The Argus, news, sport, events, jobs, homes for Brighton, Hove and Sussex

Media creative Quentin, 41, moved with his family from leafy north London to the pebbly south coast six years ago. A firm believer in human rights, fair trade and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, he shares with you, the reader, his hopes, his dreams and his frustration at the low-brow, tasteless and downright common nature of our once great nation.
Editor's note: Quentin Delahunty is a fictional creation.

Forgive Me Brighton, For I Have Sinned...

Elton John once sang “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word”. Well personally I struggle to successfully emit words such as “capitalist”, “corporate”, “conservative” and otorhinolaryngologist. Anyway, I dig Elton’s jive. And today readers, you find me in a strangely apologetic mood. I’m not the sort of man who regrets what he has or hasn’t done, as, to be perfectly honest, I have lived (and am living) the kind of glamorous, on-trend, uber cool, organic and creative lifestyle that most of you, stuck in your bland open-plan offices and depressing “dress-down” Fridays, can only dream about.

Does Brighton Really Need A Football Club?

On the way home from a wonderful traipse over the Downs with ma famille (wifey Jocasta and twins Lex & Nimsie), we drove by the massive construction that is the Amex Stadium, sat on the edge of said beautiful landscape like a gigantic alien robot beetle, ready to strike at the heart of the Falmer countryside.

Do Call It A Comeback

I’m back! Like a cyber Lazarus, I’ve retaken my place slap bang in the middle of the digital landscape. After months away from the blogosphere, Twitterverse and erm… Facebook-o-sphere, I’ve finally plugged myself back into the matrix.

A Whiter Shade Of FAIL

On a recent autumnal stroll around the Pavilion Gardens, amidst the soundscape of cooing pigeons, squawking gulls and chattering tourists, my highly trained musical ear picked out a magical sound. Instantly, I was drawn to a secluded patch of pavement where I found the origin of this spiritual music - a Zimbabwean man playing his nation’s national instrument, a mbira. I consider myself quite proficient on a djembe drum (then again, in Brighton, who isn’t?), however, the beautiful ethnic notes caressed by this musical maestro (his name was Harlington) had a moving effect on all within earshot. Alfresco creatives powered down their iPads to listen, lounging students silenced their own ironic chat, sinewy tai-chi aficionados snapped back to reality and even the squirrels stopped chomping on their nuts, with all and sundry wrapped in a revitalising blanket of Afro-vibes.

Two out of three (constituencies) is bad

No doubt you’ll have noticed the rather Quentin-free nature of the online Argus in recent weeks. I know many of you, too many to mention, cherish my incisive analysis and trés sophisticated take on Brighthelm circa 2010. However, the outcome of the so-called “democratic” elections left me needing time to sufficiently inhale the reality of the situation on the south coast before exhaling my much sought-after thoughts.

Love Is The Drug

There’s nothing like a leisurely stroll through the cobbled twittens of olde Brighthelm town on a sunny day. 60s folkster Ralph McTell once sang “Let me take you through the streets of London, I’ll show you something to make you change your mind”. That song could easily apply to dear Brighton too, albeit with some of the lyrics changed, particularly the “London” bit. Anyway, in taking a trek around the streets of Brighton, and really looking at the people, you too could change your mind. McTell also sung about a “silver birch and a weeping widow“ which makes no sense to me at all.

It’s Time For Brighton To Start Walking The Walk

Let me throw you a friggin’ curveball, dude. I wouldn’t usually use such vulgar Americanisms, but with the great Barack Obama, a coloured/colored man now ensconced in the once whitest of White Houses for over a year now, the world has undoubtedly changed.

An Irish Chip On My Shoulder

Many of you, my dearest fans, have contacted me in relation to my Christmas blog, or lack thereof. Well, you see, to cet écrivant, the idea of spewing out seasonal clichés like some kind of cliché-spewing cliché-spewer is akin to artistic suicide. Q Delahunty is an individual, not a slave to some homogenised corporate “Christmas” brand.

No Pride And Groom

As well as being a creative, a liberal, a media revolutionary, a zeitgeist-wrangler and a gifted blogger, I, Quentin Ludovic Alphonsus Delahunty, am also a parent. This particular string to my bow may not get me business lunches in Shoreditch House or invites to uber-avant-garde art exhibitions in Brighton, but it gives me satisfaction that none of my other (varied and great) achievements can offer.

Get Your Ironic T**s Out For The Middle-Class Lads

I bet that headline got you interested, eh? Well, if you are reading my work for the first time, expecting some kind of misogynistic filth, then think again and go back to your seedy phone sex chat-lines, cyber-indecencies and wanton tissue-soiling. Yeah, that’s right. You!

Dedicated Followers Of Fascism

I usually try to spend as little time as possible lurking ‘round the lanes and twittens of our liberal idyll at this time of year but that’s not because of the increasing nip in the air or the returning students (I dig their anarchic vibe), but rather the arrival of Nu Labour’s neo-con con merchants for their annual extended dirty weekend of illicit backstabbing and seedy u-turning by the seaside.