Review

BRIGHTON ON THE RUN
8am Sunday May 3

Right On Brighton has a reputation for being sympathetic to minority interests. So spare a thought for me. I was the only one to turn up for the "Brighton On the Run" jogging tour last Sunday morning. A minority of one.

Despite, the poor turn out, tour guide Malcolm evoked Brighton's Music Hall past - "The Jog must go on".
I managed to keep up with Malcolm as he took me from the West Pier to the Marina... and back! Thankfully, our journey was punctuated with frequent stops so that Malcolm could impart a small gem of trivia about Brighton's past.
The tales of Brighton's gentrified history clashed with the reality of the seafront of today. I skipped over piles of vomit from the previous night's excesses. I avoided the beer cans and fag butts whilst slaloming the dog poo.
The run was invigorating, Malcolm's stories were stimulating but I could not help feeling saddened by the state of disrepair some of these places had slipped into.
On the way back, we passed Laurence Olivier's old house. I was told that the great thespian had once collapsed, whilst out jogging, on the very spot we were standing.
I knew how he must of felt... A "Taxi, A Taxi... my kingdom for a Taxi".

Ross Bentley


BRIGHTON ON THE RUN 8am Sunday May 3
	Right On Brighton has a reputation for being sympathetic to minority interests. So spare a thought for me. I was the only one to turn up for the "Brighton On the Run" jogging tour last Sunday morning. A minority of one.
	Despite, the poor turn out, tour guide Malcolm evoked Brighton's Music Hall past - "The Jog must go on". I managed to keep up with Malcolm as he took me from the West Pier to the Marina... and back! Thankfully, our journey was punctuated with frequent stops so that Malcolm could impart a small gem of trivia about Brighton's past. The tales of Brighton's gentrified history clashed with the reality of the seafront of today. I skipped over piles of vomit from the previous night's excesses. I avoided the beer cans and fag butts whilst slaloming the dog poo. The run was invigorating, Malcolm's stories were stimulating but I could not help feeling saddened by the state of disrepair some of these places had slipped into. On the way back, we passed Laurence Olivier's old house. I was told that the great thespian had once collapsed, whilst out jogging, on the very spot we were standing. I knew how he must of felt... A "Taxi, A Taxi... my kingdom for a Taxi".
	Ross Bentley