Jesus was the giver of joy, so the Bible tells us, and the provision of happiness plays an important part in all other religions.

But can a city or a place be defined by such a quality?

Can its primary reason for existence be joy-giving I suppose is what I am trying to say.

And if so, what are the positives and negatives to take from that?

For this new arrival to Brighton the answer to the first question is yes.

For if anywhere in the UK could claim the mantel of joy giver it is Brighton and its surrounding communities.

I have edited newspapers in all countries of the UK and many parts here in England.

For years I lived along the coast in Chichester, so I know Brighton reasonably well.

But for the last seven weeks I have worked and, at the odd time, played here. Perhaps the rest bit will come.

What is obvious is that there really is no other place like Brighton.

It feels different. It’s in the air. When I left Belfast, a fantastic city, two months ago a couple of people there told me they had been to Brighton once.

They smiled as they did so and wished me well. “Great place to live,” they said.

Indeed in the intervening weeks I met many people who had been here for a visit and not one had anything other than fantastic memories of the place.

It had given them joy, sometimes decades ago but still the memory brought a smile to their faces.

It made me happy that I was going to be a part of it.

Other cities bring wonder – of course they do.

Blackpool is full on garish seaside fun, London is the greatest capital in the world, Edinburgh drips culture and history but in my humble opinion none of these is as joyous as Brighton.

It’s that we have everything – the landscape, the sea, the weather, the fun, the food, the nightlife, the pier and all that.

But more importantly the delicious kookiness, the thinking the unthinkable, the celebration of diversity, the sights and sounds that few others can match.

The range of opinions and lifestyles is mainstream here in a way it simply isn’t in many of our big cities and towns.

It means we are challenged in our thinking, cannot lazily accept prejudice, and have our senses stimulated.

In its own way this leads to a sort of grudging pride from traffic-snarled, pocket-picked locals.

I was struck by the survey last week that placed us at the top of list of cities that engendered pride.

What was more interesting though was the second question that also had us top of the list of those who were happy with the stereotyped view others had of us.

While other city dwellers bridled more than half of us said we were cool with it – it being the aforementioned kookiness, diversity.

That we’re all vegan munching, sandal-wearing hipsters, or gay, or walking around in vests with kiss-me-quick hats on. Or all three.

Of course it’s nothing like that but we don’t mind people thinking it is.

Even the biggest Green hater might sometimes admit having the only MP of that hue in the country marks us out as different.

It’s almost a marketing tool. Of course the joy masks less palatable realities – the homelessness, the mental health issues, the costs of housing and living, the torture of simply getting anywhere in a reasonable time and cost, the occasional sense of run-down tawdriness that the recession has visited upon us.

When the sun comes out and dapples the sea it is easy to forget these things. Many cities have these problems and they need to be addressed.

But those other cities don’t have the surprise around every corner that we do, the likelihood of stumbling on delight in a park, a sudden intense debate in the street, country and western on an old jukebox in a sun-drenched traditional seafront pub, a beautiful exhibit in a tucked away gallery. The list could go on.

And while we have our problems and our moans it is sometimes worth thinking about the possibly millions of people out there who raise a recalling smile at the mere mention of our name.

Mike Gilson, editor of The Argus