Will Harris ponders over Pride

In my very first column for this magazine, penned when Gordon Brown was in office and the horrors of the Go Compare tenor had yet to be unleashed on the world, I wrote about Pride in Brighton and Hove.

I worried (as so many 24 year olds do) that the local gay community was “in danger of forgetting its noble, placard-bearing, ‘sing if you’re glad to be gay’ roots”.

I then rather knocked the hooves off that particular high horse by necking a shed-load of herbal highs and floating around a bush for three hours, all the while dressed like Peter Pan.

Anyway, you probably already know that this year, for the first time in Brighton Pride’s 20-year history, you will need a ticket if you want to get in.

There are many reasons for this, most of which lead back to the sad truth the event has become a sprawling, betentacled monster that chokes the city for two days and tends to send King’s House officials screaming through the streets like extras in a Japanese B-Movie.

Last year, a record 160,000 people attended Pride. Of these, 220 were injured, and 11 hospitalised. A further 39 were arrested. In the end, organisers failed to raise the £40,000 they needed to break even.

Like it or not, the event clearly cannot continue under those terms. However, I don’t agree their ticketing strategy is the best alternative. Advance sales suggest I’m not alone in this; by mid June, only 10,000 of 50,000 tickets had been allocated.

While many of us are undoubtedly waiting for a seven-day weather forecast before shelling out the £12.50 admission fee (even a live PA from Seamus Haji does little to improve the sensation of being wet in a tent), the fact remains that come Saturday 13 August – an unforeseen number of people are going to arrive in the city either unable or unwilling to pay for a ticket. Where do the organisers want them to go? The Bulldog only has one toilet.

It strikes me that Pride in Brighton and Hove, as you might expect from a public event of a certain age, is going through a bit of an identity crisis.

Either it returns to its noble, placard-bearing, ‘sing if you’re glad to be gay’ roots (down, horsey!), and rebrands itself as an event funded by locals to benefit locals, or it becomes just another gated, corporate music festival, where out-of-towners flock from across the UK to pay ticket prices that are as high as the gurning masses inside. It simply cannot be both.

Whichever way it pans out, you can bet the city’s eyes will be on Preston Park later this summer. Let’s hope the organisers live up to their brand, and give us all something to be proud of.