I’ve lived in Brighton for coming up to eight and a half years and for somewhere close to seven of those I’ve been inextricably linked with a place called London Road. For a number of years I lived and worked there, in that pocket of Brighton that it’s reasonable to say is one of the less attractive parts of town. Having moved out of the area last summer, Friday saw me leave the job I’ve been doing there for the past five years, so I suppose you could say this is one of those end-of-an-era times. It may be rife with junkies and professional drinkers, have more than its fair share of petty criminals and pushchair wielding single mums but there’s something about that part of Brighton that I can’t help but like. So here’s to you, London Road, a truly outstanding shithole.
Of course there are times when walking down London Road can be a soul destroying experience. I remember walking to work one morning a few years ago at about half past eight and by the time I arrived there I'd resolved to walk the back way in future. In the doorway to the Blockbuster was a tramp lying passed out in a combination of his own puke, piss and shit. A few yards later I saw around six used syringes on top of one of those fuse boxes for the traffic lights. Then to top it all as I rounded the corner to Oxford Street I was harried by some random weirdo at the bus stop.
I had my headphones in, trying to block out the degeneracy of London Road – I think I had Slayer on at the time which wouldn’t have helped things – when this guy lunged at me from a doorway by a bus stop. As I passed him it took me some moments to realise that it was me he was doing the Jagger at. As he flailed away behind me I took off my headphones to hear what he was saying.
‘What’s wrong, man?’ I asked.
‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he screamed in reply. ‘Are you gonna fucking hit me now?’
‘What? Of course not you twat, I’m just going to work. I haven’t got a problem with you.’
He was dressed almost normally – all in black with a black bandana – but that in itself is no indication of loon level down here in Brighton. I could tell by his body language he was a strange one even by this town’s standards.
‘I know what your problem is,’ he screeched, ‘I know what it is.’
‘I don’t have a problem, man. Just calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.’
Ignoring me he went on.
‘You are gonna hit me, I know it. And I know why, I know exactly why.’
Before I could say another word to try to placate him he ripped off his bandana to reveal a shining pate devoid of hair.
‘Its because I’m fucking bald ‘ain’t it? I’M FUCKING BAAAALD.’
I thought the best course of action at that point was to piss off as quickly as possible; he was still shrieking when I ducked into the door at work.
Nonetheless the place was a constant source of intrigue. Working across from the Bat & Ball pub provided many an interesting moment. From the junkies happily shooting up in the alleyway behind the pub to the random outbreaks of midday pissticuffs out on Oxford Street, there was always something to break the tedium.
Sometimes I watched the curious specimens smoking their fags and drinking their pints at half ten in the morning and it was as though the circus had rolled into town, liked the look of things and decided to move into the area using the Bat & Ball as a base.
The shops are fantastic. As long as you’re looking for fresh fruit and veg, charity shops, bookies or everything’s a pound stores you’re laughing. There’s an open market and I swear I score some of the best cheese on the planet there. My cheese dealer, Jason who runs a stall there even does a Belgian chocolate cheese. No I can’t describe it, you’ll have to go and buy some to find out what it’s like.
I think on the whole I’ll miss what my old colleague, Amy described as, ‘the edgy filth of London Road’. But then since I moved to Kemptown I’ve found that it has its fair share of weirdos too, some of whom I recognise from London Road.
I guess I’ll never be safe.
