A Big Saturday Night in... Brighton!

I've been getting a little depressed by all the wankers in London lately, so I decided to take some advice from Kele Okereke and go to Brighton this weekend.

I arrived a little early for my "Big Night Out," so I took a stroll down the town's Walk of Fame. I had no idea Brighton had such a rich cultural heritage. Not pictured: a bunch of people who I can't even write about here so that we can all laugh at how unfamous they are. Because I don't remember any of their names.

Know what never got old? Singing "that fish cray!" to the tune of "Niggas in Paris" every time I saw a mention of cray fish. Fascinating fact: My boyfriend really, really doesn't find this funny.

My first pub stop was the Wetherspoons on West Street. I came for a beer and a burger and stayed for some banter with a banana.

Because I sat right next to the table that all of the packets of condiments are on, and because that table wasn't in view of the bar staff, I had to go through the degrading experience of watching middle-aged woman after middle-aged woman fill their pockets with take-home sachets of mayo and tartar sauce. Sorry for the shitty photo quality. I had to stealth this one.

After a couple of pints there, I headed over to the gay village.

Fascinating Brighton fact: At any given time, 94 percent of the population of Brighton are part of a stag or hen party.

I guess things must have been tough for Sean Paul since Rihanna produced four albums' worth of songs made purely to soundtrack Saturday night dance floor cat-fight time. So it's nice to see that he diversified his game and is still out there stacking that paper. Sadly, I'm not sure Blu Cantrell's been so adaptable, but it's dog eat dog out there. Evolve or die.

My next stop was a bar called The Zone, where this drag queen was performing. Like every time I see a drag queen, magician, concentration camp guard, or standup comedian, I spent the entire set chanting the incantation: "Please don't talk to me, please don't talk to me, please don't talk to me." It didn't work, she asked me what song I wanted her to sing next :( She took my terrified, embarrassed mumbling to mean "Abba Megamix."

I chatted briefly to this guy, who told me that he was out with his son and daughter. "They're both straight, but they grew up on the gay scene! They love it." I can't decide if that's really, really sweet, or really, really depressing.

My next stop was Yates's Wine Lodge. Home of this art piece, that I wish I owned.

Things were getting pretty wild inside.

Know what never gets old? Grabbing people dressed as Where's Waldo? and shouting "I FOUND HIM!" Also, dressing as Where's Waldo?

It was about here that I started to get a little concerned with the amount of dry ice that was being pumped onto the dance floor.

This is where I started to panic….

And this is when I decided to get the fuck out of there. A while ago I read that, if you inhale enough dry ice, it can kill you. Though it's hard to make anything out from this photo, I think what we're seeing is two empty stripper poles. The chances of there being one stripper pole in a Yates's Wine Lodge with no drunk rugby players swinging from it are approximately 0.4 percent, multiply that by two, and then by "Brighton," and you get math I can't even do. So I think it's safe to assume that everybody in the club died. RIP, people who died in the Great Brighton Yates's Wine Lodge Dry-Ice Overdose of 2012.

Back on the street, I ran into this lady. I think I've been in London too long, I had no idea people had started dressing like this. She looks like if there'd been a Simple Life episode where Paris interned for the X-Men.

I ventured briefly into a place called Latin Lounge, but there was a guy in there in a HazMat suit, looking around suspiciously and texting. Still on edge from my near-death experience in Yates's, this made me nervous, so I bailed.

Next stop, Molly Malone's.

I don't even need to caption this picture. If you can't tell that these people are singing along to "Wonderwall," you don't have eyes.

Next stop was a bar called Oxygen. Which specializes in those shots that have kerrrAAAAAAAzzzyyyyy names so you have to say SUPER EMBARRASSING stuff if you wanna get a drink (OMG SO EMBARRASSING TO SAY "COCK").

I guess the names were bound to get crazier and crazier once people got used to going to the bar and asking for "sex on the beach." It's pretty weird that they no longer even need to make sense, though. What the fuck is a "buttery cock"?

Maybe the names were a bit too much for people, as the place was dead. Or maybe people just don't like drinking inside an Argos catalogue.

I wasn't allowed inside here to take photos but I imagine it was a pretty dark scene inside.

Walking back over to the Gaybourhood, I ran into a guy eating these fries off the trash. Once he realized I was about to take his photo, he ran away. If you're reading this Garbage Fryman, I'm sorry I stole ruined your dinner :(

My final stop for the evening was Club Revenge.

And I left before this guy could take his revenge upon me for showing you all what he looks like.

So thanks, Brighton. Judging by the rubbish the maid was clearing out of the room next to mine in the morning, it looks like someone had a better night than me.

Follow Jamie on Twitter: @JLCT

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