I’m sitting here looking out at a clear blue sky, crisp shards of light shining through the trees. The buds of a few weeks ago have turned into vibrant green leaves. Everything is coming alive. The BBC weather app says that it’s an illusion, that the skies are going to turn grey, that it’s going to rain. I don’t believe it. I think the BBC app is just saying that out of force of habit. I’ve stolen a screen grab from another day and I’m going to say this is today. Easy.
May is the best time in our world. May is when the arts come alive. The Festival, the Fringe, The Great Escape (it’ll survive the virtue signalling protests), the Alternative Escape. When the sun shines, there’s no finer place than Brighton in May. You can read about all that stuff on our website – it’s difficult to do that in a physical mag that comes out every two months.
We’re a bit bigger this month – four extra pages! I know! In colour! I know! – with the usual mix of the wider, big picture stuff (the interview with new Labour parliamentary candidate Tom Gray, who seems a lovely bloke and is a welcome return to Labour’s values after the madness of the Corbyn years), and local stories, like the interview with Sarah from Solifiore, a lovely shop which we should all support. Even The Gull About Town has returned for the summer.
For the good folk of West Hill though, May means something else. May means the highlight of the social calendar, the time when the great and the good come together to celebrate themselves in all their self-reflecting glory. For the good folk of West Hill, May means St Nick’s Dog Show which this year falls on Monday May 6.
Last year we entered Pickle Pie and, look, it’s a dog show. It’s a lovely, fun event. The sun shines. There’s Pimms. Everyone smiles. It’s the perfect antidote to this corrosive obsession so many people have with winning and competition. It’s purely about pleasure and enjoyment, the joy of simple participation, the feeling of community, of taking part.
Fourth. He came fourth. It took him weeks to get over that. He wouldn’t leave the house, let alone go to the dog park. The St Nick’s Pooch Pals sent a delegation.
This year we’re playing the odds, taking more of a spread betting approach. We’re entering three dogs. Not saying anything, but if I were you, I’d put a few quid on Harry.
A planning application to increase the housing stock by building a “glass box” on the roof of the existing property at the corner of Surrey Street and Upper Gloucester Road would cause considerable harm to the character of the conservation area according to the City Council’s Conservation Advisory Group. The existing building is part of a terrace of two storey houses built around 1830 which retain their attractive bow fronted bays. An application to build a much smaller dormer extension to a house directly opposite was described by officers when they refused it as “a visually intrusive, unsympathetic and dominant feature that would be harmful to the appearance of the host dwellinghouse, associated terrace and wider conservation area”, so unless the Council now casts aside all such heritage concerns, this application stands no chance of being granted.
Raising the roof (again) 40 New Dorset St
While the site at 80 Buckingham Rd (corner of Upper Gloucester Road) has been unoccupied since March 2015 while waiting for some 24 flats to be built another application claims to be improving the housing stock. The proposal is to raise the roof of the mid-19th century cottage to match the height next door (on the right in the picture). The cottage already receives a rating of 9.5 out of 10 from an online holiday letting site so it seems unnecessary to “improve” the accommodation any further.
The sun has finally arrived in Brighton, and your bird is on the wing, breathing in the smell of summer. The North Laine on a hot afternoon is every gull’s dream; shoppers from out of town just can’t keep their eyes on their ice creams as the delights of Gardner Street distract just long enough for a quick dive at a double scoop of Gelato Gusto. And what joy as they head up to the rooftop bar of Trading Post for a glass of Prosecco with a little nibble on the side.
For the more discerning bird, it’s over to join the arty types flocking to Voya, a twice monthly pop up popular after a spot of culture at 35 North Gallery next door. Your bird has found a delightfully eclectic mix of wonton and birria, masala and habanero on the menu, with very few pickings after hours, such is the appetite of the cool crowd soaking up the vinyl and negronis. Even the cocktail straws had been sucked clean from the basho margarita, an oolong green tea tequila, lime, banana that your gull had her beady eye on.
Hopping on a thermal, she breezed over to Blue Man, the Algerian café which has perched in Kemptown for the last 25 years, but has landed in Gloucester Road, replacing Neighbourhood with its delicious lamb sausages, vegan spiced aubergine stew and rosemary fries. With tables on the terrace shared with La Choza, it’s promising to be a summer of rich pickings for the gulls in Brighton’s coolest quarter.
Hovering over Jubilee Square has always been a delight for a bird of taste, with aromas of cardamon and cumin floating up from the Chilli Pickle kitchen into a summer evening sky. But news that the friendly family who’ve got a thing for pets and always save a couple of naans for the young gulls hanging out by the bins after hours, are moving on after 14 years on the MyHotel site, has hit the bird world hard. A flock of seagulls is already scouting for a new location for the beloved 115-seater which has appeared in Restaurant Magazine’s top 100 places to eat in the UK, and only this spring scooped a place yet again in Brighton Best’s Top 30.
Gliding over to the beach for a spot of evening jazz at Drifter, your gull spots hyperlocal chef, Isaac Bartlett-Copeland setting up at East Street Tap. It seems he has reinvented himself yet again as a hot dog man. The once fine dining genius behind Isaac At who sourced every ingredient, including wines and soft drinks, from within 40 miles, went on to collaborate with fellow chef, Dave Marrow on Embers in The Lanes to much acclaim, not least among the peckish gull gang. Now, he’s off to the pub to serve hot dogs – but not any old hot dog; keeping his commitment to sourcing locally, his pork will come from the pigs at West Sussex’s Calcot Farm where this bird has witnessed them larking around in open fields, happily playing with their siblings and pals until their time comes. Expect smoked pork dog with chunky ketchup, and even a serving of Ritz crackers and sage with stilton in the soon to be infamous Hugh Grant dog.
Microdosing. You’ve probably heard the word, but what is it? And what does it mean? One of our readers, who we’re going to call Ray, tells his story
I hold my breath. The blindfold fits comfortably over my eyes. Electronica plays in my ears and flows through my mind. And in the darkness, there’s something there, something’s stirring in the distance, I look more closely. Shapes begin to form, patterns start to morph and travel towards me. And then the colours, oh my god, the colours… And I exhale.
As I lay down, I remember that gravity is my friend. A wave of relaxation washes over my body and I sink into the mattress. Am I in a different reality? I don’t think so. Am I “astral planning”? Much as I love the poetry of the description, born from the same hippy roots of my youth, unfortunately, I have to say No. Have I achieved a higher state of consciousness? Oh, stop it. (Sorry, but I give short shrift to spiritual narcissism). Very simply, I am stimulating every single Serotonin 5-HT2A receptor in my brain. And, in doing so, this stunning visualisation of geometrically-shaped tunnels and spaces (often called the “Waiting Room” in DMT circles) is the mind’s expression of that neurological activity.
Did I think that I would ever revisit the psychedelic experiences of my youth? Good god, no. I thought I was done and dusted with that. I have a senior role in an international business. I manage staff. I have a family. A mortgage to pay. If I’m honest, I also feared that I would do the same amount of damage as I did to the teenager in Round 1. And yet, now in my mid-Fifties, and only recently been diagnosed with autism, I’ve stumbled across a psychedelic, Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT as it’s commonly known, a key constituent in potions such as Ayahuasca, used in shamanic ceremonies in South America and Indonesia alike, and found that, for my mental health, and at low dosage levels, it is singularly the most effective medicine I have ever taken to manage the effects of “hyperfocus” (a spectrum condition which has its advantages, but is also utterly exhausting).
Aside from being visually stunning, it’s the only drug I’ve taken where I feel better afterwards. Sometimes, depending on my work / life stress levels, the level of burnout at the time of the session, the alleviation I experience after the trip, the clarity of thinking can last for hours, days or even weeks.
With the pressures and responsibility that inevitably mount up as we progress through life, time becomes more precious. The ability to take some time out, and even 15 minutes will do, to meditate in the present, to reset your mind, clean out the complex mechanic of the brain (give the engine some fresh oil, if you like) is a hugely valuable exercise. Being present, truly present, is a rare and precious thing. And trust me, if you wash out your mind with DMT, and release the stale thoughts that are stuck in those receptors, you can be nothing but present.
I find most people I meet live in the past, often with regret, or live in the future with hopes and ambition at best, or pressure and anxiety at worse. Very few people actually live in the present. It takes bravery to be present. But if you value your existence, whether you choose the same path as me, or you find your own, please just give yourself the permission, the space, the moment, the vulnerability and the belief in yourself, to be present, to love yourself, and do so in a safe physical and mental environment. Because, believe me, your grey matter is not grey. Far from it.
I
f our recent experience of the aurora borealis demonstrates anything, it shows us that We are the Witness. When, after one session, I realised that simple fact was the meaning of life, or at least my purpose for existence, so much societal pressure (you know, the definitions of success that are often impressed on us, generally from marketeers trying to sell us something) was lifted from my shoulders. We are the Witness. We are the Consciousness of the Universe. Perhaps even the Multiverse. (Well, why on earth should the Big Bang have occurred just the once, that’s crazy thinking, no?)
Astrophysicists across the world are now leaning towards the idea that actually there are billions of other life forms out there. So where are they? The answer may be that we’re looking in the wrong place, or rather, with the wrong telescope. When I realised the irony of trying to see these geometric shapes with my eyes while blindfolded, and used what some cultures called The Third Eye, suddenly the sphere of consciousness that is “Ray” travelled further back in the physical space that is my grey matter, expanded to the size of a field of corn. I could even see behind me. And that begs the question, is DMT the telescope that we’ve been seeking? Or is it just shits and giggles? I don’t know, but as I travel down this road, I’ll keep an open mind.
While I’m passionate about psychedelics and regard them as a therapeutical medicine rather than a party drug, I’m very aware that the Government does not agree with me and you should be aware of this.
But there are other downsides of an unregulated black market economy. Good quality DMT is hard to find. If your DMT is dark in colour, is harsh on the throat, or smells “of the countryside”, let alone plastic or rubber, then it is not pure enough for microdosing, or for any dosing for that matter. I have found that the vaping fluid should look like a lager in colour. If it looks like a bitter or, even worse, a stout, then please respect yourself and steer well clear. The good stuff is a blonde, not a brunette.
Be safe. Ray, Brighton, 2024.
Editor’s note: The Whistler does not condone Ray’s thoughts and opinions. We chose to publish this article as we know there are many microdosers in the city, probably in our readership. But remember, what works for Ray may not work for anyone else.
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