Big Gay Brighton

I was considering how I might incorporate the word lesbian into the title of my Pre Brighton Pride Blog. That’s what this is, FYI. It’s that fateful time of year when every gayer in London does the Dirty Weekend in Be-Right-On.

Yes, the girls pull out their pussy flaps and the boys all shave their balls, and for three days and three nights a small niche on the south coast becomes a big gay hive of hedonism. Brighton gets BIG. And gayer, as roaring homosexuals release the lion within. I can hear the growling already!

The Telegraph hates it and proclaims mob culture has unleashed an abomination in one of its Home Counties and the Guardian prints colourful pictures of the few who still have their clothes on.

Well, that’s what possibly happens in some very niche bits of Brighton. From what I saw last year, it’s far more tame. Apart from the obnoxious overplaying of Madonna songs on outdoor speaker systems. Most of it involves oodles of homogenous lesbians and their matching girlfriends strolling around either staring at each other (pairs) or the strangers they fancy but can’t talk to (singles, like me). I can’t quite remember what the boys were up to, or indeed if there were any…

Daytime frolics are contained within Preston Park and the obligatory post park piss up occurs at a late-licence venue of the individuals’ choice. Or on the beach. Cheap as lesbian chips.

Or not. The whole thing takes place in a very overpriced tacky seaside resort where dickheads like me pay stupid prices for shoebox size rooms. I can see the appeal to Londoners – it’s home from home but with beach. Also, this year the Met Office thinks there is an above average chance that God will piss on everyone’s LGBT chips. Thanks in advance for that.

At the end of last weekend – and it sounds and feels like a long time ago already – I booked an unnecessarily expensive hotel for the coming weekend in Brighton, for the homosexual extravaganza that is BRIDE (Brighton pRIDE). Maybe that’s why this week is going so slowly…

I like Brighton but I’m really not the Gay Pride type, ever. I’ve been to two Prides, and the first of those was only because my girlfriend at the time made me go. Then there was BRIDE last year, which I attribute to the Pull of the Pack. I didn’t want to be the only lez left in London, so I went. This doesn’t explain my excitement.

Now admittedly I enjoyed BRIDE a lot more than I thought I would, but not enough to make me want to do it ritually. Yet here I am preparing to go to my second Brighton Pride in as many years. And paying more than I’d pay for a good 50mm camera lens for the privilege. And being alternately thrilled and spilled by the idea. So what is it that’s making me act in this odd homosexual way?

It’s certainly not the value factor. Be-Right-On if fucking expensive. Even a Russian Oil Tycoon would question why he was paying penthouse and coshing in a kennel. It’s not the beach either – those pebbles are painful even after a day’s drinking. And, if you believe the Met, it’s not for the sun. Perhaps it’s the pier…

BRIDE definitely stands out from the Pride crowd with its added attraction of the sea. We’ll forget the feet busting pebbles for now. The sea is the sea. BRIDE also seems to attract an above average number of lezzers, the importance of which varies according to my mood and level of intoxication. So maybe that’s it – sea air and Wah Wahs.

Whatever it is, I warmed up like a hot coal in a sauna when one of my pals suggested booking ourselves a tiger’s den for the weekend and heading down on Friday night to ‘do Pride’. Thoughts of waking up by the (sunny) beach having breakfast and strolling to a park full of girls who will all want to either Be Us or Do Us, is a nice thought. And one that keeps reappearing in my mind.

And, yes, before you ask, I’m sure that’s exactly how it will be when we get there at the end of the week. Three days and counting, bad boy.

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