Brighton up

When I first moved to London, I thought I would be whisking off to Brighton any spare minute I got. Healthy seaside walks followed by cheap fish and chips would be a fixture in this new  grown up life of mine. Well, it turns out the only time I have ever managed to get myself on one of the town’s pebbly beaches was a few summers ago. England was playing France in the World Cup and I somehow go it into my head that the only authentic way to enjoy the match was in a greasy wetherspoons, surrounded by proper hooligans and loud chanting. So we went. But England lost, and I left disappointed that I hadn’t got to relive some of that 1998 magic I experienced when...