If Brighton was a stick of rock…
Surreal anecdote from a Stefan Nicolaou debauched stake #087:
“Oi mate…you’ve been caning it on the disco biscuits ain’t ya?”
“Do I look that far gone?”
“Yeah mate…give that a remain..it’s messing you up”
This was a brazen dialogue. There was a contradictory nature piled on with confusion and a slight feeling of gross out during the whole encounter. This warning from a man shoveling party powder up his nose in a Piano & Pitcher-esque establishment meant I could only be in the middle of one thing: Brighton Gay Pride.

1 out of 3 Pride visitors wears a thong...
Don’t get me wrong: political activism, egalitarianism and refusal to let shame engulf any part of my lifestyle is what I’m all about. Gay ‘pride’, for reasons not necessary to clear up, is not. However the weekend palaver really is about a how-many-thousand-strong party where debauchery is overzealously jumped into headfirst is me all over. It is also a spacious opportunity to show that all you need for a good time is an enthused mixture of party-goers and DJ’s who can sense the reduce and then bash out the tracks to suit it. This ranged from the designated dance-tents organised by the hard-working people at Brighton & Hove, the dedicated residents pumping tunes out to the streets below and caravan-dwellers getting down and grimy on the beach. Not all particularly appetising to everyone who encounters them but all following the basic principles of the rave – showing bricks and extravagantly are only particularly useful for outhouses and sleeping quarters.
But first,
Surreal anecdote from a Stefan Nicolaou debauched try one's luck #129:
“Watch out for






