be due to walking from Euston to the Strand for the first time. What a woosh! The park along the way (Russell Square) then Southampton Row becoming Kingsway: it’s a London artery I’d never seen before as one length.

And there’s this, a review in Private Eye (1184) of Made in Brighton by Julie Burchill and Daniel Raven:

But anyone actually tempted to buy the book is likely to be disappointed, not least because of the gap between its grandiose intentions (nothing less than a grand survey of the state of the nation, “using the seeaside vista of Brighton as a focal point”) and the idle fatuity of the result. Just like Brighton itself, appropriately enough.

Ouch. But what does he really mean? That Brighton itself has intentions? And is the place really idly fatuous? That is, does it do nothing to lift itself out of weakness and imbecility? I’d almost buy that, actually. Except then he goes on to say that they haven’t been idle: they’ve been reachers. Can’t be both.

Like many provincial towns, Brighton, as depicted in this hacked-together tribute, defines itself more by what it isn’t than by what it is. It’s not London, for one thing, though it charges London prices. It’s not a city, though it wants to be, or at least its council wanted it to want to be, and after merging with its more genteel conjoined twin, Hove, saw its/their wish granted in 2001. Having spent £100,000 on attaining city status, the council then frittered away another £150,000 on a failed bid for European City of Culture status (the winner was Liverpool).

Bidding to be European City of Culture may be fatuous, but it’s not idle.

A provincial town? I don’t think it has been provincial for a long time, ever since the ties began to London with the King’s residence. Rather, it’s more like London’s most outlying surburb, especially having the train. It grew substantially at any rate due to its connections with London. Which the reviewer so saucily points out. And it doesn’t charged London prices. He goes on:

Nor is Brighton the saucy seaside resort it used to be, its famous West Pier having been allowed to crumble into the sea and its once seedy side streets now gentrified to appeal to the London commuters who push up its house prices without adding to the local workforce.

Eh? Surely people earning money in London and spending much of it in Brighton are contributing to the local economy. It’s not as if someone working in London rather than Brighton is taking away a job that already existed in Brighton. If it did, she’d be quite glad to skip the hour-long train ride, pleasant as it is.

Nor, finally, is it particularly gay any more, the pink pound proving fickle, and the public bogs having all been closed to avoid offending the new population of “breeders” relacting from Nappy Valley. In short, there is nothing particularly special about it, and its attempts to draw attention (and funding) to itself, sedulously documented in this book, are as ridiculous as those of any other provincial town full of chainstores and carparks and puking chavs.

So the book does have some content at least, even if just as a history of the town fathers’ attempts to ride the Cool Britannia wave. Wouldn’t they be derelict in their duty if they were not attempting such things? And drunk arsim? Well, yes, but only on the weekends.

But the piece struck a nerve, because it’s clearly written from a London point of view that dismisses any small town as being small town, and ridicules any posture otherwise. And there’s no getting around that.

I think the nicest way to view Brighton is as London-on-Sea (the Brighton Wikipedia entry mentions this). Certainly, when you walk to Brighton Station then a pleasant hour later get off at Victoria or Blackfriars and walk anywhere you like in central London, it can feel that way. I really like doing that and perhaps it’s time to recognize such pleasures and just get on a train one day and just wander London all day.

Melancholy and The Channel

Speaking of happiness, Daniel this evening brought to my attention an interview with the great yogi Bikram Choudhoury, whose beginners yoga method I follow. Here’s the bit he sent me:

Julie: Do you teach meditation?

Bikram: No.

Julie: Why not?

Bikram: Because, hatha yoga is their meditation. Western people can’t meditate.

Julie: Why not?

Bikram: Because they are born in the wrong place, they grew up the wrong way and they live their lives the wrong way. People in the western world don’t understand what the meaning of meditation is.

Julie: Is it wrong to try?

Bikram: Trying the wrong way is wrong.

Julie: So trying is a waste of time?

Bikram: Waste of time. In India people really can’t meditate either. Nobody can meditate, if they know what is the true meditation. What do you understand, what meditation is?

Julie: Give me the definition of meditation, please.

Bikram: I will tell you! Of course I’ll tell you! Listen to this very carefully, one billion dollar answer… to achieve nothing but concentration power. The whole life depends, success or failure on one thing: how much you can concentrate. And, you can’t meditate, until you do hatha yoga first. My class is the meditation. If you don’t do hatha yoga, you cannot do raja yoga. If you do not finish high school, you cannot go to university, same thing. If you don’t want to do anything, just go home, turn the lights off, listen to music and chant, you get higher blood pressure, cholesterol up, overweight, that’s not meditation.

Despite his shenanegans he’s such the real deal! I’m a fan and am proud to have been spoken to directly by the man. He made fun of my yoga pants in class, saying it looks like I got them off a dead Vietcong.

Yes, the great man spoke to me! Have a lovely Shabbes.

The Trail

Wednesday, June 17th, 2026

Amit Segal, longer than usual for his It’s Noon in Israel newsletter, posits the perennial faultline in Israel politics: Jewish vs Israeli.

“Jewish” and “Israeli” are simply the two tenets of Israel’s self-definition as a Jewish and democratic state ⁠— not in open contradiction, since most Israelis hold both, but forever rubbing against each other. Like asking whether strawberry-banana yogurt is more strawberry or banana, Israelis are endlessly asked, in one disguise or another, whether they are slightly more Jewish than democratic or the reverse. Once you see it, most of the news in the country ⁠— most push notifications, most studio shouting matches ⁠— dissolves into that same question, with a thin veneer of fresh event on top.

Segal himself straddles the divide nicely, as does the society writ large, part and parcel of the fading Ashkenazi/Sephardi divide. In my thin slice of observation, secular Israelis who delight in eating swine abroad now light candles and recite more complete prayers at home for Friday night dinner than they used to ⁠— indeed holding Friday night dinner itself is the gateway. And there are so many gateways.

I do however take issue with Amit’s characterization of the Israeli/left side:

Of course we are Jewish, the left answers ⁠— the flag is essentially a prayer shawl, the emblem is the Temple menorah, every kindergartner comes home Friday with a challah ⁠— but that is the décor, not the purpose; the purpose is to be the only democracy in the Middle East.

Instead, it seems to me that people on this side, those of the “villa in the jungle” view, would rather just forget about the jungle; being “the only X in the Middle East” is merely apologetics, not identity. Rather, it’s about being a liberal democracy simply because that is the enlightened, obvious, natural thing to be; anyone with a Yiddisher kopf can see that. And as for the Right downgrading democracy to merely being the operating system, well, that’s what Judaism itself arguably is too, so being the OS is no small thing.

I don’t go to synagogue but the synagogue that I don’t go to is Orthodox.

David Ben-Gurion

Friday, June 12th, 2026

Francesco Parrino is getting the Benny and Björn spirit of things here with his piano cover of Super Trouper, probably my favorite ABBA song ⁠— though like with other covers of his I’ve listened to, I enjoy the first half of the track more than the second.