Tag Archives: Seven Dials

Brighton, Brighton Life, Brighton pubs, Food & Drink, The Duke of Wellington

The grand old Duke of Welly

Leave a comment

It’s been up a bit and it’s been down a bit, but it’s not been out, and now a fresh breath of air is flowing through the Duke of Wellington 

“Well, my ex-husband died in April, not this year, last year. Six months later, I collapsed beyond the bar, had a heart attack, which scared my children. I’ve got son and a daughter who are grown up. They lost their dad, and six months later, I thought they were losing me. So this is my compromise. 

I’m sitting in the Welly and Cheryl West, the new-ish landlord – landlady? landperson?? – is telling me her story. It’s a bit of a story. 

“I’ve been running pubs for over 20 years, pubs and nightclubs. Pulled my first pint when I was 17 which is, I was working it out this morning, is… a long time ago.” 

A long time and a lot of bars ago. We go into Cheryl’s story, a story that takes us from Islington in London to Northampton to Chingford to Luton to London again, taking on pubs, clubs and a Caribbean restaurant. “Then after 12 years, I decided I wanted to get out of London, so I joined a pub management company as a holder…”

What’s a holder?

“You go around, holding pubs, covering pubs until a full-time manager moves in.” Fair to say, Cheryl knows hospitality. And since April, she’s been holding The Welly. 

“I didn’t really know Brighton much but I’d only heard good things. I’d seen this place and it was a smaller place, which I needed after the heart attack, and it’s by the coast which I love and… ”. A lot of boxes ticked. “Yes, there were a lot of signs pointing in this direction. Also, there’s no food involved. Doing food in a pub is really hard work and since Covid, it’s much harder. Since Covid, everything is much harder”.

Did it matter, I wondered, that there were so many good pubs within a stone’s throw?      

“No, not really. We all support each other and we’ve all got different strengths, we’re all known for different things. And we’ve always been known as a sports pub and we’ve got the pool table which is very popular and the pool team’s doing very well, but we all get on very well. I talk to Hatt from The Eddy a lot and when I first came here, Mark (Reed, from The Eddy) was one of the first people to come in and say “Hello”. If one of us is short of something, gas for example, we’ll just pop into our neighbours and borrow it”. 

Talking of neighbours… not everyone has been so happy. “I’m struggling with music here to be honest. I love live music. But since I’ve been here, I’ve put on three events on a DJ night. I had to do karaoke nights, the last one being Saturday. Every time we’ve put on music events, there have been complaints.” 

I’ve never really understood why anyone would move next to a pub and then complain about the noise. But then maybe some people just like complaining. 

I grew up around music, reggae mainly, that’s my genre. Old school reggae.”

Old school reggae? We’re going to get on just fine. Who are we talking? John Holt?  

“John Holt, yes. Carol Thompson’s a friend. Janet Kay’s a friend, too”. 

Janet Kay? Oh, get Janet Kay down. We can all come and sing along to “Silly Games”. That would get the upset neighbours properly, a gaggle of happy punters trying  to reach those high notes. Cheryl’s not so sure. “I don’t understand it. The music stops really early…” 

So a few grumpy neighbours aside… “It’s going really well. I thought coming down here would be like semi-retirement, and it was supposed to be my compromise with my children. My son wants me to retire. But I’m not ready yet”.

Sam Harrington-Lowe

Sam Harrington -Lowe – Oct/Nov 2023

Leave a comment

The season of mists and all that jazz firmly divides opinion, I have found…

There are those that welcome its gentle cooling, its falling leaves, its lazy sun. The snuggly appeal of fires and warmer clothes. Halloween parties, hot chocolate, and the rich colourful tapestry of nature. You know these people. They’re on social media a lot.

And then there are people like me. I’m not awfully keen, shall we say? It feels like death looming. I hate woollen clothes. They make me itch. The days are shorter, the bleakness is around the corner. Everyone talks about stupid bloody Hygge until my eyes glaze over with IKEA fatigue. Even hot chocolate makes me feel gaggy.

I can’t be the only one? There must be other people out there for whom autumn feels like the beginning of the end? Here are some of my (least) favourite things about the season.

Is it a turd or a leaf? Ah, the seasonal guessing game. For a dog owner like me this is a double-edged sword. Not only might I tread in a turd, thinking it to be a leaf, which is never a good thing. But I also find myself searching blindly – in leaves – in the general area that Alice has visited, desperately trying to find… well, you know. Add wind and rain to this search or squelch, and I’m pretty much ready to murder someone.

I also hate the darkness. By all that is holy I hate the short days. Not so long ago I was waking at 4-something to see the warm pink of dawn. I slid from my bed bathed in the happy glow. 

Now I’m up at 6am or thereabouts, full of hate, and it’s as dark as midnight. It might as well BE bloody midnight. And then more darkness at the other end of the day, coming increasingly closer. BRING ME THE LIGHT, dammit. Not the SAD light though. That’s just weird. I’d rather be depressed.

Hearty behaviour. Oo look, another thing that could drive me to murder. People being hearty and cheerful. Getting all togged up in stupid hot clothing and doing bonfires and ghastly marshmallows. Capering around having a nice time, dressing up in fancy dress like toddlers. Or getting excited about a soup they made. Actually I do that, to be fair, I love soup. The rest of this heartiness though? Stop it. You’re not five.

And as for the ’Russian Roulette’ pedestrian. I see you, standing there at the kerb at the end of a long day, ready to die in front of my car as you dash out to cross the road in mad traffic, far from the safety of pedestrian crossings, traffic lights or Belisha beacons. Or rather I DON’T see you, because you’re an idiot dressed head to toe in dark clothing in the pouring rain. Darwin Awards at its very best. Do you have any idea how invisible you are? No? Idiot. 

As far as I’m concerned, autumn also heralds Christmas on the horizon, which I’m also not terribly keen on either (more heartiness. And charades! Argh). 

As soon as the first leaves start to fall, it feels like a countdown to the darkness, and a long stretch to springtime. I live for the winter solstice and the turning point as the days get longer again. I pray for snowdrops, and daffodils. And right now they seem a long way off. 

Best I go and have a nice hot bowl of soup to warm up. Bah.

Sam is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Silver Magazine – for the mature maverick

http://www.silvermagazine.co.uk

Uncategorized

Editorial – Oct/Nov 2023

Leave a comment

Life used to be so much simpler than it is today. For example, the first job I ever had was in a shop called Stamford Hill Stationers and it was called Stamford Hill Stationers because it was a shop selling stationery in a place called Stamford Hill. It was a curious shop, not very big and full of… just magic. 

It was a while ago, long before all this new fangled tech stuff we surround ourselves with now had even been dreamt about, and I loved stationery – which sounds an odd thing to say, but it’s true. Basildon Bond note pads with a sheet of carbon paper at the back. Blue note pads. Parker fountain pens that had little pipettes inside that sucked up the ink from the little pots of ink. But we sold all sorts of stuff. There was much excitement one week when we took delivery of the then new Bic disposable lighters. Terrible to admit, but I tea-leafed a handful and swapped them with Russell Roberts, who was working at Lord John where there was this pair of trousers… Kids, huh. 

Anyway, I was thinking about Stamford Hill Stationers because, well, in the back there was a “staff room” where you could put your coat and if you were a bit more grown up, make a cup of tea or something.(Why you’d do anything like that when there’s a Wimpey bar round the corner…). In the staff room there was a poster that said “The customer is always right”. And then underneath that, it said “Even when the customer is wrong, the customer is always right”. Life used to be so much simpler than it is today. 

Nice look” said the bloke at the entrance to Dick’s Bar at the Amex. “I always like to see what you’re wearing”. Since you asked,  – double breasted brown corduroy suit, black beret, tan and white co-respondents. I like suits. I like wearing suits. I like wearing nice suits. I could never get my head round “casual” clothes or “streetwear” or whatever. Why would you wear a tracksuit if you’re nowhere near a track? No one is going to call you “Dapper” if you’re wearing a hoodie from Gap. No. You wear a suit. A good, well cut suit. 

There aren’t many downsides to wearing good clothes, but you do need to look after them. You’re not going to put double breasted brown corduroy suit in the washing machine, are you? You’ve to go to the dry cleaners. And so it was that in the summer I took a fine cream linen whistle to my local dry cleaner – I live very close to Powis Square. Handed it in. Had a chat and, yes, Thursday for pick up is fine. 

I went in Thursday for pick up and… It was odd. The jacket was still a cream colour but the trousers had been completely discoloured. They were now white. What had been a very nice cream linen suit was now… not a suit at all. I pointed it out to the very nice woman working there who was sympathetic and gave me the email of the owner and… 

I’m guessing she never worked at Stamford Hill Stationers. She refused to talk, she would just email, and she proceeded to give me a lecture on the processes of dry cleaning (which, as a friend said, was ironic; if she knew so much about dry cleaning how come she ruined the suit?). It wasn’t a great conversation. After a series of emails, I contacted the Citizens Advice Bureau (nice people and sympathetic but ultimately couldn’t do anything) and she ended up threatening legal action if I wrote about it. Customer service aside, threatening a journalist is a bit silly, but… hey ho. 

I tried to explain that I’ll no longer take anything to her shop, not because they made a mistake with my suit – they’ve been really good until now and, look, it’s not the end of the world. We all make mistakes, we all do things that don’t turn out how we want and besides, now I’ve got an excuse to buy a new suit – but because she was so lacking in grace and courtesy. I just don’t want people like that in my world. If you make a mistake you say “That’s really terrible. I’m really sorry”. And that’s it. Maybe they could offer a free something. It shouldn’t be a drama. 

Maybe if you went to Stamford Hill Stationers now there’d be a sign in the back room “The customer is a bit of a nuisance and if they ever complain, threaten them with legal action”. Maybe. But I doubt it. Life used to be so much simpler.  

Brighton Dome, Brighton Life, Dexys, Events, Features, Kevin Rowland, Music

Review: Dexys at The Dome

Leave a comment

We’d just finished another year at Manchester Polytechnic and summer was staring at us. Before heading to our respective homes, a few of us went up to Newcastle for the weekend to visit a friend. We saw a sign “BBC Radio One Roadshow with Dexys Midnight Runners”. What to do? We were very cool, I mean very cool, and a Radio One Roadshow? Seriously not cool. It was probably introduced by Richard Skinner or, I don’t know, Peter Powell or something. And it was in a tent. I know. A Radio One gig in a tent. You’d think we were going to see Nik Kershaw or maybe Howard Jones. But it was Dexys and we loved Dexys. So we went. And it was extraordinary. It was so extraordinary it was released as a CD in 1995. The shock of the power of the horn section, the passion and emotion of the songs, the everything of Kevin Rowland. Back then, pop music was about synths, about artifice, about dressing up as a pirate or a Pierott clown. Dexys were about horns, about soul, about passion.  

That was June 1982 and Kevin’s outfits have changed a few times since then, but the fashion for passion has never wavered. Time’s passed but they – he – are still extraordinary. And last night at The Dome was just as extraordinary as ever.

A homecoming gig – Kevin lives down here, don’t you know – this was as much a celebration as anything – celebrating the history of the band and the audience, celebrating the songs, celebrating survival. The night was split in two halves: the first given over to the new album, “The Feminine Divine”, the second a run through of the old. Playing your new album which probably no one’s heard for the first hour of a gig, it’s asking a lot and is at the same time fantastically ambitious and arrogant. So far, so Dexys.

“The Feminine Divine” is as ever a step away from the expected which is, I guess, the expected. A treatise on Kevin’s relationship with women and how it’s changed, played live it’s stripped back, theatrical (between each song there was a ‘dramatic scene’ between band members Rowland, Jim Patterson, Sean Read and Michael Timothy), less horn more synth. Dressed in a dark blue pantalon suit, white beret and striped t-shirt (you know these things are important), Rowland held the stage, his voice at 70 still really strong and still carrying that familiar plaintive soulful plea.

While the new songs held up, the place really came alive during the second half when the lights came up, the horns came out to play and, standing on the balcony, he started up

“I won’t need to think of nice things to say,
I don’t want to want this way anymore,
Shh now and hear comes silence,
from this comes strength I promise”

which led, naturally, to

“You’ve always been searching for something…” from 1982’s “Plan B”. And on it went. “Geno”, “Jackie Wilson Said” (complete with backdrop of Jocky Wilson), “Until I Believe In My Soul” through to the much loved but rarely played “Tell Me When My Light Turns Green”. As the lights came up, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

photo: Sandra Vijandi

Cricket, Skip Kelly, Sport

Skip Kelly – Bazball, schmazball

Leave a comment

I may be the first sports writer who’s willing to admit that I am not that good at the sport I write about. This possibly isn’t news to anyone who has seen me play football, but recent advancements in modern technology such as the video camera have enabled yours truly to watch games I’ve played in and finally understanding why I quite often didn’t play the closing stages of games. Or the opening stages either. 

It raises interesting questions around perspectives in grassroots sport because before the advent of video evidence, I was convinced I was playing exceptionally well and was harshly substituted and although I rarely challenged the coach understanding they had decisions to make. (The few times I have been recorded serve a similar purpose to Colonel Nathan Jessup in A Few Good Men by screaming “You can’t handle the truth.”)

Similarly, I’m not the first sports writer to have outlandish opinions about a sport I know very little about. I have never once picked up a cricket bat, but it is my steadfast belief that if I did and could be bothered I would be one of the finest batsmen the world has ever seen. People often say they would love to see me deal with a ball traveling towards me at up to 80 miles an hour and my response is I would simply just whack it as hard as I could. This was often met with uproarious laughter like every single one of my anecdotes. Those of you that have played cricket may scoff and spit out your tea and scones having read that but I have played hurling – Ireland’s bat and ball game in which everyone carries a stick at all times and striking the ball unopposed like you do in cricket is a pipe dream. 

Some may question if I claim to be so good at cricket then why don’t I make a lucrative career out of it. The main reason being I am not motivated by money, I am motivated purely by Montpelier Women’s Football Club. The other thing is I don’t want to travel as much as any top class athlete has to and although there is travel involved with MVWFC it never takes up any more than a day of traveling.

You never truly know what someone thinks of you until you die and all those lovely things are said about you at your funeral but I have found a shortcut with cricket fans. I simply offer my opinion on how good I am at cricket and what I get in return is a summation of my personality. Recently someone agreed with this and pointed out that I would take great pleasure in winding up bowlers by staying in for as long as possible. Which takes us to the current Ashes series – or, by the time you read this, the last Ashes series – which has been incredibly entertaining and equally vindicating. Although as a coach I understand a defensive style and the importance of staying in for an extended period of time, where’s the fun in that? I’ve always enjoyed coaches whose modus operandi is to win in the most entertaining way possible and Brendon McCullum certainly falls into that category because, although there is a thinking that all sport is a results based business, I couldn’t disagree more. The verb used to describe sport at all levels is play and with that there are connotations of being child-like and free from the realities and responsibilities of the big bad world. We play sports to exercise, to socialise and to entertain ourselves and others. There is something incredibly beautiful about athletes at the pinnacle of their career being reminded of this and being told to just whack it as hard as you can.