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  • Brighton is a tale of two piers. The one is a ghost, slipping gently into the waves, leaving behind an iron bustle hinting at the beautiful gown it once wore. The other is a washed up entertainer from ages past, who is desparate for approval yet disappoints.
    Brighton is a taste of freedom. Freedom to be who you are, who you want to be. On the bus yesterday, I heard an elderly lady, dressed in a tight fitting skirt that caressed still toned thighs, talking loudly to a friend, recalling when she was a man. In the centre of town, it is a common sight to see men who were once women, women who were once men, men holding hands with men, women holding hands with women. People being treated as people and not being judged for being who they are or who they want to be. Brighton is a sanctuary.
    Brighton is dangerous. Outside the anything goes arena of Brighton centre, lie large, deprived council estates. There is racism, homophobia, all kinds of ignorance, that you sadly find in all cities. There is fear and longing, shame and pain. Poverty and hunger.
    My city, my love, is painted to entertain. She sparkles and dances for her audience who flock in their hundreds of thousands each year. She will guard those she holds dear, the freedom fighters, the oddball, the renegade, as a proud mother. But she hides her dark secret in the hills. And those in the tower blocks above, look down on the gaiety below wondering why they are not loved too by the city, my cruel love.
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