I used to think Brighton was the kind of place where you could hear the sea at night. Now all I can hear is karaoke, suitcase wheels, and someone called Chloe screaming, “This is my song!” at 1:47am. Welcome to modern Brighton — where every other flat has turned into a “retreat” and Brighton Airbnb noise complaints are the city’s unofficial soundtrack.
It’s not that I hate people having fun. I just don’t want to hear them having it through paper-thin walls while I’m trying to watch Antiques Roadshow. Apparently, I now live beneath a revolving door of weekenders who believe Brighton is Ibiza with pebbles. The last group checked out at 6am — loudly — by rolling their wheelie bags down the stairs one by one like a herd of migrating rhinos.
Welcome to Hotel Brighton
There was a time when my street was full of neighbours. Now it’s all “Superhosts” and “five-star guest experiences.” I used to know the couple upstairs. Now I know the first names of every hen party member who’s ever tried to microwave a Prosecco bottle at 3am.
Brighton’s gone from being a city of residents to a city of renters — and not the long-term kind. Every other window seems to have a keypad instead of a doorbell. The bloke across the road used to sell vinyl records; now he rents out his flat as a “Scandi-Coastal Haven” for £245 a night. It’s got one chair and a mirror. “Minimalist luxury,” apparently.
Even the Brighton & Hove City Council’s short-term let guidance admits they’re “monitoring the impact of Airbnbs.” Translation: they’re reading angry emails from people like me while listening to the faint thump of someone else’s Bluetooth speaker in the background.
The Noise Begins
Last weekend was the worst yet. The new guests arrived with three suitcases, two inflatable flamingos, and a Bluetooth speaker the size of a microwave. Within minutes, I was listening to a medley of Ed Sheeran, ABBA, and what I can only describe as “interpretive stomping.” At one point, someone started clapping along out of time — the ultimate insult to rhythm and sleep alike.
I tried banging on the ceiling, but that just became part of the beat. I called the noise complaint line, but by the time anyone answered, the guests had already moved on to group karaoke. I don’t remember much after that — I think I blacked out around “Dancing Queen.”
The False Promises
Out of curiosity, I looked up the listing for the flat above me. It’s described as a “peaceful coastal sanctuary.” Lies. Absolute lies. The only thing peaceful about it is when they finally check out. It even boasts “eco-friendly values” — which is ironic, considering they left the heating on, the lights blazing, and five empty vape pods in the recycling bin.
One listing I saw nearby said, “Perfect for remote workers.” Remote from what? Reality? The only thing being worked remotely is my patience. These Airbnb’s all promise “a true Brighton experience,” which I suppose means paying too much to not sleep for two nights while inhaling the faint aroma of leftover falafel.
The Council, the Chaos, and the Brighton Airbnb Noise Complaints They Ignore
To be fair, I did try to report the situation. I filled out the online form, uploaded recordings, even attached a photo of the mystery flamingo floating in our shared hallway. The response? “Your case will be reviewed in due course.” That was three months ago. Either “due course” means “never,” or they’re currently consulting a psychic.
Meanwhile, the Airbnb noise policy suggests guests “respect local communities.” I’d respect that more if local communities still existed. Most of us have become unwilling extras in someone else’s “quirky seaside weekend.”
A Modest Proposal
I have a simple solution: a Guest Noise Tax. £1 per decibel after 10pm, payable directly to the nearest resident. I’d be rich within a week. Add a surcharge for dragging suitcases across wooden floors and an instant penalty for group karaoke. That should balance the city’s budget by Friday.
Alternatively, Brighton could rebrand itself as “Airbnb-on-Sea” and stop pretending it’s a normal place to live. We could have themed districts — Hen Party Hill, Digital Nomad Crescent, and Sleep-Deprivation Square. Tourists would love it, and at least the rest of us could stop pretending we’re coping.
Conclusion
Until then, I’ll be wearing earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, and possibly a crash helmet. Brighton’s housing crisis has become Brighton’s insomnia crisis, and I’m one more ABBA medley away from moving to Worthing.
Tomorrow, I’ll be tackling something even more unpredictable than Brighton’s Airbnb guests — Brighton Dog Owners. If you’ve ever tried walking along the promenade without being tangled in three leads and a cloud of Labradoodles, you’ll understand why I’m considering a restraining order against cute pets.
For more Brighton rants and questionable coping mechanisms, visit the What’s Going Down in Brighton homepage — where frustration meets entertainment daily.
