Little ol’ me

Hmm… these green buses aren’t very tasty. All showy paint, no chips inside. Crunchy, yes, but not the good kind. Not like a battered sausage. Or even one of those flapjack cubes from the café with the seafront awning. I miss those. Oh crumbs, literal crumbs - I miss crumbs. These days, crumbs wouldn’t keep me alive for five minutes, not since I’ve grown to the size of an SUV.

People screaming. I don’t want to hurt them. I thought maybe this time one of them would drop something hot and greasy and perfect. I don’t want phones; they taste almost as bad as beach pebbles.

Why did I peck the bus? Why do I keep pecking buses?

Oh no . . . someone’s filming again. Look at them, tiny hands raised like they’re trying to tame me. I’m not a monster. I’m just big. And starving.

That mixer thing, ahead of the green buses. It smells odd. Kind of like eggs? Hot pavement? A building site in summer? Maybe it’s got gravy inside. Maybe it’s a giant sausage roll for machines. Maybe - just one peck. One nibble. Ugh.

I didn’t ask to grow this big. One minute I’m arguing over a churro with Kevin, the next I’ve outgrown the bandstand and I’m scaring toddlers, and their parents are calling 999. I don’t even fit under the pier anymore. I used to roost there. It was cosy. It was safe. Now all I want is food.

There’s another bus. I’m getting a sense that I need to do more, work a bit harder to feed myself . . . The people inside, they’re looking very tasty. Oh look, some of them are getting off at the bus stop. I’ve grown too hungry to control myself, now I see the answer perfectly: this may be a bus stop for people, but it’s a food stop for little ol’ me.

KRS‑2519CRGB‑1

Found on the beach: a custom or OEM RGB seven‑segment display module, tailored for a specific device or manufacturer. One side of the object features a digital display with a three-digit readout, the letters ‘L’ and ‘R’ in blue and green respectively, a lightning bolt icon, and a distinctive logo composed of multi-coloured fan-like blades. The reverse side shows a printed circuit board marked ‘KRS‑2519CRGB‑1’ and ‘2520’, alongside gold-plated contacts and through-holes indicative of surface mounting.

The part number, ChatGPT, advises does not appear in public electronics catalogs or databases, suggesting the component was produced either for internal use by a specific brand or as part of a mass-produced but undocumented consumer device. The inclusion of ‘CRGB’ implies RGB lighting capability, meaning the segment display can change colour, possibly to indicate power levels, warnings, or operational states. The number ‘2520’ may refer to a production batch or date code, such as week 20 of the year 2025.

Such displays are commonly used in e‑bikes, electric scooters, children’s ride-on vehicles, smart sports gear, or small remote-controlled electronics. The L/R notation may signify directional indicators, balance sensors, or audio channel outputs. The lightning bolt icon, a near-universal symbol for electricity or charge, hints at a function related to battery monitoring. The visible wear and absence of surrounding components suggest the item was once embedded in a plastic housing, likely waterproof or weather-resistant, before being separated and washed ashore.

Despite the lack of direct identification, other modules with similar codes, such as KRS‑2351AW, are listed on electronics supplier sites as LED or RGB seven‑segment displays, used in meters, control panels, or dashboard-style readouts. 

Sources: Amax Technologies and Bossgoo

Where the sea has no memory

Here is the 14th 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 image shows a coastal landscape. In the foreground, rounded white shapes suggest foamy waves breaking onto the shore, with different shades of blue indicating the sea. To the right, green and yellow forms rise upward like a cliff or headland. Above, a large pale cloud dominates the sky, with smaller purple-tinged clouds drifting across. Cutting through the centre is a brown bird in flight, wings outstretched against the sky.

A limerick starter

Clouds of pale lavender hue,

A bird split the turquoise in two.

Where emerald cliffs lean,

On the foam’s shifting green,

The sky wrote its story in blue.

Where the sea has no memory (with apologies to Cormac McCarthy)

The sky above Brighton was broken with cloud. A bird cut through the wind and went on across the water, dark against the pale. The sea was restless. White spume drifted over the stones like smoke and the tide ran its slow iron rhythm, pushing the shingle, pulling it back.

A man stood at the rail of the pier. His coat was buttoned but the wind got in all the same and pressed the cloth against his body. He watched the bird, the curve of its wing, the small correction of its flight. He thought of how the sea had no memory and how the gull had no home but the wind. Behind him came the sound of coin machines, the bark of a stallholder, the scream of a ride, all faint in the distance like echoes in a dream.

He turned from the pier and went down to the beach. The stones rolled under his boots. He stooped and picked one up, dark and wet, and he held it in his hand. It was cold. He turned it over and over, looking at the way the water had smoothed it, how it had come to be like this from years beyond counting. He thought of his father and the silence of him. He thought of his mother’s warnings about the sea and how she feared it though she could not stay away from it.

He walked to the edge where the water reached. The foam curled white around his feet. The gull cried and turned inland. He looked at the horizon where the sea and sky were one. The thought came to him that a man could walk straight into that line and never come back and the world would not change for it.

A child’s voice rose up behind him and he turned. A boy was running along the beach, chasing another, both laughing. Their shouts carried in the wind. The man watched until they were gone. He dropped the stone and it fell among the others and vanished from him.

The sea kept on. The pier stood in its shadow of iron and wood. The bird wheeled once more above the headland, and then it too was gone. The man put his hands in his pockets and began to walk.

Aroe with divan

Aroe’s arch piece on the seafront still stops you in your tracks. Two luminous female faces float inside the red-brick curve, one in profile, one tipped skyward, airbrushed light drifting like sea mist between them. The brickwork’s scars and drips are left in play, so the image feels breathed onto the wall rather than pasted over it. It is classic Aroe, probably painted 2015-2017: cinematic scale, soft gradients, and a refusal to separate photorealism from the grit of a working shoreline.

Brighton and its beach has Aroe’s worked etched, as it were, everywhere. He has been active since the first hip-hop wave hit Britain in the early 1980s, coming up through Brighton, joining MSK, and becoming one of the city’s defining writers. He is now four decades deep, with recent retrospective-style shows in Brighton confirming how far those train-yard beginnings have travelled. The long arc explains the polish on the arch: a style that has been iterated, toured and argued over for years.

Eleven years ago this September, Aroe and fellow Brighton artist Gary were invited to paint the sea-facing hoardings for the i360 build, a seafront commission that announced, in broad daylight, how institutional Brighton had become about its outlaw form. That job set the tone for a run of shoreline works and helped normalise the idea that tourists might arrive at the beach and find serious graffiti looking back at them. 

Other Aroe pieces on or by the seafront have kept that momentum. In 2015 the MSK crew covered roughly 100 metres of the i360 hoardings, turning a building site into a rolling gallery (see Graffiti Brighton for some examples); in 2016 Aroe helped brighten Hove Lagoon’s south wall with neighbours and local supporters (see HOVE LAGOON in murals). These episodes sit alongside Brighton’s longer, sometimes uneasy story of city-sanctioned walls, conservation rows, and the simple fact that the arches remain the most visible outdoor gallery the town possesses.

And the bed? It reads like a found prop that accidentally completes the composition. Aroe’s portraits make the arch feel domestic, as if the curve of brick were a proscenium and the door a pale, painted window; the patchwork chaise invites a pause, a place to sit and look back at the faces. There’s no sign it belongs to the artist, but in context it works like street-level staging: a fleeting, Brightonish still life where public art, furniture and promenade collide. The mural will outlast the upholstery, but for now they belong to the same scene.

See Art Plugged and Helm for more on Aroe.

The Big Beach Café

The Big Beach Café has been putting music at the heart of environmental action this summer, joining forces with GEN R to host a ‘jukebox for nature’. Visitors could pick a track while donating to ocean restoration projects, turning everyday café culture into a playful act of climate activism. It was a typically inventive move from a venue that has always blurred the line between community hub and creative playground.

That sense of openness also drew Dad La Soul, the fatherhood collective tackling isolation and mental health, to pack up its crew and head to the café. No big plan - just music, mates and a jukebox that restores. It was an informal afternoon, but one that showed why the café has become a natural meeting point for groups who thrive on community and creativity.

The café’s modern story began in June 2013, when Norman Cook - better known as Fatboy Slim - teamed up with chef Daniel Stockland to take over a fading site on Hove Lagoon once run by Heather Mills. Cook, a long-time Brighton resident, said he wanted to give something back to the community, while Stockland brought the culinary experience of a classically trained chef with years spent catering for touring musicians. Their shared ambition was to create a relaxed, family-friendly spot with affordable food and a beach-side welcome.

Over the years the Big Beach Café has become a landmark on the seafront. Its dog-friendly policy, sandy-toes informality and hearty seaside staples - bacon sandwiches, burgers, cheesy chips - helped it thrive not as a celebrity project but as a genuine community hang-out. It has doubled as a stage for live sets, local art, charity events and the odd surprise appearance from Cook himself, reinforcing its identity as a space where the local and the playful come together.

Last October, however, the café hit a serious obstacle when inspectors found rodent droppings and unsafe food practices across the site, ordering an immediate closure and warning of an imminent risk to public health (see The Argus). The setback was sharp but temporary: deep cleaning and new food-safety systems quickly followed, and the café has since worked to restore both its standards and its reputation. Its survival owes much to the loyalty of regulars who see it as part of Hove life; and that bond was underlined this February when Zoe Ball quietly swapped her breakfast-show mic for a barista apron, working alongside her ex-husband in the café. The sight of the pair behind the counter offered a fresh, light-hearted reminder that the Big Beach Café’s story is as much about community and reinvention as it is about celebrity.

Meanwhile, the recent collaborations with GEN R and Dad La Soul capture what the Big Beach Café has always tried to be: accessible, quirky, creative and rooted in the rhythms of the community it serves.

The Bad Guys 2

Brighton’s seafront played host this weekend to an unusual sight: a suave wolf in a white suit prowling near the Palace Pier clocktower. It was all part of a colourful promotional event for DreamWorks’ latest release, The Bad Guys 2, which opened in UK cinemas in late July. A branded tent and giveaways drew the attention of families and passers-by, while costumed characters posed for photos against a backdrop of desert pyramids and cartoon mayhem. The stunt brought Hollywood marketing spectacle to Brighton Beach, tying in with a film that has already been praised as a sharp, energetic sequel.

The appearance of The Bad Guys 2 team in Brighton underscores the film’s broad appeal. The original 2022 animation introduced a band of reformed animal criminals - Wolf, Snake, Shark, Piranha and Tarantula - trying to go straight after years of high-profile heists. The sequel, directed by Pierre Perifel with voices from Sam Rockwell, Awkwafina, Marc Maron, Craig Robinson and Zazie Beetz, expands their story. Having struggled to adapt to respectable life, the crew find themselves forced into a cosmic-scale caper by a trio of new villains known as the Bad Girls, with much of the action shifting to a rocket and a space station. The mix of snappy humour, frenetic action and moral dilemmas has been credited with keeping the franchise fresh - see The Washington Post.

According to Wikipedia, the film has already done well commercially. Produced on an estimated budget of $80 million, The Bad Guys 2 has grossed more than $117 million worldwide to date, with strong opening weekends both in the US and UK. Reviews have echoed the audience enthusiasm, with critics highlighting the film’s blend of kid-friendly slapstick and witty nods for adults. DreamWorks has hinted that a third instalment is already being discussed, following spin-off holiday specials and now a full-scale sequel.

In Brighton, where film promotions often make inventive use of the pier and seafront, the weekend’s activity linked global cinema with local spectacle. Visitors found themselves stepping into the film’s world for a moment, whether collecting branded bags or watching the wolf strut across the promenade. For families, it was an unexpected holiday diversion; for the studio, it was a reminder that in an age of streaming and saturation, taking the characters directly to the public can still turn heads and sell tickets.

The blessing of the sea

Brighton’s seafront witnessed a striking fusion of ritual, performance and protest this afternoon at the annual ‘Blessing of the Sea’. Clergy in white robes stood at the Doughnut Groyne beside the Palace Pier, leading prayers over the waters while a banner proclaimed ‘The sea is rising and so are we’. A few feet away, the Red Rebels of Extinction Rebellion moved in silent procession, their scarlet veils lifted in slow gestures of lament and warning. The scene unfolded beneath a cloudless August sky, the green bronze ‘Afloat’ sculpture framing both the pier and the gathering of worshippers. (See also Hamish Black’s Afloat.)

This year’s service was announced by the Diocese of Chichester on Instagram and widely shared on local forums such as Anthony Murley’s post to the Brighton & Hove Notice Board. Organisers called it both a Christian rite and an act of ecological witness, recognising the sea as a source of sustenance, beauty and peril. The clergy’s words of blessing were joined by calls for responsibility toward the coast at a time of rising tides and intensifying storms.

The ceremony is not without precedent. Brighton’s fishing town ancestors sought blessings over their nets each spring, a custom enshrined in the 1580 Book of all the Auncient Customs and revived in the late twentieth century as the ‘Blessing of the Nets’ on the beach by the Fishing Museum -  for more on this, see the Brighton Seafront Heritage Trust and My Brighton and Hove. Meanwhile, the city’s Greek Orthodox community has long marked Epiphany with the ‘Blessing of the Waters’, casting a cross into the waves from the pier. Today’s event consciously draws on both traditions, updating them with a climate-conscious emphasis suited to Brighton’s identity as a coastal city where faith, protest and performance often overlap.

What emerged on the groyne today was therefore more than symbolic: it was a reminder of the continuing link between the sea and the city, between prayer and protest, and between past traditions and present anxieties.