One of the great mysteries of the universe is why you would live in Brighton when you could live in Hove – apart from Patcham and Hollingbury of course.
It’s up there with Atlantis, the pyramids, Eddie the Eagle, the Bermuda Triangle and why anyone votes Green. I think there’s even a Netflix series. Of course, if everyone could tell the difference we’d have to rename the city just Hove, and that would be expensive for the paperwork. So it’s just as well many people can’t discriminate – except when it comes to voting Green. That’s so serious it merits a GCSE.
The mystery is not that difficult if you look closely. Keep going west from Churchill Square and the wider the pavements get, the wider the shoulder pads, the longer the leads attached to the chihuahuas, the less rusty the railings, the thicker the walls between neighbours, the more outdoor pools, the more often Tarquin goes skiing, and the more often streets are named after poets no one reads any more but make you sound educated. As long as you pronounce it Cooper and not Cow-per. Even the potholes in Hove have a less Olympic-sized look about them – from an SUV.
And now Hove has a Michelin-starred restaurant – Maré – which goes some way to solving the mystery once and for all. Which is in many ways disappointing because what’s more to like than a mystery?
Something else which is disappointing to my ever-loving wife is the fact I haven’t taken her to any Michelin-starred restaurant. I’m not too fussed about the difference between good and bad food. I can tell a Pepsi from a Coke. A white wine from a red. A calzone from a deep pan. I also learnt from an early age the difference between a steak and a steak tartare, and why it’s important to learn French if you want to keep your middle-class cool when going to a restaurant. But that’s as far as I care.
The main reason is that I’d be just as happy at Burger King as at the Grand, except when my parents are paying. This nonchalance is very disappointing to the ever-loving wife, especially as it doesn’t stretch to numbers. I can spot a bigger number from a smaller number a mile off, and Michelin-starred restaurants tend to have big numbers. Take the desserts – red Mayan chocolate for £14 at Maré, and they ‘only’ got one Michelin star. I’d give them three stars for a Cadbury Flake at £1.40.
Fortunately, my wife is easily consoled with a cappuccino, flat white, americano, mocha or espresso. And feels extra special if I remember to ask her if she wants oat milk or almond milk although can anyone tell the difference? You can tell things are going down the luge when oat milk has to be spelt mylk because the UK Supreme Court rules milk can only come from animal products. The last time I looked, the council can still milk its residents for all our coinage and we don’t get confused.
I’m not a nitpicker, pedant, or splitter of hairs. I don’t watch the winter Olympics for the fractions of seconds. It’s the obvious differences between our politicians and Olympians that puts me off. Heard of Alberto Tomba – “Tomba la Bomba”? Or Lindsey Vonn, the skier, otherwise known as “The Queen of Speed”. Notice winter Olympians are adopting monikers more commonly found in darts. Or politics. Now she’s the Queen of Crashes, her leg all in bits. No one told her her time was up till it was too late. A bit like “neither here nor there Keir” who’s also hurtling downhill. Still, Lindsey got rescued by helicopter – I don’t see anyone rescuing Keir.
One Olympic sport that should be rated 18 – figure skating. It reminds me too much of the twists and turns of the budget – one balancing act where our chief skater has landed on her bum many times. She’s no Torvill and Dean. There’s no will they won’t they manage the lutz, the flutz, the loop and the salchow, all while balancing on a 2.5mm skate. Of course they will. They’re Olympians. I once went skating and my knees were black and blue – I was a beginner. It brought tears to my eyes. Now it’s my bank balance that’s looking bruised. It brings tears to my eyes.
We might be turning a corner. Matt Weston – he of Skeleton fame – could teach us all a thing or two about going downhill fast but gracefully. For now, I blame growing up with Eddie the Eagle. Now we have Angela Eagle. And Angela Rayner. Who you might spot smoking a fag on her dinghy near the West Pier. Beat that Brighton.
