Life’s not exactly been a beach for Brighton’s old West Pier. It must be sick and tide of bad luck. Once an elegant promenade complete with concert hall, a series of storms, collapses and fires have reduced it to stagnant scaffold, festooned with bedraggled seaweed beards, bowlegged with barnacles and looking more battered than the haddock sold in the chippies lining the shore.

In contrast to many other traditional Brit seaside resorts, though, the rest of Brighton seems to be on the up; the thriving gay scene is pink and perky, the winding lanes are teeming with designer boutiques, and in summer flocks of tourists almost outnumber the flocks of seagulls (and are probably less likely to shit on your head, although we’re sure there’s a few scat fans among them).