It took the best part of four days to limp from London to her home town, Brighton, and she’s been as busy as a particularly vicious and scary bee ever since, getting her new identity in shape.

Her teeth were her first priority. It’s no good trying to be inconspicuous with filed pointy gnashers, but thankfully all The Nurse had to do was track down and blackmail a former Amateur Brain Surgery Club member – now (hilarously) a dentist – to get them sorted out. You should see her gorgeous new pearlies, which cover her real teeth perfectly.

Second came a new name. After digging up one of her secret cash stashes, buried for convenience in the graveyard off Bear Road thirty years ago, she could easily afford a false identity. Thank goodness for Dodgy Dave, another old ex-brain surgery cohort.

Third, somewhere to live. It was easy enough to knock off the old bat in the smart Kemptown house that The Nurse now ‘owns’ and bury the body under her small but very pretty city centre patio. Amazingly it doesn’t smell too bad out there, all things considered… but then again that’s the beauty of cold weather.

This evening The Nurse sits on her new leather settee, hunched over her new laptop, poised to write her first rant of 2012 and her first  as a free woman. If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was a respectable, smart widow about town. The thought makes her grin in a most unladylike fashion. Oh what fun this is going to be.

What’s pissing The Nurse off this evening? David Cameron’s Christian shenanigans, that’s what. OK, it was a couple of weeks ago. She’s been otherwise occupied. But it rankles like fuck.

The Nurse quite likes Cameron. Oddly, he appears considerably less Conservative than Tony Blair. But she objects strenuously to his call for Britain to declare herself a Christian nation. That’s just divisive. She thinks it’d be much more sensible to declare ourselves a secular nation that tolerates all religions, no matter how potty, whether it’s  Pastafarianism or the the spectacularly nutty Christian God botherers.

Crikey. Admittedly that wasn’t much of a rant. But it’s difficult to generate a decent head of steam and vent your spleen effectively when you’re warm, wealthy, nice-looking and popular amongst your very nice neighbours.

She actually babysat for one of the buggers last night. If only they knew she was a psycho killer with an unfortunate taste for soft, tender, well-cooked infant flesh!

If you want to blend in, come to London.

The Nurse, having tidied herself up somewhat in a Swiss Cottage public loo, cuts a reasonably inconspicuous figure in the big smelly.

There’s nutters galore here. A middle aged lady limping along with a Margaret Thatcher hair do, filed pointy teeth and a thunderous expression doesn’t stand out too much. Especially in a place like Oxford Street, where the loonies of the world congregate. Stand there long enough and you’ll eventually see every booby on the planet shuffle by.

Right now she’s hanging around outside the Lloyd’s of London building in The City, admiring the funky metal tubing, reminded momentarily and pleasurably of escaped intestines.

Last night she broke into a posh flat along a leafy London street and slept like a baby in the softest bed she’s experienced for decades. Then breakfasted well in a stranger’s spotless contemporary kitchen, hooking out a tin of grapefruit, a stray avocado and a chunk of fragrant pink and yellow Battenburg.

Tonight she’s walking through the wee small hours, hoping to hit Sussex by Christmas day. At this stage in the game, sleep isn’t an option.

The Nurse imagines she can taste the salty tang of the sea on the westerly breeze but it’s probably wishful thinking. The channel’s siren call always did bring out the best in her. Or the worst, depending on your perspective. If you object to having your skull trepanned when you’re least expecting it, you probably won’t like her much. If, on the other hand, you think carrying out amateur brain surgery on unwitting victims without their permission sounds like fun, she’ll see you in Brighton.

As a Nice Middle Class Lady, I sometimes find Brighton’s seagulls a right pain in the bum.

They’re big and noisy and for some reason the buggers seem to spend most of their days yelling through my window. They wake me up too early and interrupt me when I’m reading in the garden. They nest in the crook of the neighbours’ chimney and screech non-stop 24/7. And they steal the scraps I put out for smaller birds.

On the other hand a New Scientist magazine feature this week explains there’s 50% less gulls in Britain than in the late ’70s.

When you think about it, gulls are very like us. They’re demanding, dirty,  noisy scavengers but above all they’re opportunists. Which is probably one of the reasons so many people dislike them. But they have just as much of a right to be here as we do.  If not more. They were here first.

Look at them with fresh eyes and gulls are a miracle of natural engineering, swooping on thermals and catching the breeze, graceful and balletic. I often watch them playing in the wind, shouting with pleasure as they cannon across the skies, chasing one another, tumbling through the air at breakneck speeds, executing impossibly elegant turns.

So, they’re forgiven. Bring on the gulls. Protect them. Love them. After all, despite the racket, seaside life wouldn’t be the same without them.

we were unable to meet the demands that the current economic climate put against us and at the eleventh hour despite having most of the infrastructure in place we have been forced to cancel the event.

We’d all bought our tickets, booked time off from work, arranged baby-sitters and were beginning to get excited about the weather and the fantastic line-up for the weekend. What a complete bummer.

Clearly this is a major disappointment. Especially for all of the performers who were booked and ready to appear and for all those who’ve worked hard to make it happen. I’ve heard that it was Lloyds bank, Brighton, who are responsible for not providing the financial support needed. But some are speculating that it was all a scam from the outset. Time will tell.

There is talk of the Concorde 2 offering to host some of the bands, but it won’t be a festival. What a total let down!

I’m the newest member of the illustrious Amateur Brain Surgery Club so I thought I should introduce myself.

I am ‘Matron’ – remember the ‘Carry On’ movies?

I’ve been associated with this band of miscreants for many years, since studying at Sussex University. I am a close friend and associate of the nurse (sadly currently incarcerated at her majesties pleasure) and up until only a couple of months ago I lived in Brighton. Daily I would commute to my job here in the city of London.

But my expenses were simply getting too much so I, like Obama’s cabinet, had to make some drastic cuts. The first thing I did was look at how to reduce the amount I was spending on travelling to work. The only option was to take a flat in London and give up my life by the sea side. What a pity.

So I employed a reputable London removals firm to pack up my belongings and take them to a new flat in Stepney. Instead of the early morning train from Brighton to Victoria I can now lie in bed for an hour before taking the tube to my work place, only ten minutes away. The downside is that the quality of my life has changed dramatically.

The warmer spring weather has made this change abundantly clear. I can no longer pop out for some fresh air and a stroll along Brighton sea front. I no longer have the South Downs on my doorstep encouraging me to get out into the countryside at the weekends.

Instead there are the London theatres, cinemas, shops, museums and art galleries. But I am really missing some of the simple pleasures that I enjoyed while living in Brighton. What should I do?

My current plan is to try and stick living in London for the summer to see how good or bad it can be and then re-assess my situation in the Autumn. I’ve had to sign a six month lease on my flat so I suppose I’m stuck here for the time being.

London is a great city with so much to offer but I’m already pining for the fresh air, the seaside and the South Downs of Brighton.

We’d made a plan to come home every night, sleep in our own bed, crap in our own loo and return the following day refreshed after a hot shower, change of clothes and a feed. We managed to stick to our plan on both the Friday and Saturday but by Sunday we were so exhausted by the unaccustomed late nights all we could do was lie in bed. But we braved the wind on the Monday in order to return to see Gogol Bordello on the main stage.

I first went to a Festival in 1975 and this experience led to my spending a significant amount of my youth, hitching to a variety of green gatherings and free festivals around the south of England. Times have changed and festivals are now big business. Festival goers are no longer predominantly crusty long-haired hippies selling hot-knives and acid. These days they are more likely to be white, middle class accountants, teachers and social workers who drive to the festival in their Mercedes’ or BMW’s and sleep in high-tec sleeping bags on beds in chalets costing £500 for the weekend. But the festival spirit that I enjoyed way back in the 1970s is still alive and kicking.

The Brighton Beachdown was an outstanding festival for many reasons. The setting on top of the downs, with magnificent sea views, must be the most breathtaking festival site in the UK. The main stage, set in a natural amphitheatre, made it easy to see the bands whilst relaxing on the hillside and there was an abundant supply of fantastic food, especially the pies and mash from Brighton restaurant, Due South. If you are wondering who ate all the pies – I did.

We saw some great bands and enjoyed the company of some colourful and interesting people. It was just a pity that the weather turned so windy on the last day. Most memorable acts for me were a band called Crazy P, who stood in on the main stage on Friday night. I’m still amazed by the lead singers legs. Then there was Mean Papa Lean on the Brighton stage on Friday. A tighter, funkier band would be hard to imagine so if you get the chance to see either of these bands grab it. On Saturday, the highlight for me was Freakpower, and the variety of fantastic entertainment in the cabaret tent. Cherry Shakewell certainly knew how to keep the boys and girls eyes fixed on the stage. Sunday, for us was a day of rest, but finishing up Monday with the outstanding Gogol Bordello in a howling gale brought the whole affair to a magnificent climax.

But, for me, one of the greatest aspects of any festival are the weird and wonderful people. Like the mad drunken guy on the number 77 Devils Dyke bus who wanted to be everybodies friend, insisted that the driver should put some music on and then proceeded to tell anyone who would listen that he had 750 tabs of blotter acid and ‘tons of sniff’. I just hope that he survived the weekend and didn’t get himself arrested.

Well done to the organisers of this magnificent and memorable first Beachdown festival. I’m already looking forward to next year when I hear there could be more like 15,000 tickets on sale. I may even take a tent next year, or maybe rent one of those £500 chalets.