Eastbourne. Jesus.

After an hour or so whizzing around the impressive second hand shops of Hastings, it was back in the car and down the coast towards Brighton. As you drive into Eastbourne the pier looks impressive, far less delapidated than its Hastings counterpart, a tad classier than Brighton's Palace Pier, and in nowhere near as many pieces, as submerged by seawater or as burnt out as Brighton's West Pier. So we stopped to have a look.

You've never seen so many old people as you have in Eastbourne. It's staggering. The whole town is entirely propped up by the Grey Pound, as daily clotted cream teas are ordered by the truckload, sending everyone off to early graves. One wonders exactly what will happen to towns like this when the current wave of pensioners die off, and why tea room owners don't serve healthy fruit salads and cocktails of vitamins in order to prolong the life of their businesses… The hotels look smart from the outside, but inside they're gloomy, depressing and dank, with the omnipresent smell of boiled vegetables and whiff of urine. The attraction of the British seaside resort in September is difficult to comprehend, especially when you're in your 80s. You arrive at a hotel, they install you in a glass cabinet at the front with some curling sandwiches, and you watch a grey sea crashing onto the pebbly beach while going slowly senile and getting increasingly dehydrated while mumbling “Oooh, yes, it's lovely, thank you.”

Eastbourne is very tidy and ultimately soulless: hideous municipal flower displays sprout out of every roundabout, while young men in the stairlift business drive around them in expensive cars, waving cheerily to their customers. Apart from myself and Jenny, we counted two “young” people on the promenade. 1. An extraordinarily beautiful blonde woman jogging very rapidly out of town. 2. A bloke in combat trousers for whom the whole Eastbourne experience had clearly become far, far too much, resulting him wielding a brown umbrella like a conductor's baton while standing next to an ice cream van, cackling insanely. Poor chap.

“Fun” is the local council's watchword to persuade people that they can have a good time here. Kids are directed to a dodgem car circuit which bears the tragic moniker “Formula Fun”, while those children without a full, clean driving license have to make do with a trip to “Fort Fun”, a delicious combination of climbing frame and plastic castle. But the lure of “fun” is clearly irresistable to all ages. We saw a poster featuring a chap called Chris Marrion, who gives us “Chris Marrion's Holiday Fun”, a show which promises singing, dancing and laughter. Many, many places advertise “dancing” in order to get people through the doors, which is surprising considering the number of zimmerframes being wheeled along and braked rapidly outside. One place in particular hosts “dancing, most nights.” Most nights? Which nights? “Oh, most nights, sir.” Well, what about tonight? Do you have dancing tonight? “Well, it's difficult for me to say, sir, but you will find dancing here on most nights.” But I must dance! Tonight! “Well, let's say that over, say, a month of evenings here at the Hotel Grotesque, you'll find that there'll be dancing on most of those evenings.” I see.

We finally made it to the pier, and blew 10 quid on t'slots, while distracted by unemployable local yout' who hung around behind us shouting “No, keep going, don't hold, the swamp monster won't get you for two more spins, yeah, hold the double bar, yep… Oh.” before taking over from us and scooping the jackpot. Grr. We checked out the anglers on the end of the pier and then walked back past the Bar Copa, which apparently is the ideal place for “sporting and cavorting”. But for who, I ask you? Who?

We drove out past Beachy Head to see how many people had decided to just end it all on a blustery Friday afternoon, and on to a place called Birling Gap, which looked so grim that it made Dungeness look like Hawaii, and caused Jenny to bring the car to a juddering halt, while we both stared, open mouthed, before almost simultaneously uttering the word “f*ck”.