This weekend I witnessed Shaolin Monks smashing paving slabs over each other’s backs followed by a Chinese acrobat with her head between her legs balancing candles on her arse. For desert I had French pyrotechnic artists fly around an inflatable globe on a rocket belching fire in hail of fireworks.

No, I didn’t eat too much cheese last night. We happen to be slap bang in the middle of the 40^th Brighton Festival, a smorgasbord of street performance, dance, theatre, exhibitions and music, and this happens to be a small part of the wierdness on offer

One of the things I miss about living in Spain are the street parties, processions and firework displays that are organised through the many fiestas that take place throughout the year, where everyone gets out on the street and has some fun. The Brighton Festival though a touch too highbrow in some areas does attempt to recreate the carnival atmosphere and broadens horizons as artists from around the world congregate in the town over the course of 3 weeks.

I don’t think this kind of event would do so well in Barnsley (no offence Barnsleyfolk), maybe because Brighton is cosmopolitan and supposedly chock full of artists and people with alternative lifestyles (not to mention poncey idiots) that such a varied palate of entertainment can be offered without the worry that a question and answer session with Melvyn Bragg about the 12 books that changed his world is only going to be attended by one mad man and his invisible dog. Virtually every one of the events has sold out and believe me there is some weird shit on the bill.

In the morning you can go to a workshop on the art of physical comedy (you are recommended to wear loose clothing) followed by a lunchtime qanun recital (its an arabic zither apparently). In the afternoon you can have tea with Julian Clary and see an exhibition on Victorian lace art. In the evening you might opt for some Senagalese afrobeat or the Budapest Symphony Orchestra. Either that or you can watch Deal or No Deal on box. Choice is yours.

Admittedly, there are few people in the line-up that I have ever heard of as I really am not down with my French avant-garde mime artists. I, and a great many average Joes, will no doubt be left cold by a lot of the acts on the menu but there might be one or two things that just tickle your fancy and would probably never have gone to in a million years unless they were free.

This explains my little morris dancing interlude yesterday. Whilst cycling about town I spotted a group of middle aged folk in black who looked remarkably like a poor man’s Kiss (faces painted black and white) albeit with beards ,jackets made of multicoloured rags and hats replete with pheasant’s feathers and Green King IPA drinks coasters. A crowd had gathered to see grown men and women dance about to the groovy sounds of the accordion whilst banging sticks with one another and shrieking to the jaunty beat (this might have something to do with the pints of ale and cider they were knocking back).

I was surprised to see people liked this still existed and wondered whether they were local or from what part of Somerset they had come from. When one of the outlandishly attired woman stopped for a fag I had a chat and was told that their group had come all the way from Oxfordshire and there were 39 other troups all invited down for a morris dancing mash up at the Royal Pavillion that afternoon ( I guess it’s a bit like the Run DMC v Jason Nevins video when they face off against each other and wave handkerchiefs about in a threatening manner…fa shizzle ma nizzle)

Safe to say that I was morris-danced out at this point so I declined the offer. Plus I think she was about to induct me into their wife swopping, gender bending, morris dancing vipers nest and I was scared of being taken advantage of by women with Doc Martens and fat men with bells and beards.