“What’s with all the reservations on the the tables?” I ask the young barmaid in an empty Kemptown pub.

“Pub quiz tonight. Really popular.”

“So you’re still doing them, then?”

“Yeah, for over a year now.”

“Well, actually thirty,” I say cryptically proving myself both wise and stupid.

Never go back. Never turn around. Lot’s wife forgot that and see what happened to her (pillar of salt, you ignoramuses). Sequels are inferior to the originals, we all know that. Weekend at Bernies 2 maybe. And returning back to a place? Forget it!

And yet I found myself walking around the backstreets of Brighton the other day. I wrote a short story some years ago about a disillusioned man in the midst of a divorce returning to Brighton, revisiting old haunts. And so, I set out to recreate a recreation. A copy of a copy.

Yeah, makes no sense to me either. Still, I get to write about a walk around some of my favourite parts of Brighton with some added pithy ‘then v now’ comments and ‘it’s all gone downhill’ editorialising. As it happens, it’s taken me so long to write this article, I feel like I should write another where I follow in my summer 21 footsteps and compare the brightness of mask-free August with the gloom of COVID hysteria December. Those brief July to November days were different times.

Starting Point: Brighton Station (and ending point. It’s all a circle, man)

Aug 2021: Have you noticed it’s mainly the Millennials that mask up these days? I suppose virtue signalling is ingrained in their souls and so ostentatiously wearing a mask is another opportunity to show how good they are. Question: have charities cottoned onto this fact yet? Started producing their own branded face nappies for the beard and tats generation? Just a thought.

Anyway, out of the station, you need to loop straight down, underneath, and go down one of Brighton’s infamous hills (there are many): Trafalgar Street. Like much of the walk, this street has that curious changed / unchanged vibe from thirty years ago. Back then, it was full of small musty shops selling records and 2nd hand clothes. Now, it bristles with a few new office blocks at the top end and more vegan / plant based cafes and restaurants than even the most enlightened beardy could shake a stick at. Soya milk lattes are most definitely on the menu. Probably obligatory.

Down we go. The Great Eastern pub near the bottom is worth a stop. Like much of Brighton it’s a bit poncified these days but - outside at least - it looks the same as it did when my solo singer/guitarist career crashed to a halt in the early 90’s. And thence to the Steine, central Brighton’s main thoroughfare. Cross over this multi lane highway, St Peter’s church - currently enrobed and refurbishing - is to your left and aim for the Norfolk pub on the other side (scene of one of my 90’s band Shambolic frequent public embarrassments) and climb the hill straight in front of you. Turn right before the tower blocks and we’re walking past 1930’s slum clearing flats. In the distance, and getting closer, are American Express’ new(ish) offices.

Into Kemptown

Ah, Kemptown… My stomping ground for, well, although a definite period of my life - remembered in detail years later - it was, in fact, only a short period of time. Two years? Three addresses? These days whole decades pass without a mark or memory. Back then, each day seemed monumental. Maybe they were.

Cross Edward Street (RIP Amex House), and go down George Street where a brace of royal named pubs flank the entrance onto Kemptown’s main thoroughfare, St James’ Street. We’re going to be following this road leftwards into deepest, darkest Kemptown. Kemptown, named after Thomas Kemp, has historically always been the centre of Brighton’s gay community. Although there are gay pubs the area is very mixed and vibrant and just very ‘Brighton’ - that liberal, carefree vibe you imagine this town to have.

Pubs? The St James’ Tavern was always good. I used to hold court here every Friday lunch with my team of reprobates over a couple of pints and a £5 Penang curry back in the early 2000’s. I see it does Lebanese cuisine now.

So we continue, past old haunts, catching glimpses of yesteryear ghosts, and into The Hand in Hand. It was once the home of the Kemptown Brewery and served their various real ale type concoctions, for example, SID - Staggering in the Dark. Might still be a brew pub. They used to sell boiled eggs on the bar which you could scoff with the aid of handily placed salt and pepper pots. The eggs have gone. The decor is still the same - eclectic, old pictures, postcards, random objects. Ties. In my mind this pub always plays Out of Time by REM and I have hair and pretty girlfriends… Drink up Tim, move on, move on.

On a pub theme: There was a pub around here called the Stag. It’s knocked down now. I made the mistake of going in there once with my then girlfriend. Like some B western movie, the music stopped as we entered and all the regulars stared at us. The barman may have made a comment about my drink selection (possibly lager and lime). “Do you want a cherry with that?” Never went back.

Continuing along, the pace is quieter, the vibe more village-y. There’s a twist in the road (now called Bristol Road) and then we’re into Kemptown proper. You know, small shops and the launderette where I used to pin up adverts for my band’s gigs. Interesting pubs. It feels a community all of itself. I remember an Irish girl with red hair who’s beauty was matched by her capriciousness. She and I lived together in a shared house for a while a little further down the road… I aspired to be a writer and she a better boyfriend. One of us probably achieved our goals.

And then into the Thomas Kemp pub and conversations with the young barmaid about thirty years ago. “Yes, granddad”. The pub is swankier now with more restaurant tables than previously, less sofas. Pubs just can’t be pubs anymore, can they? I suppose people - not me - drink less these days. Lots of preloading going on. Wandering around today, I feel I’ve preloaded but not on cheap booze.

So, your author crosses and sneaks down a little alleyway and into Bloomsbury Place - a past address. Here also was a small basement studio where one of my bands - Tempting Alice - cut four tracks. Although one was played on BBC Radio Sussex, strangely this didn’t lead to a life of rock ‘n’ roll excess. We walk on and down this quiet road until it opens up onto the seafront.

We’re now pivoting back towards our start point. Cross Marine Parade and walk right along the promenade for about half a mile towards the pier. What can you see as you walk? Well, the sea, obvs! To the left, you’ll notice the high rise ghetto that Brighton Marina has latterly become and, in front of you, the pier and all those tourists who neglected to read this blog and so just headed down to the sea front. You’re so wise. You’re so clever. You are me. Literally.

You keep walking along the promenade until you get to the Sea-life Centre and cross at the ridiculously small but congested mini- roundabout that mediates all the traffic on Brighton seafront. We’re going to traverse through Brighton’s famous Lanes so walk on the side of the Albion Hotel and turn left on East Street. Little shops, a gunsmith (?), that alley in Quadraphenia, guide us along to The Sussex Pub. Used to go there. Don’t now. Through a small alleyway past English’s Fish restaurant (apparently quite good but as not a poisson fan, wouldn’t know, mate). Thence into Brighton Square, start of The Lanes, those collection of alleyways with ex fishermen’s cottages that now sell, what? Crap for tourists. Coffee for tourists. Cornish pasties (for the gulls - don’t feed them). You can probably get your stick of Brighton rock here, though, probably not these days.

Navigate your way through the Lanes by always going up and left and you’ll end up on East Street. A shimmy and a shake and you’re on North Street which feels like it should be the main shopping Street but isn’t. Lots of buildings that look like banks - they once were - are now ersatz Italian restaurants and small batch coffee shops. It’s not my Brighton. At the top of North Street is The Clocktower. Back in the day this used to have a loo underneath. Too many public handjobs, too much to maintain means it, along with all Brighton public toilets, is just a full-bladdered memory.

We turn right at the clocktower and walk down the parade of kebab shops and - yes - coffee shops that is Queen’s Rd and we’re back at the station. Now put on your mask like a good boy and bugger off back to London. Don’t forget your soya milk latte.

As your train is delayed through lack of drivers isolating at home, consider what you’ve seen and what you’ve experienced. You - I - have walked a mile or two in the shoes of the younger me. Never turn back, I said. But, as Disney’s Pochahontus said, you can’t dip your hand in the same river twice. And I think, I’ll leave it to a kids’ cartoon to provide my epitaph to this circle (of life? We doing Disney references now, Tim? I remember when you used to quote the Stoics).

Yeah. Enjoy.