It is impossible to visit Brighton races without preconceptions ingrained from Graham Greene's coruscating novel, Brighton Rock. After all, the infamous gang were regulars up at Whitehawk Down which, 60 years ago, was a haven for violent gangsters.

The preconception is utterly misleading. The sole throwback to that 1950s era is a series of photographs decorating the walls of a renovated staircase. They were heady times for the track: entrance at four shillings and crowds of 20,000 lining the last two furlongs on both sides of the track.

The place is otherwise bereft of the seediness that once characterised it. Indeed, just as it did in Greene's time, the racecourse mirrors the town. A despairing taxi driver lamented Brighton's passing from a town small enough for intimacy into the bricks-and-mortar version of an ever-expanding middle-aged waistline.

Brighton has become a commuter town. With excellent rail links to London, it has been unable to escape tentacles of the capital's sprawling metropolis. As for the racecourse, it has morphed from a threatening cesspit into a pleasant venue working hard for its share of the leisure pound.

In some ways it was disappointing not to see some gangster caricatures on the opening day of Brighton's August Festival. At the very least, the bottleneck of punters spewing from the large central bar towards the bookmakers offered gilt-edged opportunities for pick-pockets, yet no one looked remotely interested.

So narrow is that strip that bookmakers stand in a single line, rather than in rows. The walk from first to the last of them stationed among the picnickers is so long that Starry Sky, 8-11 on the rails, had hardened to 1-2. Mind you, on returning to the rails Starry Sky stood at 4-5. It was the only hint of villainy to be seen all day.

Rather than control villains, the executive was yesterday preoccupied with the difficult marriage of racing and crowd entertainment under the corporate banner of brewery sponsorship. That meant cut-price admission for pub and club regulars, and the potential for trouble.

There was none to be found. Entertainment came via medallion-clad darts player, Bobby George, and London's very own Chas and Dave, who were cited so close to the paddock that two-year-olds parading for the opener were visibly disturbed by the music. Then again, who wouldn't be?

The temperature may rise considerably today, when women primed for the Best Dressed Lady prize face strong competition from transvestites still irked that Brighton's recent experiment with a themed gay day was all too brief. Sex-testing introduced at the Olympic Games may be the only way to ensure the prize does not end up in inappropriate hands.

Brighton has recently adopted the logo long since trumpeted by swanky Del Mar, on the California coast. It is “Where the Surf meets the Turf”. While Chas and Dave can't quite cut it with the likes of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, both of them regulars at Del Mar, Brighton's patronage by American tourists is sufficient to prompt a sign above the betting boards of Bob Stock that reads: “We Take US Dollars.”

So does Brighton rock? Only in a manner of speaking. It does so more to the contemporary strains of rock-pop, which is an entirely different genre. Perhaps the best example of its metamorphosis is provided by Colleoni. The successful and sinister gangster of Greene's novel is also the name of a three-year-old trained for Michael Tabor by Gerard Butler. He has never run at Brighton in his life.