Only for the bravest!

A quarter of a century old this year, the Wild River log-flume ride has become a fixture on Brighton Palace Pier, offering generations of visitors the chance to climb, plunge and get soaked against the backdrop of the Channel.

Installed in May 2000, Wild River is a standard two-drop model manufactured by the French firm Reverchon and was part of a wave of new attractions brought in to refresh the pier’s appeal at the turn of the millennium. Each boat carries up to four passengers, climbing to a peak before plunging into a splash-filled pool, and riders are almost certain to emerge wet, if not drenched. The pier’s own publicity calls it ‘a big thrill. . . only for the bravest of riders’.

Height restrictions require passengers to be at least one metre tall, with those under 1.2 metres riding alongside a paying adult. Pregnant visitors, those with neck, back or heart conditions, vertigo or mobility issues are advised not to ride, partly because evacuation in the event of a stoppage can involve a steep walk down from the track. No loose footwear or hats are allowed, and single-ride tickets currently cost £6, though unlimited-ride wristbands are available.

For many visitors the Wild River has been a cooling interlude between the pier’s faster, more intense attractions such as Turbo (see Loop-the-loop). One teenage reviewer in 2019 recalled the slow incline to the top, the plunge into ‘icy depths’, and how on a hot day it was ‘a blessing . . . refreshed with cool water’, prompting repeat rides among their group. Others remember it as a reliable family favourite, where the excitement comes as much from the shared anticipation as from the splash itself.

More elaborate log‑flumes elsewhere in Europe include Phantasialand’s Chiapas in Germany - an Intamin‑built ride with three drops, intense theming and a steep 53° plunge - often ranked among the world’s best for its immersive design. In the UK, Blackpool Pleasure Beach’s Valhalla is another standout: an indoor, multi‑effect flume combining fire, snow, audio‑animatronics and two lift hills, though it is far more theatrical than Brighton’s modest version.

100 years ago, 200 years ago

Exactly 100 years ago today, the Brighton & Hove Herald reported that a 49 year old visitor from London had died in the sea at Brighton Beach. Encouraged by his son to swim, the father appeared at first to have drowned, but it was then established that he had died from heart failure caused by shock. The same edition of the Herald carried a feature - ‘From our files of 1825’ - giving a snapshot of Brighton Beach events exactly 200 years ago.

Brighton & Hove Herald, Saturday August 8, 1925

SAD BATHING FATALITY - Visitor’s Death from Shock.

Within a few hours of his arrival in Brighton on Sunday for a holiday, Mr Robert Dargavel, aged 49, a steel and copperplate engraver, of Cavendish-road, Balham, London, had a bathe in the sea, which proved to be fatal. At the time, it was thought that death was due to drowning, but evidence at the inquest on Tuesday by Dr. H. A. Baines, of Cannon-place, showed that the deceased was suffering from inflammation of the lungs and pleurisy, and that death was due to heart failure from shock.

The circumstances of Mr Dargavel’s death were unusual. His son, Mr Leonard Albert Dargavel, a motor driver, told his father that he proposed to have a bathe, and his father said that he would bathe too. The son swam out some distance and saw nothing more of his father until his body had been brought ashore. Mr John Taylor, a boatman and coxswain of the Brighton lifeboat, when bringing in a load of passengers, saw the deceased standing in shallow water some yards from the shore. A few moments later he saw the deceased fall. Mr Taylor ran into the water, and, with the assistance of another boatman, Mr George Bert Souch, of Artillery-street, brought Mr Dargavel ashore.

Mr Taylor, assisted by Mr Souch, immediately commenced artificial respiration. Shortly afterwards, P.C. Henry Tindall arrived and took over the task. This officer continued the process for about twenty minutes, and, with the assistance of Sergeant W. Cook and P. C. A. Hobden, it was continued for about an hour, two methods being tried.

Dr. Baines, at the inquest, paid a warm tribute to the manner in which the work of artificial respiration was attempted so assiduously and efficiently by the police. If there had been any possible chance of deceased’s life being saved in that way, said Dr. Baines, in all probability it would have been saved.

The Borough Coroner (Mr W. D. Peskett) expressed his gratification at this latest testimony to the services of the police. In the course of the evidence, it was revealed that Mrs Dargavel, widow of the deceased, who had travelled to Brighton with her husband and son, was on the beach when the body was pulled ashore. The son told the Coroner that his father had not been very well at times, but had not had medical treatment, and had been able to attend to his business.

A verdict to the effect that deceased died from natural causes, produced by shock, was returned.

Here also are three verbatim notices from the same page of the 8 August edition of the Herald

Brighton & Hove Herald, Saturday August 8, 1925

BRIGHTON 100 YEARS AGO - From our Files of 1825.

Lady Byron disembarked here on Tuesday from her yacht. After a stay of a few hours, her ladyship sailed for Southampton.

On Sunday last 4,200 persons visited our inimitable Chain Pier.

Yesterday morning two strange boats with no persons on board were perceived in the offing. A boat from the shore secured them, when it turned out that they had broken from their moorings and drifted from Worthing during the strong gale.

NB: Both images above are used courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove. The top image is dated c. 1925; and the lower image is dated c. 1825.

My only literary prize

In the early 1990s, I took part in a Brighton Festival writing workshop on the famous novel Brighton Rock. It was an interesting experience, if a little disappointing. The workshop included entry to a short story competition with a £50 prize, and I duly entered. On this day, in 1992, I received notification that I’d won the competition and the £50 - it remains the only literary prize I’ve ever won. But, at the time, I was convinced - as my diary reveals - that I must have been the only entrant. Here is the story of that prize - in two extracts from my diaries.

4 May 1992

‘Friday saw the opening of the Brighton festival with a splendid procession of children and their school-made dragons. For the whole of Saturday, I’d signed up for a Brighton Rock workshop but I had little idea what it would be like. I dutifully arrived on the Palace Pier a little before 10 and took a couple of pictures - the light was astonishingly bright and clear and the pier furbishings were looking as spanking new and clean as I’ve seen them; they must have had a coat of paint within the last few weeks and the glass in the windows had been spotlessly cleaned.

At 10 exactly, I approached the tiny group of people in the centre of the pavement at the entrance to the pier. The literature event organiser was there holding a wad of tickets; there was a large well-built man of around 50 introduced to me as Tony Masters who I didn’t know from Adam; otherwise there were two other punters like me - Jake, a dead ringer in character and pretensions for my old flatmate Andy, and Bob. Masters, who turned out to be quite a well known and prolific writer, never really recovered from the fact that so few people had signed up

We removed to a banquet suite in the Albion Hotel where Tony talked a while about his working methods, about Brighton Rock (he had known Graham Greene) and about what we were going to do during the day - i.e. a walk in the morning and writing session in the afternoon. 

I suppose I too was disappointed that the turnout was so small. The walk was certainly a disappointment - we walked up and down the pier, passed the Forte’s cafe on the corner directly opposite the pier which was the setting for Snow’s. Tony insisted it would have been more sleazy in the time Greene researched the book but I thought otherwise - Rose says she couldn’t get another job as good and I suspect it was quite posh then, even more so than now. Tony said the same thing about the pier and the Albion hotel (where Greene stayed when in Brighton) but again I would have thought the pier would have been quite rich in those days given the amount of visitors it used to get. Our resident writer seemed determined to impose the sense of sleaze and squalidness that exudes out of the whole book on all the locations. We then walked up to Nelson Place which is where Pinkie grew up and where Rose’s parents live. Tony seemed to insist he could really feel ‘a sense of place’ (the title of the workshop) in this location but I didn’t get anything from it all. 

For a while we sat in the pub Dr Brighton’s which in the book and formerly was the Star and Garter where Ida was often found. I suppose I knew Brighton too well already. There are dozens of locations around the city which have real character and feeling but, the pier apart, we didn’t go near any of them. After a short break for lunch we retired to the same room in the hotel. It became clear that Tony has a lot of experience of such workshops - he has worked a lot in schools it seems and written a lot for children - and was determined to maintain a highly positive attitude and wring something out of us. We had five minutes to write down the bone of an idea based on any inspiration we had had on the walk; then we were given a bit less than an hour to actually write up the idea.

Apart from general thoughts about the gaudiness of the attractions on the pier and the similarity perhaps with Brighton itself in some respects, three pictures on the pier had struck me: the sight of a lanky youth, standing silent and motionless staring at a video machine; a small boy who refused to walk over the slats of the pier because he could see water below and chose instead to walk along the boards laid down for pushchairs; and the colour of the sea - a translucent turquoise which seemed to have a light source of its own - as spotted between the slats when walking through a covered part of the pier.

Pressed into creating a story line and taking my cue from a simple example put forward by Tony himself, I turned the youth into a rather lonely character yet to leave home, addicted to the video machines, his only pleasure, and on the edge of making an important decision in his life. I have him watching the small boy choose the safe path over the boards and seeing himself. A group of lively youngsters enter the amusement arcade and stand near the youth. He starts thinking about how he has never met people like this and so on. I was surprised how much I actually wrote in the short space of time but I suppose that’s my experience as a journalist showing through. Although Tony insisted that one should not enclose one’s characters into a finished plot and allow them room, I had sewn up my plot before I began writing. Tony said all one needs is to be able to see four or five scenes ahead (have a narrative thrust) and then one can write. Well, I couldn’t do this, I had already found the end to my story viz: the group of lively youngsters tease the youth and eventually nag him to come along with them for a bit. The first thing they do is go up the helter skelter. The youth, tied up in the imaginary world of the video games, has never actually been on any of the fairground rides and he is frightened sick of going to the top of the helter skelter and sliding down round virtually over the sea. Moreover, he has to spend his last coin of the day. The story finishes as he begins his slide down - a symbol really that he must begin his real life.

Pretty crass eh! Well, what can one do in 45 minutes. Jake wrote three sentences in Tom Wolfe style about a film star (Cher-like) who has come to Brighton to film a few scenes but falls over on the pier and is going to have an affair with a young street-wise lad. Bob also wrote just a few words about a tailor’s shop he’d seen. They were highly descriptive and emotive even and promised well.

We talked for an hour or so about these attempts. Jake found my writing Kafkaesque, Bob liked it and Tony explained that I wrote rather economically without much description, that I didn’t waste words. He said whereas from Bob’s contribution he could touch the scene, with mine he got a strong visual sense. I don’t think he made any judgement as to whether it was any good or not, nor can I think of anything he said that might actually help me write the story better. Oh yes, he said I was very observant.

The cost of the workshop also includes the chance to send in a story (max 3,000 words) to the organisers who will then award a £50 prize as well as provide some constructive criticism. I shall certainly take advantage of that offer. If just three people turn up at the second of the two workshops and every participant sends in a story, I would still have a 15% chance of winning the prize!

I have to say that I liked Tony and found myself very much on his wavelength - I could tell in advance what pictures he might point out (at one point he was saying that one was unlikely to meet a Pinkie character these days but just at that moment two punks passed us in the street and we both acknowledged the irony of that) - and I could agree with much of what he said about other writers and films. At over 50, he has been a writer for thirty years he said, and is clearly much in demand, for films and television, and also pushes out a lot of books. I suppose if I were ever to be a writer, I would want to have as varied a portfolio as this man.’

5 August 1992

‘ “I am delighted,” Adrian Slack, organiser of the literature part of the Brighton Festival, writes, “to inform you that you have won first prize in the short story competition. I enclose a cheque for £50”. Well, well, well. My first ever literature success. Well, it would be if I wasn’t reasonably sure that I was probably the only entrant. Shame I didn’t get second and third prize as well. The story - Helter Skelter - was supposed to be read by several judges and a critique provided, that might have been more useful than the £50 prize.’

My policeman on the pier

‘We battled past the sodden deckchairs, fortune-tellers and doughnut stalls, my hair coarsening in the wind, and my hand, clutching the umbrella above Tom’s, going numb. Tom’s face and body seemed set in a determined grimace against the weather. “Let’s go back . . .” I began, but the wind must have stolen my voice, for Tom ploughed ahead and shouted, “Helter-skelter? House of Hades? Or ghost train?” ’ This is an extract from Bethan Roberts Brighton-set novel, My Policeman, published on this day in 2012. While themes of repression, betrayal, guilt, and enduring love are explored against a backdrop of post-war conformity, Brighton Beach provides both a place of apparent freedom and quiet entrapment.

Roberts was born in Abingdon, Oxfordshire, in 1973. She studied English Literature at university before returning to writing via a part‑time MA in Creative Writing at the University of Chichester, which she completed over three years while working in television in Brighton. In 2006, she won the Society of Authors’ Olive Cook short‑story prize, which helped launch her literary career.

Her debut novel, The Pools, was published in 2007, earning the Jerwood/Arvon Young Writers’ Award. The follow‑up, The Good Plain Cook (2008), was serialised on BBC Radio 4’s Book at Bedtime and selected as a Time Out Book of the Year. On 4 August 2012, My Policeman was published by Chatto & Windus. The novel is set in Brighton in the 1950s and explores a love triangle between a policeman, his wife, and his secret male lover. It was chosen as Brighton City Read 2012, became an Irish Times Book of the Year, and was turned into a film in 2022.

Mother Island appeared in 2014, winning Roberts a Jerwood Fiction Uncovered prize, and Graceland, a fictionalised account of Elvis Presley’s early life, was published in 2019. Roberts also writes short fiction and drama for BBC Radio 4; she has worked in television documentary production and has taught creative writing at the University of Chichester, Goldsmiths, University of London, and West Dean College. She is based in Brighton with her family. For more biographical information see The Royal Literary Fund or New Writing South.

My Policeman is a tragic love story set in 1950s Brighton, where social conventions and laws criminalise homosexuality. The novel centres on Tom Burgess, a young policeman who marries Marion, a schoolteacher, while secretly maintaining a romantic relationship with Patrick, a museum curator. The story unfolds through dual narratives - Marion’s confessional manuscript and Patrick’s diary - both written decades later, as the emotional consequences of the hidden triangle are laid bare.

Here’s one extract in which Marion, on her honeymoon, is choosing a fairground ride.

‘And so, a few minutes later, we were strolling arm in arm towards the noise and lights of the Palace Pier.

My bouclé jacket was a pretty flimsy affair, and I clung to Tom’s arm as we sheltered beneath one of the hotel’s umbrellas. I was glad there’d been only one available, so we had to share. We rushed across King’s Road, were splashed by a passing bus, and Tom paid for us to go through the turnstiles. The wind threatened to blow our umbrella into the sea, but Tom kept a firm grip, despite the waves foaming around the pier’s iron legs and throwing shingle up the beach. We battled past the sodden deckchairs, fortune-tellers and doughnut stalls, my hair coarsening in the wind, and my hand, clutching the umbrella above Tom’s, going numb. Tom’s face and body seemed set in a determined grimace against the weather.

“Let’s go back . . .” I began, but the wind must have stolen my voice, for Tom ploughed ahead and shouted, “Helter-skelter? House of Hades? Or ghost train?”

It was then I started to laugh. What else could I do, Patrick? Here was I, on my honeymoon, battered by a wet wind on the Palace Pier, when our warm hotel bedroom - bed still immaculately made - was only yards away, and my new husband was asking me to choose between fairground rides.

“I’m for the helter-skelter,” I said, and started running towards the blue and red striped turret. The slide - then called The Joy Glide - was such a familiar sight, and yet I’d never actually been down it. Suddenly it seemed like a good idea. My feet were soaked and freezing, and moving them at least warmed them a little. (Tom has never felt the cold, did you notice that? A little later in our marriage, I wondered if all that sea swimming had developed a protective layer of seal-like fat, just beneath the surface of his skin. And whether that explained his lack of response to my touch. My tough, beautiful sea creature.)

The girl in the booth – black pigtails and pale pink lipstick – took our money and handed us a couple of mats. “One at a time,” she ordered. “No sharing mats.” ’

A sea on fire

Alison MacLeod’s novel Unexploded, long-listed for the 2013 Man Booker Prize, was published twelve years ago today. Set in Brighton during the early stages of World War II, the story revolves around the lives of Geoffrey and Evelyn Beaumont, a married couple navigating the tensions and fears of wartime life as they face the imminent threat of a German invasion. In particular, the narrative contains vivid portrayals of the beach and piers being closed down and shut off from daily life, one character even imagining the sea on fire.

MacLeod is a Canadian‑British novelist, short story writer, and academic, born in Montreal and raised in Quebec and Halifax, Nova Scotia. She has lived in England since 1987, and has become a dual citizen. She was Professor of Contemporary Fiction at the University of Chichester until 2018. Since then she has been writing full time while maintaining visiting academic roles and serving as a Fellow of the Royal Literary Fund. While Unexploded was published on 26 July 2013, and is her best-known work (having been serialised on BBC Radio 4), Bloomsbury has also published a story collection, All the Beloved Ghosts ( 2017), and the novel Tenderness (2021).

In Unexploded, Geoffrey is appointed superintendent of a newly improvised internment camp for enemy aliens, while Evelyn, restless and emotionally isolated, begins volunteering there. She meets Otto Gottlieb, a German‑Jewish painter labeled a ‘degenerate’ and interned under Geoffrey’s supervision. They begin an emotional entanglement that forces Evelyn to question her marriage, motherhood, and moral compass. Geoffrey, meanwhile, spirals into his own moral failures: prejudice, infidelity, and emotional cowardice. 

Unexploded can be previewed at Googlebooks. Here are two extracts. 

Chapter 14, page 103

‘A hundred yards from the Palace Pier, Geoffrey let himself loiter under the canopy of a derelict oyster stand. The day was overcast, the sea the colour of gunmetal, and the beach abandoned, closed for the war by order of the corporation. The signs had been hammered to the railings down the length of the prom.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. On the Pier, the rides stood quiet. Only a few defiant anglers tried their luck from the end of the deck. In the tide, mines bobbed beneath the surface, out of view, horned and deadly. Every fishing boat had vanished, as if by some ill-fated sleight of hand.

He tried to focus on the survey for the Committee, on the report he would need to compose to confirm that all was in place for Churchill’s visit. He’d been avoiding the task all week.

He cupped the flame of his lighter against the breeze and drew hard on his cigarette. Every beach chalet, including his own, had been strategically manoeuvred and filled with stones. Up and down the shingle, anti-landing-craft spikes lay in heaps, ready to be dug in. Vast coils of barbed wire blotted the views east and west, while concrete tank-traps stood five feet high, colonising the shore. Across the King’s Road, the elegant rooftops of the Grand Hotel and the Métropole had been upstaged by the guns on the new naval station.

Without the boats, without the herring dees and the winkle- pickers, the shingle was a bleak vista darkened by the apparatus of war and the rank of oil drums that stretched endlessly towards Hove. Each drum squatted beneath the prom, ready to be rolled down the beach, past the ghosts of erstwhile paddlers, children and old people, into the sea. Each bore ten thousand gallons of petrol, and, for a moment, looking out, he saw it, the impossible: a sea on fire.

Even as he walked the beach, white sheets and pristine table linen were hanging from every window on the Channel Islands. That was the morning’s news.

Any day. It could be any day.’

Chapter 22, page 169

‘If London looked to the steadiness of Big Ben and the gravitas of St Paul’s for a reminder of dignity in strife, Brighton’s emotional compass had been the ring-a-ding-ding and the music, the electric lights and the ticket-stub happiness of the Palace and West piers. When the Explosions Unit had arrived that evening back in June, the town prepared to lose its bearings. Even to the casual observer, each pier looked like nothing less than a welcoming dock, an unloading zone for any invading ship, and while both were spared outright destruction, section after strategy section - of decking, piles and girders - was blasted into the sea.

That year, Alf Dunn, Tubby’s middle brother, turned fourteen and craved something more than digs in bombed-out houses. As the starlings gathered and the sun slid from the sky, he and a dozen others also descended on the seafront.

It was no casual operation. They had wire-clippers for the barbed-wire fencing, rope from a builder’s yard, switchblades for cutting it, and mud for camouflage. The tide was rising, but the evening itself was calm, and there was just time to cast a rope bridge from gap to gap, using the stumps of the blasted piles and relying on Tommy Leach’s skill with knots.

The trick to a successful traverse, Ali explained, was to lie on top of the rope, bend a knee, hook the foot of that same leg over the rope, and keep the other leg straight for balance. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Your pins don’t move. It’s your arms and hands that get you from end to end. If you slip under the rope, don’t panic. Hook a leg and the opposite arm over, and push down with the other hand to right yourself.

Tubby and Philip had been allowed to bring up the rear, if only to bear witness and to carry the bucket of camouflage mud. They watched Alf army-crawl his way to the first, second and third landings, wave from the deck, and glide back.’

The Great Omani

Twenty-five years ago, Brighton’s seafront bade a flamboyant farewell to one of its most extraordinary residents: Ronald Cunningham, better known by his stage name, ‘The Great Omani’. On 10 July 2000 - his 85th birthday - Omani staged what he declared would be his final stunt, astonishing a crowd at the Norfolk Hotel by escaping from handcuffs while both his arms were set ablaze with lighter fluid. Frail, in a wheelchair, and undergoing treatment for kidney dialysis and cancer, he ensured that his last act was as daring and theatrical as the countless spectacles he had performed along Brighton’s historic front - many of them centred on the West Pier, the backdrop to some of his most audacious feats.

Living modestly at 10 Norfolk Street, Cunningham was a true local legend whose improbable career as a stuntman and escapologist spanned nearly half a century. Born into a wealthy family, he drifted through his early years without ambition until a twist of fate changed everything. As he browsed in a London bookshop, a volume of Houdini’s tricks fell from a shelf and landed squarely on his foot. ‘That moment changed my life,’ he later said. Taking it as a sign, he resolved on the spot to become a stuntman, adopting the name ‘The Great Omani’ simply because, in his words, it sounded ‘exotic and exciting, just like Houdini’s’.

His acts were as audacious as his origin story. Omani became the first man to travel from London to Brighton on a bed of nails, then made the return journey entombed in a ton of concrete. In a heartfelt homage to his idol, he staged a dramatic underwater escape from Brighton’s West Pier - echoing Houdini’s own feats of the 1920s. According to The Argus, ‘The Great Omani could be regularly seen jumping from the end of the West Pier, wrapped in chains and on fire’. His repertoire included smashing bottles on his throat with a hammer, diving through flaming hoops, and extricating himself from burning structures - stunts performed with a blend of swagger and scrupulous preparation. Remarkably, across his long career, he was only seriously injured twice, both times due to mistakes by assistants: once when a cardboard house was set alight with petrol poured inside, another time when a leaking fuel can caused minor burns during a flaming dive.

That final spectacle on his 85th birthday was meant to be his swan song (see this video at Youtube - the source of the screenshot above), yet in true Omani fashion he couldn’t resist also marking his 90th birthday with a last defiant farewell (see My Brighton and Hove). He died in 2007. Further information is available online at Wikipedia, but also in The Crowd Roars - Tales from the life of a professional stuntman The Great Omani which can be freely downloaded as a pdf from QueenSpark Books.

The Pier first sees red - in neon

Exactly one hundred years ago, on 11 July 1925, The Brighton & Hove Herald reported a dazzling leap into modernity: the first brilliant neon sign blazed across the front of the Palace Pier. It was a spectacle the likes of which the town had never seen - a vivid red beacon spelling out Palace Pier, its letters edged in electric blue, visible from a considerable distance along the bustling seafront. This photo - courtesy of Royal Pavilion & Museums, Brighton & Hove - is dated to 1925 (though I know not if it actually includes any neon illumination).

At the time, neon was still a novel wonder. Invented by French engineer Georges Claude and first unveiled to the public at the Paris Motor Show in 1910, neon signs were a marvel of engineering and chemistry, harnessing the glow of electrified gas to paint the night in colours more vivid than anything achieved by traditional incandescent bulbs. In Britain, neon advertising only truly began to catch on in the early 1920s. Londoners were awestruck by neon displays on places like Hammersmith Bridge, and Brighton was determined not to be left behind.

The Brighton & Hove Herald of 11 July 1925 was almost breathless in its report, explaining that the new Palace Pier sign was among the first uses of neon illumination in the town - part of a wider effort to give the seafront a ‘brighter aspect by night’. The paper described how ‘huge shaped glass tubes’, bent to form the letters, were filled with neon gas which glowed fiercely under electrical charge, producing a luminous red unlike anything seen before. Surrounding blue lamps heightened the effect, creating what the Herald called ‘a colour combination that was quite attractive.’

The article goes on to give more details; ‘The words of the sign are formed by vacuum tubes charged with neon gas and electricity, which produces the brilliant light. The sign on the Pier takes 8,000 volts (alternating current), but it is so cheap in consumption of current that it costs only 2 1/2 d. an hour to run; and after the sign has been lit for a month that amount will be reduced to 2d. With the aid of a little lunar limelight, a wonderful colour effect was obtained on Tuesday night, but this was for ‘one night only.’ A great orange-coloured moon rose out of the wall of dark over the sea, and the orange of the moon and the flaming ruby of the sign produced a colour combination that was quite impressive.’

This local marvel was part of a global neon boom that would come to define the visual culture of the 20th century. Within a few years, neon would spread to Blackpool’s promenades, Piccadilly Circus, and Times Square, becoming synonymous with nightlife, glamour, and the thrilling energy of modern cities. But on that July evening in 1925, Brighton stood proudly at the forefront of this new luminous age.

Cheese and Clarity

Here is the 11th of 25 stained glass window designs on the Palace Pier which AI and I are using as inspiration for some of these BrightonBeach365 daily posts - see Stained Glass Window 1 for background. This one is a vibrant and inviting still life scene. At the centre, there’s a tall green wine bottle labeled ‘WINE’ next to a filled glass of red wine. To the right, there’s a rustic loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese adorned with a couple of red grapes. On the left, a plate overflows with colourful fruit - bananas, red apples, oranges, and dark grapes. The background features a bright blue sky with white clouds, visible through a window framed by stylised golden foliage, giving the whole scene a cheerful and leisurely atmosphere. 

A limerick starter

A bottle of red by the shore,

With brie, crusty bread, and much more - 

The waves kissed my feet,

The camembert sweet,

And I burped, ‘This is what life is for.’

Cheese and Clarity (in the manner of M. F. K. Fisher)

It was on Brighton Pier, one sunny morning in July a long time ago, that I tasted what I can only describe as a moment of suspended truth. The sea, more aquamarine than English Channel has any right to be, lapped beneath the boards with that sly, deceptive calm particular to days just before a storm. I had walked the length of the pier, past the thump of arcade machines and the shrillness of seagulls, until I found a place to consumer my picnic lunch, a place of improbable peace: a narrow table-for-one outside a shuttered café, laid not with linen, but possibility.

The meal had been packed by a friend in Hove, a woman with the kind of confidence in food that doesn’t require apology. In the small canvas tote, wrapped in wax paper and string, was a half-round of Sussex Slipcote - creamy, yielding, its curd scent as tender as memory. There was a baton of sourdough, still warm from an oven I imagined tiled and sunlit. And there was fruit: a fist of dark grapes, each like a polished bead; a plum so ripe it might have been holding its breath.

But it was the cheese that made everything still.

I remember how the knife slid through it, a slow sigh of a cut. How it spread against the bread with the texture of late-summer longing. I bit in, and everything dissolved: the salt air, the pier’s old iron bones, the sound of a child crying for more coins. For a moment, it was just me, the Slipcote, and a glass of red pulled from a thermos flask and tasting improbably of the south of France. There may have been a crust of honeycomb too - my memory folds here - and a wedge of quince paste, amber and dignified like a grandmother’s brooch.

Brighton’s beach glinted distantly, pebbles fizzing in the sun like soda water. I could just make out the broken skeleton of the West Pier, its frame ghosted with rust. I wondered, not for the first time, what it means to love a place that is constantly eroding, and whether that same principle applies to people. Or cheese.

I stayed there a while. Long enough for the gulls to give up hope, and the sun to soften everything into shadow. The clarity of hunger had passed, but in its place: something softer, wiser. Not fullness, precisely, but a kind of peace.

If there is a meal worth remembering, it is never because it was perfect, but because something in the bread, or the cheese, or the view from a rickety pier told you a secret you didn’t know you needed to hear.

And the secret was this: You do not have to earn pleasure.

Not with labour, or loneliness, or a perfectly laid table. Not by pretending not to want it. You are allowed to sit on a salt-bitten bench above a bright and battered sea, and let a little wheel of cheese remind you that the good things - rich, ripe, sensuous - require no justification. They exist, like the sea and the sun, and so do you. That was enough.

West Pier peril

Two young men were hospitalised, yesterday, with serious injuries after falling from the remains of Brighton’s iconic West Pier. Emergency services were called at approximately 12:40 after reports that the pair, who had attempted to climb the structure, had slipped into the sea. Both individuals sustained serious cuts, and one suffered a suspected dislocated shoulder. Lifeguards were able to retrieve them from the water, and they were treated at the scene by the South East Coast Ambulance Service before being taken to hospital for further care. The incident was widely reported, by the BBC, Brighton and Hove News, and on the Sussex Coast Incident News Page.

The incident triggered a large-scale response involving the Shoreham and Newhaven Coastguard teams, Brighton’s RNLI lifeboat, the South East Coast Ambulance Service, and Sussex Police. The rescue coincided with a period of intense heat across the South East, which often draws crowds to the seafront. ‘Climbing on old structures in or over water, tombstoning, or jumping into water from height is dangerous. There’s always a possibility of submerged rocks, metal, or shallow water. Don’t do it. Stay safe,’ HM Coastguard Shoreham warned in a public statement following the incident.

The West Pier, once a Victorian marvel, has been closed to the public since 1975 due to safety concerns. Over the decades, the structure has suffered repeated damage from storms, fires (two suspected arson attacks in 2003), and the relentless effects of the sea. Major collapses have occurred regularly over the last 25 years, each time further reducing the pier’s skeletal remains. The West Pier Trust clearly states the structure is ‘not stable, it is unsafe and liable to collapse,’ and it warns of ‘many sharp obstructions’ on the seabed that are often hidden and could cause serious injury. It urges people to ‘keep away from the structure at all times’ and specifically advises against swimming, surfing, kayaking, paddle-boarding, or sailing near it, as well as never going between the ruin and the yellow marker buoys.’

Generally speaking, this advice is heeded. As far as I can tell, yesterday’s incident was the first of its kind for some good long time, at least the first that has received any publicity (The Palace Pier, however, has been the scene of recent occasional rescues involving the RNLI, see this incident report and another. 

(The photograph immediately above is taken from the Shoreham Coastguard, and the image above it was created by AI.)

Mid-air fighter pilot thrills!

Ever experienced mid-air fighter pilot thrills? Ever been on the Palace Pier’s Air Race ride? This attraction has become a staple of the pier’s amusement offerings since its installation around 2016. Manufactured by Italian ride designers Zamperla, the award-winning Air Race is known for its compact design and intense looping motion, simulating the feeling of a high-speed aerobatic display.

The ride consists of plane-shaped pods mounted on rotating arms. As the central hub spins, the arms swing outward, causing the pods to loop vertically and invert. The result is a disorienting two-minute experience delivering forces said to be up to 3G. Riders are secured in over-the-shoulder restraints, and the ride is accompanied by engine sound effects and commentary mimicking an air show.

Brighton’s Air Race replaced or supplemented older children’s rides as part of the Brighton Pier Group’s post-2010 modernisation strategy. It operates as part of the pier’s token- or wristband-based amusement park at the far end of the structure. Its height and movement make it visible from the promenade, contributing to the pier’s profile as a destination for thrill-seekers as well as traditional day-trippers.

The ride has been in the news. On 8 April 2019, a component came loose during operation and struck a teenage boy in the leg, causing minor injury. Emergency services responded, and the Health and Safety Executive launched an investigation. The ride was temporarily closed and inspected by the manufacturer. The incident, reported by multiple national outlets including BBC News and ITV News, was one of the few recent mechanical accidents on Brighton Palace Pier. No serious injuries were recorded.

The Air Race is not unique to Brighton. The same Zamperla ride model is installed in several locations around the world. Notable examples include Luna Park in Coney Island, New York (opened 2010), and Drayton Manor in Staffordshire (opened 2014). Other installations exist in Australia, Canada and at travelling fairs in Germany. According to Zamperla’s website, the Air Race won a Menalac Best New Products award in the FECS category (European fairs and traveling attractions) within the 2011-2020 timeframe.

Four times time

Ninety-five years ago toady, on 27 June 1930, Brighton’s Mayor Horace Aldrich formally opened the clock tower at the entrance to the Palace Pier. Commissioned by the Brighton Marine Palace and Pier Company and built by W. G. Beaumont & Company, the new clock tower was designed to create a grander gateway for visitors, replacing the original ironwork arches as part of a widened promenade. Its four faces have since become an iconic feature at the pier’s entrance, though the clock faces don’t always tell the same time!

Local lore holds that the clock’s internal mechanism and faces were salvaged from the Brighton Aquarium, during its 1929 demolition, and repurposed into the new pier entrance (see My Brighton and Hove). While this is a persistent and colourful legend - referenced in community histories and online forums - there seems to be no definitive documentation to confirm it. 

The clock has not always run smoothly. During the Second World War, the mechanism and faces were removed for safekeeping, protecting them from potential bomb damage or sabotage. When the pier reopened in June 1946, the clock was reinstalled and the tower rebuilt. Over the decades, the coastal environment - with its salt, wind and storms - has taken its toll, leading to periodic wear and tear and necessitating regular maintenance.

One of the most notable recent challenges occurred during a particularly wet winter in the late 2000s. The tower’s waterproofing failed, causing wooden structural supports to decay. This led to the clock’s shafts binding and the mechanism losing time. The problem was resolved by engineers from Hastings, who restored the clock and repaired the structure. Nevertheless, in the last few years, when on the beach, I’ve learned to check more than one face if I need to know the time.

Celebrating Eugenius Birch

Eugenius Birch - born this day in 1818 - was the preeminent engineer of the Victorian seaside, the man who shaped the silhouette of England’s pleasure piers - and few places reflect his legacy more vividly than Brighton. Though best remembered for designing the West Pier, his original involvement with the Palace Pier also left a mark on the seafront that endures to this day. It is worth noting that Brighton is the only location where TWO Eugenius Birch built/inspired piers can be captured in a single ground-level photograph.

Brighton in the mid-19th century was already a flourishing resort town, a fashionable destination for sea air and spectacle. But its early piers were practical structures - wooden jetties for landing boats, not leisure. The transformation of the pier into a promenade of popular entertainment was largely Birch’s doing.

The West Pier, opened in October 1866, was his masterpiece. Commissioned by the West Pier Company and built at a cost of over £27,000, it was the first pier in Britain designed specifically for pleasure rather than docking. Birch employed his trademark screw-pile technique - iron piles twisted deep into the seabed - which made the structure both elegant and resilient. The West Pier featured cast-iron columns, graceful arches, gas lighting, and a central pavilion where orchestras performed to strolling visitors. It soon became a jewel of the Brighton shoreline, admired for its engineering and its social atmosphere.

The success of the West Pier inspired calls for a second pier, further east, to replace the ageing and storm-battered Chain Pier. In 1881, the newly formed Brighton Marine Palace and Pier Company invited Birch to draw up plans for a grander structure: what would eventually become the Palace Pier. His design envisioned a wide, iron-framed promenade extending over 1,000 feet into the Channel, crowned with entertainment pavilions and theatre space - a palace of amusement on the sea.

Construction began in November 1881, but progress was plagued by bad weather and delays. Birch, now in his sixties and nearing the end of his life, did not live to see it through. He died in January 1884, and the project stalled for several years after. When work resumed in earnest, the Palace Pier’s design was significantly revised under new engineers, though it retained Birch’s iron-pile foundations and the core idea of a leisure pier rather than a landing stage.

The Palace Pier was finally opened in May 1899, fifteen years after Birch’s death. Though much of the decorative design and superstructure was reimagined, the engineering principles remained his. Its immense popularity through the 20th century - with its theatres, arcades, and fairground rides - owed much to the model first tested on the West Pier. Today, the West Pier, now skeletal after fires and storms, stands as a haunting but beautiful ruin, a tribute to Birch’s original vision; and The Palace Pier  continues to thrive as one of Britain’s most visited free attractions.

Happy Birthday Eugenius Birch. Further information is readily available online, for example at Wikipedia, the National Piers Society and The Victorian Web. The modern photograph above was taken in 2020. The two Victorian-era photographs of the piers were published in my book Brighton & Hove Then & Now (The History Press, 2013) but originally sourced from the James Gray Collection with thanks to the Regency Society.

Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

[Scene: Brighton Palace Pier. Two seagulls, Eric (taller, dafter) and Ernie (shorter, primmer), are sitting comfortably on large deckchairs near the funfair. With apologies again to Morecambe and Wise. See also Bring me . . . a sausage roll!]

Eric: You ever notice how humans scream before the rollercoaster even drops?

Ernie: [Laughs] Pre-emptive panic. Like you when someone sneezes near a pasty.

Eric: Hey - better startled than snatched. I’ve seen what toddlers do to feathers.

Ernie: [Laughing again] True. One of them tried to share their sausage roll with me once. By throwing it at me.

Eric: Ah, the Brighton welcome.

Ernie: Still, better than the ghost train. That thing rattles like a pigeon in a crisp tin.

Eric: And yet, it’s us who got painted, Ernie. Deckchairs, dignity… and just a hint of smug.

Ernie: Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

Eric: Yep. Bold colours, big brushstrokes - a proper seaside tribute. They call it Laughing Seagulls.

Ernie: Well, we are hilarious. Especially you during bin collection.

Eric: It’s performance art. I’ve told you.

Ernie: Cosmo got the vibe, though. Two old birds watching the world flap by. Captured our best side - both of them.

Eric: He said it was about friendship, joy, resilience.

Ernie: And snacks, surely? 

Eric: Snacks are implied.

Ernie: You know, I’ve never actually sat in a deckchair before.

Eric: You are now. In glorious, fifteen-foot seaside Technicolor.

Ernie: Not bad for a couple of ferals, eh?

Eric: Not bad at all. Now - watch that one on the helter-skelter. He’s gonna lose his hat and his lunch.

[Both laugh]

Pining for Sabrina Zembra

‘He began to think that if he passed away from this laughing and murmuring crowd, and went out to the end of the pier, and quietly slipped down into the placid waters, the world would be none the worse for the want of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness would come to an end.’ This is from Sabina Zembra, a lesser known novel set in Brighton by Victorian author William Black.

Black was born in Glasgow in 1841. He initially studied art, but became a reporter for Scottish newspapers. Later, in London, he worked for the Morning Star and Daily News, serving as a war correspondent during Garibaldi’s campaign and the Franco-Prussian War. His breakthrough novel, A Daughter of Heth (1871), marked the start of a prolific literary career. Known for his lyrical prose, romantic plots, and vividly rendered landscapes, he became one of the most widely read novelists of the 1870s and 1880s - see Wikipedia.

Black’s work often balanced sentiment with moral seriousness and featured strong, emotionally intelligent female characters. His best-known novels include The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton (1872), A Princess of Thule (1873), and MacLeod of Dare (1879). Though his popularity waned after his death, in his lifetime he was widely admired, with some critics likening his descriptive power to that of Thomas Hardy or even early Tennyson.

While primarily associated with Scotland and London, Black and his second wife, Eva Simpson, moved to Brighton in 1878 - see The Victorian Web. And Brighton then featured in his 1881 novel, The Beautiful Wretch, and subsequently in Sabina Zembra. In this latter novel, the reflective opening scenes unfold along the town’s seafront and Chain Pier, capturing its blend of gaiety and melancholy. Black actually died in Brighton in 1898 and was buried near the church door of St Margaret's, Rottingdean, close to the grave of Edward Burne-Jones.

Sabina Zembra was first published in 1887 by Macmillan - the full work is freely available to read online at Internet Archive. It explores themes of love, melancholy, and social expectation against the contrasting backdrops of London and the English seaside. The story centres on Walter Lindsay, a sensitive, somewhat disillusioned man who escapes the pressures of life in London by retreating to Brighton. Though surrounded by crowds, he is inwardly solitary, his thoughts haunted by a woman named Sabina Zembra. Sabina is not just a love interest but a symbol of a purer, nobler affection in a world that feels increasingly hollow. As Lindsay wanders through Brighton’s piers and promenades, he contemplates life, despair, and romantic ideals. Here is a passage that opens chapter 15 entitled The Wedding.

‘It was a summer night at Brighton. The tall house-fronts were gray and wan against the crimson and yellow still lingering in the north-western heavens; but far away over the sea, to the south-east, there dwelt a golden moon in a sky of pale rose-purple; and the moonlight that fell on the wide waters was soft and shimmering, until it gleamed sharp and vivid where the ripples broke on the beach. Here and there the stars of the gas lamps began to tell in the twilight. There was a faint murmur of talking; young girls in their summer costumes went by, with laughter and jest; there was an open window, and somebody within a brilliantly lit drawing-room was singing - in a voice not very loud but still audible to such of the passers-by as happened to pause and listen - an old Silesian air. It was about a lover, and a broken ring, and the sound of a mill-wheel.

Walter Lindsay was among these casual listeners - for a minute or two; and then he went on, with some curious fancies in his head. Not that any young maiden had deceived him, or that he was particularly anxious to find rest in the grave; for this is the latter half of the nineteenth century, and he, as well as others, knew that Wertherism [morbid sentimentality, regarded as characteristic of Werther, the hero of Goethe’s romance] was now considered ridiculous. But somehow London had become intolerable to him; and he could not work; and - well, Brighton was the nearest place to get away to, while one was considering further plans. It was a little lonely, it is true; especially on these summer evenings, when all the world seemed, as it were, to be murmuring in happiness.

Over there was the Chain Pier. A few golden points - gas lamps - glimmered on it; and beyond it there was a small boat, the sail of which caught the last dusky-red light from the sunset, and looked ghostly on the darkening plain. In that direction peace seemed to lie. He began to think that if he passed away from this laughing and murmuring crowd, and went out to the end of the pier, and quietly slipped down into the placid waters, the world would be none the worse for the want of him, and a good deal of heart-sickness would come to an end. He did not really contemplate suicide; it was a mere fancy. Killing oneself for love is not known nowadays, except among clerks and shop-lads; and then it is generally prefaced by cutting a young woman’s throat, which is unpleasant. No, it was a mere fancy that haunted him, and not in a too mournful fashion.’

Liminality

Order and chaos
Ebb and flow
Sand and pebbles
Persp and ective

Rags and angles
Shapes and shades
Trussels and tresses
Scaff and olding

Mud and iron
Wet and dried
Gull and nets
Indus and trial

Pilings and mussels
Maze and mops
Weed and feathers
Perp and endicular

Nuts and bolts
Ropes and rods
Lines and curves
Encrust and ation

Rusts and reds
Black and greys
Salt and ripples
Limin and ality

Together Co at the pier

Brighton-based charity Together Co is hitting the road today with a vibrant citywide bus roadshow marking 25 years of tackling loneliness and building community connections in Brighton & Hove. The one-day celebration, part of the charity’s #ConnectIn25 campaign, coincides with Loneliness Awareness Week and aims to put ‘social health’ - the ability to form meaningful relationships - firmly on the public agenda.

In partnership with Brighton & Hove Buses, the roadshow features a specially designed, beach-themed double-decker bus that doubles as a mobile community hub. Fully accessible and dementia-friendly, the bus will stop at key locations across the city including Moulsecoomb, Whitehawk, Churchill Square, and culminate at Brighton Palace Pier (where these photos were taken).

Television presenter and Together Co ambassador Gail Porter will join charity staff, volunteers and community partners along the route. Visitors are invited to climb aboard for a chat, learn more about Together Co’s work, or find out how to get involved as a volunteer. Founded in 1999, Together Co has supported thousands across Brighton & Hove through befriending, social prescribing and volunteering programmes.

Its work, the organisation says, has never been more relevant, with recent research showing that nearly half of adults in England experience feelings of loneliness at some point. Together Co CEO April Baker said, ‘This roadshow is about Together Co being out in the community, on the move, meeting people where they are. We want to celebrate what we have achieved with the help of our volunteers and supporters over the past 25 years, and to invite everyone to be a part of what comes next.’

Together Co is always looking for new ways to spread its message. In April 2024, to celebrate the Grand’s 160th anniversary, Together Co hosted an afternoon tea at the iconic hotel. It attracted 160 guests and performances including the Brighton Welsh Male Voice Choir. In November, it is celebrating its 25th anniversary with a gala on the pier. This will be themed, appropriately, as ‘All the Fun of the Fair’ - think Moulin Rouge meets Cabaret, it suggests. 

End of the Pier Show

A new chapter in Brighton Beach entertainment - or rather an old chapter renewed - is set to open in Brighton this summer, according to the Brighton and Hove News. The Palace Pier Performers - led by local panto favourites Allison Ferns and Jack Pallister - are preparing to revive a once popular theatre genre - The End of the Pier Show - on Brighton Palace Pier. 

Auditions, described as ‘a kind of Brighton’s got talent,’ will take place on 1 July at Horatio’s, with the first performance scheduled for 11 August and a run through 22 August. According to Brighton and Hove News, the organisers promise a contemporary twist on the classic variety format, seeking dynamic performers who can sing, dance, and act, and emphasising inclusivity for applicants of all backgrounds. Anne Ackord, chief executive of the pier was quoted as saying: ‘I am delighted to both revisit the past and create new memories for today’s visitors with the return of the iconic end of pier entertainment.’

Allison Ferns reflected: ‘My first ever proper job was on the Palace Pier selling seafood and Brighton rock and so it feels really special to be back here. In fact, I’m very much going back to my roots as my first ever performing job was in an end of the pier show in Eastbourne.’

This revival draws on a rich tradition that began in the late Victorian era, when pleasure piers across Britain built theatres at their seaward ends to host variety shows for holidaymakers. End of the pier shows became a hallmark of the British seaside, offering affordable entertainment that mixed comedy, music, dance, and novelty acts for generations of visitors. Though their popularity declined with changing holiday habits in the late 20th century, the format remains a cherished part of coastal culture.

Indeed, today, such anachronistic entertainment has largely disappeared. The Cromer Pier Show with over 70,000 visitors annually is a rare exception - this publicity still (!) can be found at the DayVisits website. 

Rotten decking anniversary

It is, today, the 10th anniversary of the day the news broke - in The Argus, where else - that the leg of a teenager (ironically called Megan Wood) ‘went plunging’ through the Palace Pier wooden decking. The story has been immortalised by the National Piers Society which includes the event in its potted history of the Palace Pier. I can find no other source for the story so I will have to rely almost entirely on (i.e. plagiarise) the Argus piece (inc. its photographs).

According to the Argus reporter Adrian Imms, Wood, a 19 year old from Portslade, was out for a stroll with her friends on the Palace Pier when the mishap occurred, and she saw her leg go through a slat in the pier up to above her knee. She said: ‘I just trod on a bit of wood and it fell straight through. I was just in shock at this chunk of wood missing. It could happen to anyone - imagine if it was an old lady or a child who fell through. I never want to go on the pier again.’

Wood told the Argus she had been going to the Palace Pier with her boyfriend Declan Dexter for years. Dexter, 20, who volunteers for the RNLI, added: ‘It’s a shame really because we have been going on there since we were kids.’ The pair took a taxi to A&E in a taxi, where it was confirmed Wood had not broken any bones but may have done some nerve damage, and that there might be some bleeding in the muscles of her leg which could take two or three weeks to heal. Afterwards she told the Argus: ‘It still really hurts and is bruised. The doctor said it would get worse before getting better.’ 

Anne Martin, general manager of the pier, was quoted by the Argus: ‘We have had no direct contact with the young lady concerned and have only been advised by a third party. We are waiting to see how we can resolve this unfortunate incident. Our health and safety consultant has provided us with a report and we are satisfied that this is an isolated incident.’

The National Pier Society website - in its potted history of the Palace Pier - confirms that the pier undertook a health and safety investigation and this had shown the incident to be an isolated one. Nevertheless,  the previous May something similar had occurred. Again according to the Argus, Fakhouri Sami Yassan, a Brighton resident put his leg through the decking and also ended up at hospital where he was treated for cuts and bruises. Yassan was quoted as saying: ‘I was lucky that another piece of decking didn’t give way or I’d have fallen straight through.’ 

Roy Grace on the seafront

Exactly 20 years ago today (possibly!) Peter James’s first Roy Grace novel was published - Dead Simple. I say ‘possibly’ because while ChatGPT provides 5 May 2005 as the exact date it was first published, other sources offer 6 May, and various other dates, too. Peter James is, of course, a great advocate of Brighton and Hove with many of his much-loved crime novels set in the city.  

‘For me there was only ever one location for Roy Grace to be based,’ he told The Book Trail. my hometown of Brighton. To the outsider, Brighton is a hip, beautiful seaside city, but it has a long history of darkness - right back to its roots as a smugglers village! In Regency days it gained a reputation both as a fashionable bathing resort, but in 1841 when the London-Brighton railway line opened, criminals flooded down from London, finding rich pickings and a much nicer environment than their city! They brought cock-fighting, prostitution, pick-pockets, muggers, smugglers, burglars, and gangs. Simultaneously, with the railway enabling quick access from London, many wealthy Londoners brought their mistresses down here and it became known as a place for “dirty weekends”.

James, born 1948, is the son of Cornelia James, who, famously, was glovemaker to Queen Elizabeth II. He was educated at Charterhouse and Ravensbourne Film School, and spent several years in North America, working as a screenwriter and film producer. He has told interviewers that he briefly worked at the home of Orson Welles. Back in the UK, his literary career took off with the Roy Grace series of novels, selling more than 23 million copies worldwide and making him into a household name among crime fiction enthusiasts. His books are known for their fast-paced plots, unexpected twists, and authentic portrayals of modern policing. The list of awards on his Wikipedia bio is almost as long as the list of published novels! Since 2021, the Roy Grace novels have been successfully adapted for broadcast by ITV - giving Brighton yet more screen time!  

Here is James jogging Grace along Brighton Beach in that first novel, Dead Simple (extract taken from chapter 42).

‘Grace started his weekend the way he liked, with an early-Saturday-morning six-mile run along Brighton and Hove seafront. Today it was again raining hard, but that did not matter; he wore a baseball cap with the peak pulled down low to shield his face, a lightweight tracksuit and brand new Nike running shoes. Powering along at a good, fast pace, he soon forgot the rain, forgot all his cares, just breathed deep, went from cushioned stride to cushioned stride, a Stevie Wonder song, ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, playing over in his head, for some reason.

He mouthed the words as he ran past an old man in a trenchcoat walking a poodle on a leash, and then was passed by two Lycra-clad cyclists on mountain bikes. It was low tide. Out on the mudflats a couple of fishermen were digging lugworms for bait. With the tang of salt on his lips, he ran alongside the promenade railings, on past the burnt-out skeleton of the West Pier, then down a ramp to the edge of the beach itself, where the local fishermen left their day boats dragged up far enough to be safe from the highest of tides. He clocked some of their names - Daisy Lee, Belle of Brighton, Sammy - smelled bursts of paint, tarred rope, putrefying fish as he ran on past the still-closed cafes, amusement arcades and art galleries of the Arches, past a windsurfing club, a boating pond behind a low concrete wall, a paddling pool, then underneath the girdered mass of the Palace Pier - where seventeen years back he and Sandy had had their first kiss, and on, starting to tire a little now, but determined to get to the cliffs of Black Rock before he turned round.’

And here is James, a year or so later, again jogging his detective along the seafront in the second of the series, Looking Good Dead (chapter 34).

‘His route took him straight down to the Kingsway, a wide dual carriageway running along Hove seafront. On one side were houses that would give way in half a mile or so to continuous mansion blocks and hotels - some modern, some Victorian, some Regency - that continued the full length of the seafront. Opposite were two small boating lagoons and a playground, lawns and then the promenade with stretches of beach huts, and the pebble beaches beyond, and just over a mile to the east, the wreck of the old West Pier.

It was almost deserted and he felt as if he had the whole city to himself. He loved being out this early on a weekend, as if he had stolen a march on the world. The tide was out, and he could see the orb of the rising sun already well up in the sky. A man walked, far out on the mudflats, swinging a metal detector. A container ship, barely more defined than a smudge, sat out on the horizon, looking motionless.

A sweeper truck moved slowly towards Grace, engine roaring, its brushes swirling, scooping up the usual detritus of a Friday night, the discarded fast-food cartons, Coke cans, cigarette butts, the occasional needle.

Grace stopped in the middle of the promenade, a short distance from a wino curled up asleep on a bench, and did his stretches, breathing deeply that familiar seafront smell he loved so much - the salty tang of the fresh, mild air, richly laced with rust and tar, old rope and putrid fish - that Brighton’s elder generation of seaside landladies liked referring to in their brochures as ozone.

Then he began his six-mile run, to the start of the Marina and back again.’