Burn, baby, burn

It’s summer in Brighton. The seafront air hangs heavy with Hawaiian Tropic and barbecue smoke. Beef burgers and bangers sizzle under the sun, along with us, the great British public. After a few hours, it’s easy to see who hasn’t factored in the Factor 15, and the sore and the sunburnt slowly begin wincing behind their windbreaks. Suddenly, doing my best Haley Joel Osment impression, and turning all Sixth Sense styli, I rise from my beach towel, smugly smothered in SPF30, and whisper: ‘I see red people.’