The other day I was complimented on my clothes again. A young-ish – well, much younger than me, because most people are – man in the lift at Waitrose pointed out my neckerchief and said that you didn’t see many of those around these days, and that I carried it off very well. Now, leaving aside the gross breach of protocol by talking to a stranger in a lift, and discarding the possibility that he was chatting me up (I’d never seen anyone looking less gay, and also I am too old to be fancied any more), this was simply a very nice thing to say, I decided, after I’d got over the initial shock.
The thing is, this only happens in Brighton. Not often, but about once a year. I once stopped to give a homeless man a light and he looked at my tweed jacket – which is older than I am, as it happens – and he said: “Love the look. Very retro. You carry it off.”
Then there was the time I had just bought a new pair of glasses from Vision Express in Churchill Square. The lenses are the kind that go dark when it’s sunny, and that day was very bright. A young man about half my age said “nice glasses” as he passed me. He was halfway up the hill before the remark sank in. I remember vaguely what he looked like: dark skin, trimmed beard, black t-shirt, muscles. Despite the muscles I don’t think, again, he was gay. The thing is that the glasses were cool – think the Beatles on the back cover of Revolver, which all authorities agree was their coolest-looking period – and maybe something in my bearing suggested I knew this. I thought: this is going to happen every day I wear these. This is great.
It didn’t. But I did have someone say “wicked shoes, man” as they saw my multicoloured Converse with purple toecaps. Again, this has only happened once: but I’m grateful it has happened at all. And in case you think that this is because I am effortlessly stylish, I should say I have been mocked and even thumped because of my clothes.
The only other places I have lived in for appreciable periods of time are London, Paris, Cambridge and Scotland, and in all of them bar Scotland I have suffered mockery and abuse. The worst time was on the Metro in Paris, when a young man unticked my grandfather’s paisley scarf from my collar and went “tee hee hee.” It was 44 years ago but I still glow red with shame and anger when I think about it.
No, the only possible conclusion is that this is Brighton for you. A town whose main principle is tolerance is actually going to be pretty welcoming towards the eccentric. I would hesitate to wear those Converse in any other city on earth, and as for the countryside, forget it.
But thank you, Brighton. You may only compliment me once every two years, but that’s more than anywhere else has.
The Whistler 