Early morning, just around sunrise, in Brighton is a magical time but following Brighton Pride it is more like a Lewis Carol fantasy. People drift like dandelion seeds on the breeze, drunk with fatigue, their sleep deprived forms delicately balanced between the drug induced euphoria of waking and the collapsing crest of a wave of sleep.

I met Oli wandering in just such a daze, crookedly rolled cigarette hanging delicately from the corner of a mouth turned up into a James Dean-esque sneer, Stetson cocked on his head and bare chested. He oozed sex appeal.