Brighton rocks

We arrived in Brighton just as Wendy Alexander resigned as leader of Scottish Labour and Amy Winehouse touched some bloke at Glastonbury.
I feel sorry for both women, both misunderstood in their own way, but only one sings like an angel, and it ain't Wendy.
The so-called fan who has spent the last couple of days whining about being “elbowed” by Amy is surely in the running for wimp of the year.
How hard can a frail, drug addicted, six stone girl elbow anyone? Not that hard I don’t imagine, unless he was standing between her and some crack cocaine, which he clearly wasn’t.
Secondly Glastonbury is not the Royal Opera House or your local multiplex. People push and shove, get down and dirty in the mud, crap in boxes, get arrested…it is a music festival for God’s sake, - anyone remember Altamont. Now that was serious.
To veterans of punk, when fans were fans and not headline junkies, the hoo-ha surrounding this incident is laughable. 

In her heyday Siouxsie of the Banshees thought nothing of giving fans the odd nudge or two.
Did you hear them complain? Far from it. Indeed to be on the receiving end of Siouxsie's’s bad temper was a badge of honour for a fan, not a reason to go running to the press.
James Gostelow - get a life.

Brighton is simply the best city in the UK - sorry Edinburgh and Glasgow, but Brighton rocks in a way other cities can only dream of.
If you have never been, jump on a train as soon as you can. The city welcomes everyone: young, old, middle-aged, fat, skinny, gay, straight or not-quite sure. 

It has a great beach: think smooth shingle, traditional deck-chairs and ice-cream, with a twist of hippy, hip-hop chic. There are wonderful restaurants, good fish and chips, and when the sun shines, as it has since we arrived, it (almost) beats Greece for summer fun.
It is too hot to write any more, I am off to bag a blue and white striped deck chair, and finish my book.