Harry Hillery, a veteran of Prides past, on how Pride has changed, how he’s changed and why it’s still powerful

I moved to Brighton in 1988 to setup a small business and decided that setting myself free should also be part of the adventure. In London I’d lurked in the shadows, fearful of what people might think. 

This might sound over the top nowadays, but it was different then. I remember testing the water with a ‘friendly’ boss once, only to be told that if my news went public, any hopes of progression would evaporate if I wasn’t sacked first. So, I came to Brighton to be reborn and vowed to never lie about myself again. 

In 1991 I met Alf in the Black Horse and we soon fell very much in love. Looking back, I owe so much to his gentle nudges and knowledge of all things queer. He introduced me to new ideas, new writers and helped me navigate a new queer reality. My first Brighton Lesbian & Gay Pride with Alf was in May 1992 if memory serves. 

I remember how moved I was by the spectacle and how overjoyed I was to be holding hands with my boyfriend. At the time, Brighton was gripped by the AIDS epidemic and the fallout of Section 28, which made it doubly important to shout our presence and challenge a tsunami of hate and misinformation. 

As we walked along Western Road towards Churchill Square, chanting ‘we’re here, we’re queer, we’re not going shopping’ there was a tangible sense of loathing from the pavements, that sometimes turned into abuse or occasionally a missile. Although I was nervous and a little frightened, I felt a belonging that I’d never had before as a queer man – a kinship with those who’d trailblazed for me – Marsha P Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Antony Grey, Jackie Foster, Peter Tatchell. Lesbian & Gay Pride had to be loud and angsty to be heard above the din of hatred – we were under attack and our friends were dying. 

I haven’t been to a Pride event for many years now for a number of reasons. Apart from getting older and a general dislike for crowds and mess, for me that sense of kinship and a link to the past has gone. Dropping ‘gay’ and ‘lesbian’ in the title and the rebrand to Brighton Pride made me uneasy. Although queer as I prefer to call it is thankfully less siloed these days, the dropping of these words still felt like a watering down and a betrayal of sorts. A bowing down and compliance that was perhaps necessary to attract corporate sponsorship from banks and other institutions that would not have been welcome (or wanted to be associated with us) in days gone by. 

The event struggled for years due to alleged financial mismanagement and in fighting, so things had to change, but I for one would be happier if the activism backbone was more prominent and given centre stage. I recognise things are better now, but gay marriage and the proliferation of rainbow flags to sell anything and everything, hasn’t made everything OK. 

Our hard-won rights can be taken from us in a heartbeat, and there are many out there who still wish us harm. Queer Pride (or LGBTQ Pride if you prefer) is not just about getting horny and high or listening to Britney Spears, it’s about kinship and remembering how we got here. There’s also still so much more to do – look at all the venom around Trans rights for example – that’s surely what ‘Pride’ still needs to focus on. 

On a final positive note though, it is wonderful that Pride is now so fully embraced by the city. It’s also wonderful that it raises such large amounts of money to help organisations close to my heart like Lunch Positive and Mind Out continue their amazing work. And lastly of course, whatever we call it, it continues to be the best of parties, and a great excuse to be loud and proud.

There’s a curious thing about sharks. Sharks must always move forward. Their gills – the way they breathe – are designed in such a way that if there’s no forward motion, they don’t work. So they must move forward. The only shark that doesn’t move forward is a dead shark. And who wants to be a dead shark?

Brighton Pride is something to be proud about. It’s one of those things that makes Brighton what it is, one of the reasons we live here. But everything changes, and rather like Glastonbury, the world is divided between those who say “Oh, it’s not like it used to be” and those who, for their own reasons, are happy it’s there. 

Pride began here in 1972, a demonstration by The Sussex Gay Liberation Front… Don’t worry, we’re not going to go into the history of Pride – that’s what Wikipedia’s for – but suffice to say it’s very different now. A weekend wristband to the St James’s Village Party is £27.50, a ticket to “We Are Fabuloso” at Preston Park to see Christina Aguilera is £54.50 – £67.50 if you get the weekend pass. Of course, it’s not like it used to be.    

Politics and commercialism are uneasy mates. They’re often suspicious of each other. Must it be that way? Must money ruin the spirit? At the first Pride here there were 2,000 people. This year there’ll maybe be half a million. Has Pride strayed too far from its roots and become another party on the calendar, next to Fatboy on the Beach and whatever else? 

Should all the acts be gay? I remember how Live Aid was criticised for being too white, for having no African bands. If we were raising money for Africa, the argument went, should we not have been celebrating African music and culture instead of listening to a lot of white chart acts? But a lot of money was raised, a lot of people were helped. So should all the artists be gay? Or are we celebrating togetherness, celebrating being us? 

Nothing is ever the same as it was. Life, like the shark, always moves forward. And Pride, just like Glastonbury and the others, just gets bigger, gets more popular, becomes mainstream, part of a wider culture.

None of this is to say that we should think the battle’s won, that the story is over, that that was then and this is now. The battle’s never really won. It never stops. We only have to look at the resurgence of antisemitism under the last Labour leadership to know how fragile our safety is. We’re safe now, but we should never forget that living in Brighton in 2022 is a privilege, that we’re just lucky enough to be born into a time and place where glitter’s not a crime. 

Maybe we should just enjoy how great is it that half a million people can come and celebrate together, drink together, dance together. How great that the only murder is gonna be is on the dancefloor. And you’d better not kill the groove DJ, gonna burn this goddamn house right down… 

How did you spend the Great Heatwave of 2022? I spent it paddling in the sea and running contraband over the Brighton-Hove border. I’ll start with the sea. It’s slightly less traumatic.

The thing is, that although I have been coming here since 1984, in the very week the IRA blew up the Grand (golly, I thought, is Brighton always this interesting?), and living here since 2018, I have never been in the sea here. Well, maybe once. But the memory is confused and dim and I might be imagining it. This time, though, I really did. 

I took off my shoes and socks, rolled my trousers above the knee, and stepped into the surf. It was about half past nine in the evening, and the breeze, such as it was, was coming from the North, that is, from the parched interior of the country. 

There were still plenty of people on the beach, at least one barbecue I could see, and, of course, bongo players. Did you know that the council hands out free bongo drums to everyone who moves here? I’ve yet to claim mine, but I think that’s rather charming.

One of the reasons I have always been reluctant to swim here, apart from the fact that the sea is incredibly cold, is the beach. I have lovely, delicate feet, and their soles are sensitive, so walking barefoot on the shingle is not one of life’s great experiences. 

I had been hoping that in the 38 years since I first came here, the action of the waves might have done something to turn the stones into sand, but it quite simply hasn’t happened yet. I mean, come on.

But then again … it kind of has. Go out at low tide and you’ll find that it actually is a bit sandy on the shore. (Incidentally, it took me half a century to realise that the singer Sandy Shaw’s name was a pun.) So I paddled around a bit; the water was Mediterranean-warm. That was a big surprise. But after a while there’s only so much paddling you can do before getting tired so I went back up the beach and lay down in a damp patch of stones, which was very welcome. 

Isn’t it nice how the beach slopes in such a way as to make a kind of natural divan or sun lounger? I had a smoke and looked at the lights of the Rampion Array blinking on the horizon. 

A dog ran around like crazy, at one point even kicking a couple of stones onto my head but he hadn’t done it on purpose so I took no offence. 

I knew I had a hill to climb when I turned for home, but somehow the knowledge that it was warm enough to sleep on the beach if I wanted made it all better somehow. God, living in this town is a privilege. And my stories of smuggling bongoes into Hove will have to wait for another day. 

Summertime!

It’s Summertime, it’s summertime,

It’s time to have ice lollies with lime!

Ice cream , ice creams everywhere,

Melting, dripping, we don’t care! 

Something humid in the air,

People tying back their hair,

Into the sea,

Come on friends, come play with me!

Jump off the paddle board, swimming free! 

We are all as happy as can be!

After school , let’s go and play, 

After a hot, angry, tiresome day,

“Let’s go on the swings!” my friends say,

So how do I reply?

OK! 

Just around the corner from the Seven Dials, down a narrow, hidden driveway, West Hill Hall plays host to one of the city’s most successful writing groups. The West Hill Writers have gathered these past few years to nurture voices and narratives and now they’ve gone public.

With much fanfare, they recently published “Brighton & Beyond”, a rich anthology of short stories featuring the city in all its complex glory, from 18 talented local authors. Relatable family and friendship dynamics mingle with dark folklore and fantasy. Queer perspectives and scathing social critiques rub shoulders with comedy, romance, historical fiction and magic realism. Animals play startling roles, and somehow, not one, but three distinctive takes on a circus emerge.

Anna Burtt, director of publishers West Hill Writers, said, “I am really proud of “Brighton & Beyond”. It’s a diverse collection of riveting reads and I’m sure there is something in there to be enjoyed by every avid reader, especially those who love Brighton.”

Authors include Ciar Byrne, Jane Crittenden, Kathleen Ford, Giacomo Gambone, Hilary Howard, Duncan Robert Illing, John Keenan, Pippa Lewis, Kate Marsh, Damian McCarthy, Becs Pearson, Paula Seager, J.E. Seuk, Fran Swaine, Mona Walsh, Maggie Winters, Sue Wood and J.E.C. Young. The very Brighton book cover, features an ice cream cone, and was designed by Patrick Knowles.

The WHW inspire each other through regular sessions with locally-based Anna Burtt who is head of events at Jericho Writers, hosts the Brighton Book Club on Radio Reverb, and is the director of the York Festival Of Writing. They create short stories, flash fiction, creative nonfiction and poems set in Brighton throughout the UK and around the globe, not to mention the past, present and speculative future.

The book launch for Brighton & Beyond was held in the Nightingale Room at the Grand Central Brighton, at the bottom of West Hill, and was a busy affair with books selling fast. Brighton & Beyond can be seen displayed on the shelves of books shops across the city.

They say everyone has a book in them, but here in West Hill, we’re proud to be home to a plethora of really accomplished writers and we wish them all success!

You can order the book direct at:
https://westhillwriters.carrd.co
or from book shops across the UK

There are still places available on the next West Hill Writers course – see linktr.ee/BTNBOOKCLUB

In a recent study carried out by Sussex FA and UEFA it was revealed that businesses which sponsor their local grassroots women’s football team could increase their life expectancy by up to 15 years. The study also found that those businesses tended to increase their profits by at least 150% and that business owners often had their life goals realised within six minutes of investing in women’s football. (Ed: Right now, Skip, I’m believing every word you’re telling me) 

 This is, of course, very exciting news for Montpelier Villa WFC who are your local women’s side and take their name from the local streets. The team has until now always relied on players’ fees to pay for the expenses incurred throughout the season including pitch hire, referees, kits and competition entries and insurance, but this naturally creates a barrier for some who can’t afford it, especially in the current climate. 

 However, this recent study is fantastic as previously we had relied on businesses who were socially conscious and wanted to give back to their community and who shared our values of being inclusive, independent and ambitious. Three adjectives that we feel encapsulates the best of Brighton and Hove. Thankfully we no longer have to worry about that nonsense and can focus on selling our product to the highest bidder. 

 “Our next item for sale in the great football auction is MVWFC, a football club that has a track record of fighting sexism, homophobia and transphobia over the past seven years in Brighton. Sussex League Cup champions and recently promoted to step six of the women’s football pyramid and will be competing in the Womens FA Cup once more this season having narrowly missed out on the most illustrious prize in womens football by a meagre 10 wins last season.”

Unfortunately Sussex FA and UEFA have carried out no such study yet, but we’re still in a position to sell ourselves to the highest bidder. With promotion comes increasing costs and considerations such as…”How much can we ask of our players financially?” And “If our players aren’t willing or able to do it then how do we make up that shortfall?” Do we market our players and their experiences on social media knowing full well many of them play football for that reason and that reason alone – to play football. 

 This is clearly a problem that doesn’t just affect the grassroots game. Recently in an attempt to model how our defenders should play I searched for videos of Millie Bright defending. I found out that she was afraid of spiders, her favourite movie is Step-Brothers and that the celebrity she would invite to dinner is Tom Hardy. There was only one video that focused on Millie Bright’s football. The problem faced by Bright and the Lionesses is that big brands are willing to pay for these insights however we have yet to have the same brands knocking on our door but still want to tell our players stories in an attempt to attract local businesses which is far more beneficial to everyone.

It’s been an amazing time to live in Brighton and Hove for those of us involved in women’s football. We had the Euro 2022 roadshow on Hove lawns where you could get up close and personal with the trophy and the inspiring Goal Power exhibition at Brighton museum, which highlighted the attitudes and obstacles that have been overcome by footballers across the globe. Finally, we’ve had the football with England putting on an incredible show by beating Norway 8-0 at the Amex yet it’s hard to ignore the feeling that this papers over the cracks that currently exist in women’s football especially in this city.

The hope is that once the Euros circus packs up its tent and leaves our city that it somehow manages to leave a tangible impact and ultimately, for us, that comes down to what it always does: cold, hard cash, ideally from businesses who are socially conscious that want to give back to their community and share our values of being inclusive, independent and ambitious. 

If this is you then please get in touch with us mvwfc@outlook.com or message/phone 07464768514 

 Your support would be appreciated, if you are a local business that wants to be associated with a progressive and ambitious women’s football team that also wants to reduce their tax bill then please contact us below.

Project managing a huge outdoor art commission, the key is to begin with your headache list. My headache list reads as follows: 

– Erecting a huge Artist Dotty robot without public distractions.

– Temporary road closure preventing traffic incidents. 

– Positioning of the robot secured on a stone plinth. 

– Convincing the West Hill and Seven Dials Residents committee that they need a robot at Seven Dials. 

A survey undertaken in West Hill, showed over 10,000 residents voted for a huge robot with beacon lights for overhead air traffic and oncoming vehicles. The issues were eliminated after receiving project investment from local film production company, ‘Mad Cap Productions,’ and a professional project leader was enlisted.

The Seven Dials roundabout was derived from a seven-way junction in London featuring a monument that had six sundials (not sure what happened to the seventh). With a ten strong team, one low loader truck and a stationed crane, ADSD1 took seven hours to safely erect. After a huge applause from onlookers, the public reaction has been overwhelmingly positive. The robot is made from reclaimed steel and, in time, will have dotty, street style paint (as performance art on a trampoline) to add a finishing touch. 

It’s one millimetre wider than the Angle of The North, and ADSD 1 has already been coined as, ‘The Robot of The South.’

Why a robot ?

Well, during his art journey, Artist Dotty noticed over the years that friends have become brainwashed by technology descriptions. For example, Dotty might create an all-consuming, heavily meditated piece of digital artwork, and a friend’s response could simply be: ‘nice pic.’ 

There are other observations, for example when signing up to any social media platforms that require you to fill out your profession. After 20 years of phone navigation, Artist Dotty has  noticed that there hasn’t been the option to say that you are an artist or comedian (comedy being the last bastion of free speech). 

Artist Dotty is convinced that, on the one hand whilst creative options are available, we are being moulded into a new way of perceiving art and creativity through diluted internet language. And what better way to get people thinking about this than by plonking a huge 1950s robot on a plinth on a roundabout. Get down there! ADSD1 really glimmers in the sunlight.  

Et maintenant, le journalist qui s’appelle Gilly Smith parlez avec Fabrice Camus qui runs “Le Club Pour Le Parlez de French”. Bon.

I’ve wanted to speak French since I was a 17 -year-old au pair in Paris, happy to chat with the kids, but freezing with anyone over the age of 10. I want the easy, shoulder shrugging kind of French off pat, not the ‘il fait beau aujourd’hui’ kind of French that’s never going anywhere. I want the effortless chatter over a glass or three that would transform our adventures en France, the friend-making, options-opening kind of French that’s almost impossible to learn in the country itself.  While everyone in France either sneers at your pathetic grasp of language (Paris) or wants to practice their English themselves, it’s just not going to happen on holiday. 

So I put a shout out on Facebook. ‘I think there’s a guy called Fabrice who does conversation classes’, said West Hill Hall Lou who knows the answer to everything. And she’s right. ‘Yup, Fabrice is your man’ says someone else. ‘He teaches my daughter GCSE’,  someone else pops up. ‘I do his Book Club’ says another.  It seems that the whole of Brighton is speaking French with Fabrice. 

I looked him up. Fabrice Camus, freelance French teacher, clearly an orchestra leader for a choir of English voices wanting to learn, advance or polish up their Francais! Camus? Wait. Surely he’s related by Albert, existentialist, poet, philosopher, footballer and my teen hero when I was a French A’ level student. ‘No relation, malheureusement’, messaged Fabrice. ‘Il ya beaucoup de personnes qui portent le nom de famille ‘Camus’ en France!’ 

£50, he told me, would include a weekly class at my local pub, The Eddy as well as French Book Club on Friday mornings and French Cinema on Saturdays or Sundays, both monthly. It turns out that there’s a Saturday morning breakfast too every week at  Cup of Joe in Kemptown. I was in.

Four months later, I’m chatting if not fluent French, fluently to an ever-changing cast of French Clubbers, also chatting happily, whatever their level, at Cup of Joe. Ceri is an TV animation producer who lives in Brighton and works in Paris one week a month. Hyanna is a young doctor who arrived in Brighton from Brazil and seems to like a challenge. Tony is a retired French teacher at Brighton College, Sian, a historian, Shirley an opera singer agent… The conversation is flowing.

I ask Fabrice how he thinks the magic happens. 

‘Number one is confidence’ he tells me. ‘If people have got the confidence, they can do it.’   And they can. Margaret and Richard moved to Brighton last year and have used the opportunity to polish up their French, aand to meet new friends. ‘I lived in France for 15 years,’ Margaret tells me. ‘My spoken French was good, and reading French is good. My written French is still terrible!  It was very difficult to speak French when I lived there; when you’re shopping it’s ok, and some people are always patient. In Paris not so much. But here, I can relax and practice it easily. It’s very informal.’

Husband, Richard works in Lyon but spent Lockdown in the UK and quickly found that the quality of his French was deteriorating. He went back to basics with Fabrice, concentrating on grammar through exercises in class and through homework. ‘The sessions with Fabrice are very efficient,’ he tells me as he tucks into his croissant.

Lesley is retired and moved to Brighton last year. ‘I’ve met so many people with common interests.  I love the breakfast most, but also we have the weekly class over a cup of coffee. We do have conversations but we also we go through the homework we’ve had during the week so that’s very useful.’   It’s more than 50 years since Jill was a student in France and is quietly loving the hubbub of spoken French. ‘I lived in Paris when I was young,’ she tells me, dreamily.

I notice the almost fluent French booming from the end of the table, albeit in a rather cute New Zealand accent. ‘When I came overseas,’ James tells me, ‘I realised that a lot of Europeans spoke their own language as well as English pretty well. So, I tried to use some of my high school French, and I struggled even to order a coffee in a cafe. And that really annoyed me. I got frustrated with the fact that I could only really speak one language. I had expected everyone to speak my language, to accommodate me in their country!’ He moved to Brighton, spotted a poster in a pub window for Fabrice’s informal French classes, and decided to give it a go. ‘I kind of just fell in love with it. It’s just a nice challenge. I enjoy learning another language and discovering a whole new world through the language and the culture.’  

l To join Fabrice’s Rendezvous French Club at a variety of pubs and cafes around Brighton, call 07704 188055.

As I write, it is a gloriously sunny afternoon, but for some reason, the first day’s play at Hove County Cricket Ground of a three-day match against the touring New Zealanders has been scheduled. This is a bit irritating for everyone who had been planning to go, whether as a player, an employee of the ground, or a spectator. I fall into the last group.

I have been living in Brighton for four years now (with a year off in Scotland) and until the beginning of May this year, I had not been to the ground (named now after an insurance company, but that need not concern us) at all. The reasons were laziness – living at the highest point of Dyke Road meant that coming back home involved a supreme effort, and the gound was about half an hour’s walk away; and later, the pandemic, when no one was allowed to go to a match, assuming the match was even being played in the first place. Also, I am a bit leery of Hove, which is, as everyone knows, a terrifying military dictatorship compared to the fun- and peace-loving Green/Socialist paradise of Brighton.

But the other week, now that I live about 10 minutes’ walk away, and on more or less the same elevation as the ground, I had no excuse, and it was also a lovely, sunny day, so off I went to see the final afternoon’s play of a four-day match between Sussex and Middlesex. I checked on the score before going, and without going into any detail, it looked as though the match was settling down to be a nice, peaceful draw. This was just as well: the crushed and downtrodden people of Hove can turn violent at the slightest provocation.

Oh, it was lovely. There were about 500 people at the ground, I’d say, so at least 90% of the seats were unoccupied; they let me in for a tenner because there wasn’t much play left and the match was getting soporific; and even though the Sussex Cricketers, the pub at the Sea End, which I’d never been to, was demolished last year, I could still get a bottle of Harvey’s from the otherwise uninspiring cafe that we have to make do with.

As it turned out, the match did get interesting: Middlesex, helped by a sporting declaration from the hosts, found themselves getting the runs with time to spare (even if they’d been held down a bit at one end whenever Ollie Robinson, the England quickie, came on to bowl). 

As I said, it was lovely, and one of the nicest things about it was the way the Sussex fans, including me, applauded every good shot made by Middlesex, even if it meant that defeat was creeping ever nearer. In which other sport in the world do you get a reaction like that? None, I’d think. 

So I say: get yourself down the Hove ground for a county match and prepare yourself for a nice quiet slice of Heaven. Weather permitting.