The Post & Telegraph, North Street, Brighton is hosting a conference on alcoholism today (6 July). I haven’t seen so many pissed up people together for some time and it’s only 12.28pm. Admittedly I’ve popped in for a beer, just one, with maybe a large vodka and slimline tonic to follow but there are women in this pub that are guzzling down pints of Guinness! Not far from me there’s a depressing looking rubber plant and, sitting to its side, there’s a red-haired man with an odd light green complexion. I’m guessing it’s a prelude to a cardiac arrest, but I’m probably wrong although he is perspiring heavily. He begins to finger-drill his nostrils and is somewhat surprised to discover a massive nosebleed rupturing from both orifices. He looks bemused as he stares at his bloodstained fingers then pinches his nose and rolls his head back. He looks around then starts to paw at the rubber plant, leaving bloodstained finger marks on the dusty leaves. Wetherspoons begins to resemble a scene from CSI: Miami but no one appears to give a shit. The performance ends abruptly as he stands, gobs violently at the rubber plant before marching out into the blinding sunshine.
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