After a weekend of drinking fizzy wine, vigorously baking cupcakes, and hanging up bunting and garden lantern lighting paraphernalia (which looked beautifully festival-like in the evening), Jamie’s attempt at having two birthdays in two weeks is over. Staying at a friends for the aftermath, we spent Sunday on a walk through fields and woods; me with inappropriate gripless shoes and hungover muscles. “Well, you’re hardly Indiana Jones,” I was told as I failed to pull myself over a fence on a minor incline.

We also went to an art gallery, Spacex, that trod a brilliant line down a mix of installations, photography, video and drawings – without being up its own ass – and wonderfully avoided any nonsensical art which hinged on enjoying gallons of pseudo-intellectual art blurb. I suspect that Brighton is sometimes a bit guilty of pseudo-intellectual blurb (I know it is). It was refreshing.

I liked the squid that attacked a submarine, turning on every fifteen minutes and reacting with motion sensors to terrify everyone around it. Perhaps I just like bright electronics and fuzzy fibre optics. It also had a submarine pinging noise to press with a satisfying big red button. I tested it a lot. Here I can be seen not only demonstrating the glory of the Squid Submarine but also doing a loud sort of Cartman/Weebl & Bob impression for unknown reasons.

Straight from the pages of Jules Verne – a motorised model submarine by Cut and Scrape lurches about in the clutches of a giant squid.

Amongst other pieces the slightly porny ink drawings of sea creatures looked like the animals out of George Orwell’s 1984 that used to scare me as a kid.