Does Brighton Really Need A Football Club?

On Wednesday evening, this metal monster is the venue for Brighton & Hove Albion’s Carling Cup tie with Liverpool and their troupe of international millionaire playboys, a game which will even be televised by Murdoch’s evil Sky empire.

With an impressive start to the Championship season, and an even more impressive and suave manager in the svelte, Latin form of Gus Poyet, Brighton are currently riding a tidal wave of success. However, is anyone brave enough to question all this hoopla? Does anyone actually have the kahunas (testes) to raise their hand and go against the flow? Well, yes, someone does. And once again, that someone is me, Q Delahunty. So I put it to you, dearest Argus readers – Does Brighton really need a football team at all?

Brighton, Brighthelm or Brighthelmstone, call it what you will, is a magical place, a haven for artists, creatives, radicals and those who choose to eschew the “norm” and raise a massive middle digit to the corporate mainstream.

So just how does a big corporate football team fit into Brighton circa 2012? With aspirations of reaching the vile, money-drunk Premier League, and a stadium sponsored by American Express of all companies, the Seagulls (an erroneous moniker as there is technically no such bird as a seagull) have their sights firmly set on sucking from the capitalist teat in the top division. Indeed, with the hideous “1901 Club” corporate seats, where business drones (smart casual dress code) can mingle with “like-minded people”, gorge themselves on naff “fine dining” and maybe even throw a glance or two in the direction of the action on the pitch, this new-look club has lost it’s Brighthelm vibe.

Now you regular readers/fans of mine will be well aware of my balance and my ability to see things from all points of view. And in cette case, I do see some positives in having the club succeed. In these times of economic turmoil, the working classes of Brighton and its surrounding environs will no doubt benefit from the (drug-free) shot in the arm of a successful local football team. 3pm on a Saturday gives these poor wastrels a chance to belong, to feel part of a tribe, and that is relatively important.

However, football in general, as well as currently lying prostrate in front of the capitalist gods, is imbued with a whole menagerie of nasty subcultures and attitudes. Despite the authorities doing their best (apparently) to “Kick It Out”, the average football fan still hides his racism under a Burberry baseball cap, his sexism in the back pocket of his ill-fitting jeans and his rampant homophobia under the five inches of flab around his midriff. So, is this sport of “isms” really relevant in our liberal idyll?

Surely, Petanque, Frisbee or even Hacky Sack are more representative of this ol’ seaside town? Games which imbue a counter-cultural sense of individuality. After all, have you ever seen crowd trouble at a Petanque game down on Hove Lawns? Or have you ever had your place smashed up by a horde of Hacky Sack hooligans? Didn’t think so.

So here’s my considered suggestion - As a first step, maybe Brighton council should ban the wearing of football shirts (of all teams) from the city, or at least from the likes of North Laine, the Lanes, Kemptown and Hanover.

Brighton at its best is a sea (by the sea) of tie-dye, shabby-chic and uber-cool underground fashion. That’s what the rest of the UK loves about us – our quirkiness. However, when that fashion-fest is polluted by acrylic football tops, the message is diluted. We become like any other coastal town that they forgot to close down.

Surely an exclusion zone would work? Wouldn’t a North Laine free of football colours be a purer and better place? While residents of areas such as Whitehawk, outside the zone, would still be able to sport their over-priced footy tops ‘til the proverbial cows came home?

And before the football elitists start lambasting me for my ignorance about football - FYI, in my hey-day, I was quite the footballer – a midfielder general with the vision Zinedine Zidane, the bite of Marco Tardelli and the glorious left foot of Liam Brady. (Indeed back then I even penned a bio-pic of the Arsenal and Ireland legend entitled “My Left Foot”. However, Jim Sheridan nicked my idea and sneakily substituted the football star for some angry artist with a handicap. I’ve never forgiven Sheridan to this day).

In my teens, my burgeoning football career (a fair few top teams were reportedly interested in me) was indeed burgeoning, but so was my gift for the written word. Eventually, my innate talent as a wordsmith and provocateur won out and from then I would do my thinking, and not my shooting, outside the box. However, I still retain a deep affection for the game. Indeed, I currently support Real de Banjul, a team in the Gambian Major League. I trained with them during my Afro-tastic gap year many moons ago. A proper football team.

So before the army of bitter, chubby-fingered football bloggers lay siege to my avant-garde ideas while they sit at their computers in their soiled underpants, and litter the web with unfocused vitriol, I ask you to read my words carefully, and consider my thoughts properly. As a true Brightonian (well, I’ve lived here for six years now, and I’m vegan), I decree that Brighton is beautiful enough without the “beautiful” game.

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