Mum: It is very big though, isn't it?

Boy: No, it's not.

Mum: And well, it isn't very nice either.

Son: I wanted something unique. Personal. It's a statement.

Mum: I'm just very concerned that you'll regret it in the future.

Son: Everyone has tattoos.

Dad: (quietly) I thought you were trying to be different.

Mum: And it is very disappointing that you used your rent money from us to pay for it. How much did it cost?

Dad: No point asking how much it cost. It's done now.

Son: It wasn't very expensive.

Dad: And that's why it looks so crap and you're a bloody idiot. If you're going to live with it for the rest of your life you should have spent proper money on it and got a good one.

(Ends)

* Formerly Brighton Scenes... but now I have crossed the border...thus the new name.

Click on the picture to embiggen

It seems apt to dust off a postcard from my collection to mark the event. Here are some of the chaps on the lawn at the Pavilion. They must have been an exotic sight as the postcard starts on the back with: "I expect you would like to see this picture of the wounded Indians..."

Many a London/Brighton commuter will tell you how lovely the view is from the Ouse Valley Viaduct, and how they will look up from their newspapers, text messages, iPads and coffees to take in a glimpse of an exquisite English landscape. Few consider the bridge below.

It dominates the valley and towers over farmland and trees with delightful Victorian arrogance. It could never be built today. Look at the furore over HS2. But with 170 years of hindsight, it now feels like part of the countryside it defaces. The designers John Urpeth Rastrick and David Mocatta were clever fellows.

The viaduct is 1475 metres long and 29 metres high. 11 million bricks make 37 arches which still carry more than 100 trains a day over a structure completed in 1841. Significant restoration was undertaken in 1996, and doubtless maintenance occurs all the time, but it is remarkable that those engineers, architects and builders way back then built a structure of such resilience.

And yet their forward thinking vision is hardly unusual. It's such a useful reminder of what we owe those 19th century visionaries. Brunel, Bazelgette, Paxton, and Nash, to name too few, are all men we all much to. When you take a leak, a train or a walk in a public park, we salute those great people. Britain still rests on the tremendous foundations that 19th century industry and entrepreneurship made possible. People died too to make it happen, of course.

Whilst the Coalition cut every budget, and financiers refuse to fund any project that won't see a return within the year, we should think ahead. Are we building anything in 2011 that people in 2181 will appreciate and rely on? Not in my backyard.

(I'm sorry my photos aren't better. Go there and take better ones.)

Cremation strangely felt less gruesome. I felt discomfort at the idea of my own decaying body, not least because I have imagined the putrifying bodies of my own dead, buried friends, and have found that horrific. I have since learnt a bit more about cremation and can't say I care for that much any more.

To me, graveyards have beauty and sometimes beguiling, architechtural chaos, but they are often little more than derelict. I dislike the ego and disorder, frankly, of crooked headstones and crumbling tombs unless they are seriously old. Most municipal cemeteries are ugly, even if the individual memorials have charm and dignity. Few modern memorials are pleasing.

And so I visited Clayton Woods at the weekend, mostly out of curiosity. It has a serene setting and is delightfully unmawkish. In time, it will simply become woodland. They only allow wooden memorials.

Dust to dust. Put me in a cardboard box when I die and plant a tree, if you fancy. That would be nice. Natural burial is the way to go, quite literally. All of a sudden it made sense that the worms should eat me in a due course and that idea feels like a good one.

Clayton Wood is a wonderful model. Informal but organised on a piece of land that is picturesque but not really of much use for anything else. The barn like shelter where you can hold a ceremony is non-religious. You can have any send-off you want.

But it's the simplicity that delights me. A beautiful setting. A hole. A body. A biodegradable coffin. A tree. The passage of time and the work of nature. As good as death gets, surely?

I offer my admiration today for a particular comment he made in The Argus. An enterprising chap has painted his beach hut. It’s not within the rules and I couldn’t care less. It looks marvellous. But Councillor Hawtree’s comment is brilliant. I’ve snapped the clipping for your delectation.

Hawtree’s comment is delicious and typical. Hawtree is a Green but I have enjoyed sparring with him over a pint or two. We share a passion for literature, architecture and ephemera. I think he also shares my love of H.G. Wells. And it is good to know that the politician is as real and true as the man. The above quote is exactly him. I can hear him say it. That’s rather unusual these days were media comment is polished and scrubbed and sanitised.

There’s one particular issue I find disagreement with Councillor Hawtree on, and that concerns Brighton Library. His argument (and I boil it down here unfairly) contends that there aren’t enough books there and even fewer plug points. I counter with agreement regarding the plugs but suggest that no library has enough books. You can never have enough.

Brighton Library has a perfectly good municipal collection. It isn’t a university collection. We have two unis in town and their collections are alright. Sussex amuses me enough. But then I have been spoilt. The BLPES is superb.

I rather value that there aren’t too many laptopists tap tapping away in the library but do also realise many people don’t have a workspace at home. I often use the library to work in but we could build a highrise in this city full of free deskspace and powerpoints (with free electricity) and it still wouldn’t be enough. I take heart from the evidently well used sections for kids and teens.

But it’s great to have a champion of libraries on the council beavering away. They need all the friends they can get and they immeasurably important. My point is that we need more people like Christopher Hawtree. He won because he is a tireless campaigner. He knocked on hundreds of doors, he found thousands of signatures for his library petition and he really cares for this fine city. But I rather worry they don’t make ‘em like him anymore.

Hear me now. You can't run a newspaper on a shoestring and maintain your reputation and readership. The cracks are showing at the dear old Argus. The Argus hacks are all good people in my experience. There are just so few of them these days.

But be afraid. That Lynne Truss (AKA the National Truss) lives down our way. She's a Brighton girl. I fear that she might just go ape crazy one day if we see many more boobs like this. And who would blame her? I was fizzing with annoyance. But Truss doesn't mess. She'd want begging...

Lead stripped from the Royal Alex turrets

You can often hear me grumble in the saloon bar, or as I stroll past the place, that the Royal Alex hospital on Dyke Road in Brighton risks becoming “our next West Pier.” Despite the fact a plan is in place and development is supposed to start soonish, it’s still a discarded site with all the risks that entails. It seems to me not beyond the bounds of possibility that it will burn to the ground yet. And that would be shame. It’s a building with some charm.

That’s why it’s particularly annoying to see that the turrets have recently been stripped of their lead, presumably by profiteering thieves. It’s not hard to get into the site: one of the fence doors is knocked through and you can stroll in. Taylor Wimpey isn’t taking security seriously at all. Imagine.

So instead here are the buzzers. Every candidate knocks on doors and Regency ward is tougher than most. So many shared front doors and difficult to access blocks. Next time (next time?) give me rows of identical terraces and front doors with people behind them. I started taking pictures of buzzers whilst waiting for people to answer them. Which is silly, because I am certain pictures of knockers would have has greater SEO benefit. I saw some lovely knockers.

More buzzers on Flickr.

In 1809 a night at theatre was the nightly pursuit of Londoners of every class and the stars of the day were the great actor John Kemble and his sister Sarah Siddons. Kemble was not just the talent, he was the impresario. Imagine that Simon Cowell could act: that’s Kemble. So, when Covent Garden theatre burnt down, not only did he lose his stage but he lost everything. And he didn’t have insurance. He was ruined.

Kemble did manage to rebuild the theatre, but the debts he incurred meant that the ticket prices had to go up. The theatregoers of London didn’t much care that they had the finest theatre in the world for their entertainment but they certainly begrudged that Kemble was pocketing an extra sixpence for their pleasure. For 66 consecutive nights they rioted and disturbed every performance.

Kemble’s Riot tells the story of the riots, and encourages you to join in too. But who wins? The people? Or profit?

The play speaks to the bankers and the bailouts and the nature of protest. It’s a really interesting new bit of theatre and the cast is great too. George Dillon plays Kemble. I saw a run through yesterday and it’s very, very good. Bag a ticket. It’s going to be a Fringe corker.