‘We all jumped off the end of the pier I remember once, as a dare, on New Year’s Eve.
It was horrendous, reported, I believe, in the Evening Argus at the time. My mother was furious yet again, all these dykes picked up on Brighton beach by the coastguard.
I lost a shoe, I was most upset about that. I remember I had a false hairpiece, they were quite fashionable at the time, big sort of tall hairdos, and it came off in the sea, with my shoe, which is probably on a Parisian beach by now or wherever the other side of Brighton Channel is. I don’t know, mad as hatters. It was freezing too, it was snowing I believe, bloody freezing.
We just all did it for a dare, about six or seven of us. The ambulance came and we were all taken off to some hospital there to see if any of us had suffered a heart attack. Sobered us up, we could have killed ourselves, I mean it was just outrageous.

Anyway they released us, they thought we’d probably be alright but we’d got nowhere to go, had we, we hadn’t got any money, of course we’d spent it all, and we’d still got a lot of alcohol in us, anyway we were dragged off to the police station and spent the night in cells, where I might say, the WPC’s at the time plied us with even more booze, telling us it would warm us up. It was New Year of course. I’m sure they knew we were gay, and I’m sure they were too, definitely, yes.
Oh, it was fun, just jumped off the end of the pier, fortunately the tide was up.’

With your back against the Pier look across the road to the Sea Life Centre. Be careful to watch out for cyclists before the crossing.

‘In the fifties, one of the big things about Brighton was the Arts Ball and it was held at the Aquarium. And it was really quite something. It was known all over England. In fact we used to say that a certain number of queans used to spend the whole of the summer sitting on the Men’s Beach, sewing sequins on the gowns. And they sewed them on by the hundredweight, not by the dozen.

The Aquarium was quite a big place and it held about a hundred, I suppose. At first they turned a blind eye to anybody in drag but then it got a little bit hilarious and they wouldn’t permit drag for the last two or three years and finally it was shut. But it was really quite hilarious, it was from about nine or ten at night to about two or three in the morning. It was extremely well-run. There was no trouble. They didn’t have any bash-ups or people throwing chairs around.
Some of the costumes must have cost hundreds. It was fantastic. I mean, ostrich feathers in those days when the salaries were five pounds a week, some of those ostrich feathers were seven pounds, just one feather, and they probably had twenty on a headgear. Quite a big thing, the Arts Ball.’

From here walk around the Sea Life Centre to the pelican crossing. Cross Marine Parade into the undisputed gay quarter of Brighton. Once there, turn right until you reach Madeira Place. Walk north along Madeira Place until you reach the corner of St. James’s Street.

15 Madeira Place, was once the location of Pigott’s Bar…

‘I started going to Pigott’s in 1950 when I was twenty and it was mostly girls. This little lady used to play at the piano with her jangling bracelets; cigarette hanging on her mouth. And we used to have this sing-song, the old tunes, ‘Don’t laugh at me cos I’m a fool’ that’s right, ‘Freight Train’, that was Laurie’s tune.

I think the bar went in a sort of a half moon and there was only one entrance. It was terribly small, there was room enough for a piano, and there weren’t many seats. It was quite tatty, all really dark brown. It was just ordinary working-class. There weren’t any professionals there, they probably had their own places to go. I think normal people used to go to Pigott’s for sightseeing. It was noted that it was a gay pub, because in those days people knew exactly where the pubs were because there weren’t that many. You’d get ordinary people, fellas or couples come in. They’d probably be out drinking and come in just for a laugh. You’d probably get a few comments but if they were outnumbered, you wouldn’t be too bad. They would probably just sit there. The men might make a few remarks, you know, ‘Come over ‘ere darlin’. What you need is a good man.’ Most of our concern was the fact that’d be there in your regalia — because when you went out you dressed up your regalia — that you’d be discovered by someone and that would be you’d be branded. My biggest fear was that one of my customers would come into the pub. I think I would have died.’

From here walk downhill along St. James’s Street to the traffic lights on the Old Steine. Cross the Old Steine and continue along St. James’ Street with the fountain on the left. Cross the next set of traffic lights and turn left. Take the first alley on the right: Steine Lane. At the end of the lane turn left into the Lanes onto East Street. Walk down East Street towards the seafront. Stop at the third turning on the left, Pool Valley.

Claiming to be the oldest boozer in Brighton, dating back to at least 1568, the site of the current East Street Tap was once known as The Greyhound.

‘Between coming out of the forces at twenty and say, twenty-two, there was a sort of in-between period where I wouldn’t accept the fact that I was gay. I was very young and very apprehensive about actually going into a gay bar. We thought how daring this would be. So one night, in the summer, we decided we would go into this gay bar, the Greyhound, opposite the cinema along East Street. We got to the Palace Pier and we walked on and we hadn’t got the courage to go in. We got practically to Rottingdean, we still hadn’t got the courage. But on the way back, we said, ‘We are going in!’ So we came back along the seafront, back to Pool Valley, we came up through that side street and we pushed open the door quickly and Steve and I fell in the door and to our horror, we found we were in the heterosexual bar and the gay bar was upstairs. So I lowered my voice and went, ‘Brown ale, please.’ Suddenly out of the corner of our eye, we saw all these people trooping upstairs and I can’t tell you how much courage it took to walk from that bar, to go up those stairs because what you were actually doing, in front of all those people was saying, ‘I’m one of them.’

And we went upstairs and, of course, when you went up there, being new to it, although you felt more at home, you felt ill at ease because you didn’t know the mores, what was going on there, how you did it. Did you just sit down and talk to anybody? Or did you ignore everybody? How did you meet other gays? I mean you found them in twos and threes. How did you break into that? We didn’t, we just sat there that night, enjoying it.’

Return up East Street and turn left onto Bartholomews. Continue past the Brighton Town Hall and Old Police Cell Museum, and onto Prince Albert Street until you come to the corner of Black Lion Street.

‘I can remember Black Lion Street, opposite the Cricketers, there was a notorious downstairs gents there which has long since been closed by the police. Cottaging, of course, had almost an attraction to it. The risk element gave it a bit of a thrill, the risk of getting caught. There was very little mugging threat in those days, it was nearly all risks of policemen hiding in the broom cupboard and peering out through the grating in the top, things like that. And yet people used to be quite outrageous in their cottaging. Most people didn’t do anything down there, they merely had a look to see what was being flashed at them and maybe picked someone up and took them home. There wasn’t a lot actually went on, even in cubicles, to my knowledge.

‘What killed the cottages was the 1960s when women got the Pill, and all of a sudden, women became available. Because they weren’t available in those days; you were either married and you’d got a wife — in that case you were alright — or if you weren’t married your girlfriend usually wouldn’t let you do anything, so I think that’s why all this activity went on in the cottages. We always called it trade and that’s what it was. They weren’t gay these people, they were just randy and wanted serving. And there were always people like me that were willing.’

Opposite the Cricketers Public House turn right into Nile Street and walk to the junction with Brighton Place. Turn left and then take a diagonal right down Market Street. The old Golden Fleece is on the corner on the right hand side.

The bar currently called The Market Inn was once known as The Golden Fleece.

‘Someone said to me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t ever go in the Golden Fleece. It’s full of that sort of people.’ So the next night I went down there.
It was the most notorious of the bars, was the Golden Fleece in Market Street. There were two bars there, one was fairly discreet, presided over by Bert. Bert was an elderly gentleman of a charming character, the soul of discretion, who would listen to all sorts of people’s confessions and keep everything well under his hat. The other side was hilarious and riotous, presided over by a gentleman called Dennis whose second name I never discovered. Dennis was one of those flamboyant queans who couldn’t give a shit about anybody and had frequently been in trouble for all sorts but always bounced back, larger than life. One of those few, in those days, who would actually probably be too indiscreet and compromise you in public, so not everybody took kindly to him. We had to earn a living in the town, so we didn’t really want to be screamed at in the street.’

Walk up Brighton Place to the newly created Hanningtons Lane, next to Pugin’s House, and turn right to follow the lane until it meets with Poplar Place.

‘You must remember that you had to be very discreet, you couldn’t come out in the open. There were a lot of elderly queans in Brighton who were comfortably off, who didn’t work. Those that did were very different in their places of work,. They might be serving in Hannington’s but they’d have to keep a certain amount of decorum. They could fire and sack you with a week’s notice, they’d only got to phone up the Labour Exchange. But if you were employed, like the majority of people, on a weekly or monthly basis, and you did something whereby the manager or the owner or the director got to hear of something that wasn’t quite right, he could come in to you on a Friday, if you were paid weekly, and say, ‘We shan’t be needing your services any more.’ Or you’d get a letter in your envelope at the end of the month saying please note that as from a certain date things have changed and you are no longer needed. Take a month’s notice. You had to be very much more diplomatic. You didn’t ever have to let the side down.’

‘Our first visit to a club, I had a skirt on. I’d never had a pair of trousers on in my life, I’d always worn skirts. I sat there fascinated, the whole night. I thought, ‘Well, next time I come back, I’ll have trousers on.’ So during the week I went into a men’s shop and bought a pair of trousers. Well, it was embarrassing. They wouldn’t let me try them on, which I took umbrage at, and I said, ‘Why can’t I try them on?’ and they said, ‘Well, they’re men’s changing rooms only.’ I said, ‘Well, that’s ridiculous!’ Nevertheless, I took a gamble, took them home, and all I had to do was turn them up.

I had fights with various shops. And I had the manager down in the men’s department of one large clothing store. I said, ‘This isn’t fair! If I want to buy men’s trousers, I should be allowed to buy men’s trousers and have the privilege of trying them on, like anybody else in this store. If you’re not going to let me into your men’s changing rooms then let me take the trousers up to the women’s changing rooms.’

So after a long argie-bargie, I was escorted by somebody from the men’s department up to the women’s department to go to the changing rooms. The next week I was back at the club in trousers and a men’s shirt which I’d bought off the counter from somewhere. And a coat. I felt much more comfortable.’

Continue along Hanningtons Lane, turn right onto Meeting House Lane and out onto the busy North Road. Cross the road at the traffic lights and walk up a few metres to Bond Street. Turn onto Bond Street and walk on the right hand pavement to the stage entrance of the Theatre Royal. This is where the next place of interest used to be.

‘Phil and Ken ran a gentlemen’s dress shop, a gentlemen’s casual wear shop called ‘Filk’n Casuals’. Phil and Ken. But they wanted it pronounced like ‘Fucking Casuals’, again, very daring. It was next to the Theatre Royal stage door in Bond Street. And they were the first people to do beach shirts and shorts in gaudy, jazzy, Caribbean-type colours for gentlemen. Really, in those days, you wouldn’t be seen dead in that sort of thing, you’d be thought to be that sort of person. But they did very well, and probably at that time were the only people in Britain, I would imagine. I can’t think of anything in London quite as camp as that. They were so outrageous that it was always said that if you went to buy a tie they’d measure your inside leg. Phil was always known as Rose Filk’n, and Ken was known as Esme Filk’n and they really were very, very naughty.’

‘Phil and Ken sold casual shirts, jackets, trousers and underbriefs, which were very brief underbriefs like they wear them today. They used to make them out of odd materials. They had a whole range of them done in cotton gingham, and they used to be all tailored, and the pouch was shaped at the front with a seam down it. They did lovely shirts. And Esme did a lot of leather stuff. It was very daring to wear their sort of clothes, you didn’t find it anywhere else. They did very well indeed. People used to come down specially for a weekend in Brighton and to go round to Aunt Rose’s shop. It was busy all day long on Saturday.

Return down Bond Street to North Street. Turn right and head uphill towards the Clock Tower. Stop at the traffic lights opposite Ship Street.

A friend took me up to this club in North Street called the Regina. When I went in I was extremely impressed because it had a very grand entrance up a magnificent flight of stairs. The proverbial flight of stairs you see in pantomimes, with Dames coming down. And when we got there I must admit it was breathtaking. It was a beautiful carpet, the whole length of the room was a bar, completely mirrored at the back, with the most beautiful crystal chandeliers you’ve ever seen in your life. A very nice grand piano in the window. Seats all round the wall, it was so unusual, all the seats were black velvet. The bar was white plastic on top, but cushioned black velvet, the front of it. Everything else was gold, it was very ornate. The owner made us very welcome, he’d got some canned music on. My friend said, ‘You’ve got a nice big piano, haven’t you got a pianist? My friend here plays the piano, he’ll play for you.’ And that’s how it started. The music had to be cover for conversation. It wasn’t to be listened to. Although if someone wanted to convey something to someone else without going up and saying it, they would ask me to play whatever it was. 

Well, it was quite flagrant in the end. He used to be open till two and three in the morning on Bank Holidays and on Saturdays. He got warned — the publicans didn’t like him, the publicans went to the police and said, ‘It’s not right that he’s serving booze till two or three in the morning, getting away with it, he must be shut.’ And of course, eventually, he got what we used to know as being done. And of course he shut it, it never re-opened as a club.’

Take the crossing and head down Ship Street, turn right into Duke’s Street and then first left down Middle Street. The next place of interest is a little past the Hippodrome and Synagogue on your left.

Patrick recalls his time at the Spotted Dog, currently called The Hop Poles

‘When I was at school the Spotted Dog was the only place that was known as a queer bar; wasn’t known as a gay bar ’cause we didn’t use the word gay then. But it was a dare at school for 2/6d if you dared to go through the door, not to buy a drink, but if you actually dared to go through the door. But if anyone wanted to take the piss out of you at school they’d say, ‘Oh you know Patrick Newley’s been to the Spotted Dog.’ None of us ever, I don’t think, ever had the nerve. It was even a sort of nerve to go into the same street as the Spotted Dog. But that was the only place that we knew that was gay. It was sort of frightening.’

‘I found out one other chap in the grocery trade that we were in, he was married and he was having a terrible time. And he started speaking to me and he says, ‘I need somebody to come with me to this pub.’ And he mentioned a pub, The Spotted Dog. And I said yes, I’d been there before. And he says, ‘You’re not gay, are you?’ and I says, ‘Yes,’ and I blushed like hell. So I says, ‘Why do you want to go there?’ And he mentioned he had met somebody but he didn’t have the guts to go there on his own. He was rather embarrassed about it. Would I go with him? So I says, ‘Yes.’ So every dinner time we’d go down there. Now the rumour worked round like wild fire that we were having a wild love affair and even his wife came to see me about this. And I says, ‘Well, I’m terribly sorry but if he hasn’t got the guts to tell you, I will.’ Well, she wouldn’t believe it. And anyway Frank saw me about the next day and he says, ‘You did something I never had the guts to do.’ He says, ‘And it’s given me the opportunity to move out.’ So he did. And he moved in with his boyfriend.’

From here, walk towards the sea front and take the first road on the right. After a few yards this will cut into West Street. Cross West Street at the crossing point.

‘Chatfield’s, in the front on West Street, was so raucous and so loud and to some people’s taste so disgusting, they would walk down and say, ‘How horrible!’ Other people would say, ‘Let’s go in and look at it, let’s see.’ Everybody was smoking, you couldn’t see across the place for smoke. It was low, but it was quite fun. It always got very crowded. There were two bars, one was Dennis’s bar, Dennis ran it, he was gay and everybody knew Dennis. The other bar was mainly the entertainment side. You got a mixture of people, I mean it was a very rough bar, there was a criminal element, you got crooks in there, not very nice people but the police never closed it down because, if they wanted to look for somebody, they would always go into Chatfield’s.

A lot of the clientele were sailors, but of course in sailors uniform, so they were quite easy to spot, and invariably, if they came over from Pompey for the weekend, they had no accommodation. So the great thing was, anybody who had a flat or a house with a floorspace, would probably go down to Chatfield’s and chat up a sailor and take him home for the weekend. The sailor was satisfied! The Brightonian was satisfied! And everybody enjoyed it.

You have now completed this walk.