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An idle ice-cream eater can wander past beach volleyballers, barefoot joggers, paddleboarders, kayakers, basketball players (very serious, very tall, huge shorts), stunt-bike riders, Fit Bitch trainees, a handful of tentative bikini wearers with goosebumped buttocks, Ultimate Frisbee freaks and a geezer making meaningless sculptures with sand.At night, the music kicks up and the beach chills out, home now to the pot smokers, night paddlers and the punters at the Fortune O' War pub, which sells beer in plastic pints so you can take it down to the water's edge and look for phosphorescence. The view to the horizon as an orange sun sets equals any in the world, whatever Kylie says.There are arguably better beaches up the road at Climping, vast and romantic beneath the Turner sky, or at Rottingdean, with its rock pools and near-empty dreamscape. Just as Brighton has its own micro-climate (the locals reckon it's a few degrees warmer than you'll find north of the Downs), so it has its own human sub-species of what rock critic Steven Wells called "crusty-wusty, hippy-dippy, twat-hatted, ning-nang-nongers". The beach – all 614 billion pebbles of it, cast out beneath the hulk of the Thistle Hotel and the scandalously ugly Brighton Conference Centre – is really the people, not the place.The whole scene moves, grooves, ebbs and flows like the roiling sea beyond.; January 13, 1924 – February 11, 1994) was an Austrian-born philosopher of science best known for his work as a professor of philosophy at the University of California, Berkeley, where he worked for three decades (1958–1989).At various different points in his life, he lived in England, the United States, New Zealand, Italy, Germany, and finally Switzerland.His major works include Against Method (published in 1975), Science in a Free Society (published in 1978) and Farewell to Reason (a collection of papers published in 1987).Feyerabend became famous for his purportedly anarchistic view of science and his rejection of the existence of universal methodological rules.
It's about the naked black bones of the West Pier, stark against the sky, and the starlings in their cloud formations, circling the Palace Pier's Helter Skelter, sketching pictures in the air.There's a bloke down on Brighton beach today wearing a T-shirt which reads 'Sex & Drugs & Sausage Rolls' – which just about sums up the seafront in my home town, with its bizarre mix of sauce, grit and comfort food.The beach itself – pebbled, peopled, pitched on a daring tilt to the sea – isn't exactly what you'd write home about.It's the hurdy-gurdy twang of the carousel, the art galleries tucked into the salty arches and the lazy thump of chill-out music coming from tired beach-club speakers the morning after the night before, while a guy with sleeve tattoos and multiple piercings sweeps last night's spilled beer and broken promises into the gutter.It's the countless fallen hens in pink cowboy hats flaked out on the beach in recovery position, still wearing last night's glitter eyeshadow and angel wings.
People say it's impossible to be a misfit here, and I reckon that's about right: 600 billion pebbles, don't forget, and no two of them the same.