It’s festival season here in sunny Brighton; the highlight of your year if you like naff arts and crafts and ironic striptease. I spent Sunday wandering my barrio’s Open Houses where ‘artists’ display their wares and potential buyers wander around pretending to admire the pottery while secretly checking out the stylish Corian worktop and eau de nil Venetian blinds. This year I was particularly appalled by some papier mache earrings,  a range of hemp underwear and a bird house made out of a loaf of bread. I haven’t laughed this much in ages. Later on, I went down to Queen’s Park to marvel at a chandelier made out of spoons hanging in a tree and watch a couple of men in tights blowing glass in a bush; not sure what all that was about. A slight concern was the fact that they’d drained the duck pond and strung some tea lights on a piece of cotton. I couldn’t help but worry about the ducks. Where were they and did they mind their home being commandeered by the circus. Anyway, then I went down to the Silent Disco with my friend Paul. We had the choice of two DJs to listen to through our headphones but we kept clashing. At one point, I thought we were on the same channel but turns out he was digging a David Bowie/Beastie Boys mixed up mash while I was hopping and-a-bopping to Shakin Stevens. Then last night I went to a Vaudevillian extravaganza. We had more men in tights re-enacting that scene from Women in Love when Alan Bates and Oliver Reed slapped on some baby oil and slithered around in front of a raging fire. Then a Dita Von Teese lookie likie did a turn in a teacup. After she’d got down to her pants and nipple tassles, her finale involved pouring a mug of PG all over her tits. I hope she put her knickers into soak, that’s all I can say.