Popular air show confirmed for 2025 - but investment needed for future events
An annual air show will return next year.
Airbourne, the free four-day air show held in Eastbourne, will run from August 14 to 17 next year, Eastbourne Borough Council has confirmed.
It will be the third year the event is run on donations, commercial sales and new initiatives after an uncertain future since its return following Covid.
The show is able to go ahead this year due to the fact that last year's event was 'cost neutral', however the council has stressed that the event requires sponsorship to continue.
Councillor Margaret Bannister, Eastbourne Borough Council's lead member for tourism, leisure, accessibility and community safety, said, "Our thanks go to all those who have donated, sponsored, volunteered or financially supported the show this year. Airbourne really is only possible with your help.
"However, for 2025 we are once again starting from scratch. We really do need sponsorship commitment now to help get Airbourne 2025 off the ground - with enough support early on we can start securing some exciting flying displays and attractions to keep the show flying high."
Spectators watch the Red Arrows perform at Airbourne (Image: Sussex News and Pictures) Councillor Stephen Holt, leader of Eastbourne Borough Council, said, "I'm delighted that Airbourne can go ahead next year. It is a very popular and important event in our events calendar.
"This decision has been made following confirmation that the event has remained cost-neutral, and the team is continuing to develop plans to ensure that the event remains financially viable."
READ MORE: I went to Lewes Bonfire for the first time: here's what I thought
The council also said that the event met its carbon reduction pledge this year.
Councillor Jim Murray, cabinet member for carbon neutral 2030, said: "In 2023 and 2024 we teamed up with Eastbourne Eco Action Network CIC to support the Eastbourne United Nations Association's carbon offsetting scheme in Uganda.
"Our involvement in the project resulted in 14,000 trees being planted last year and with a similar number being planted in 2024, great strides are being made in achieving a carbon neutral Airbourne."
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Buzz Feed
3 hours ago
- Buzz Feed
The Dark Truth Behind This Viral Social Media Trend
It started as a casual interest. Scrolling Instagram, I'd stop to watch some celebrity or influencer put on makeup. They'd have their products lined up on the bathroom counter and perch their phone against the mirror — that way, they're facing the camera as they trace each eye with liner, slick on lipstick, and narrate application techniques. The viewer and the mirror become one, and the line between audience and self blurs. Then it turned into a bedtime ritual. After crawling under the sheets and shutting off the light, I'd pull my phone close to my face, open YouTube, and search for a 'Get Ready With Me' video. The Vogue ones were my favorite. They'd usually feature a young actress — Sydney Sweeney, Hailee Steinfeld, or the latest Bridgerton lead — in her bathroom, dripping alluring serums onto her forehead, applying soppy dabs of moisturizer to her neck and cheeks, and swiping on an invisible SPF. Then, she'd add a touch of foundation, apply a cream eyeshadow with her finger, brush bronzer along her jawline, and glide a highlighter stick above her cheekbones. Vogue would link to the products the celebrities used underneath the videos, and sometimes I'd click through them: $80 for 0.5 ounces of a vitamin C serum, $115 for an eye cream, $73 for a collection of chemicals I'd never heard of. Once I opened all the links, I'd usually come to the realization I didn't need any of the products and quickly close each tab. I'll admit I wasn't always successful. Then I'd shut off my phone and try to sleep, hoping to have beautiful dreams. 'I am dreadfully tired of my life,' I wrote in my journal in February 2022. I was 26 and working as a digital editor at a news outlet in Austin. Since the start of the pandemic, my weekdays had consisted of sitting at home in front of my computer for nine hours straight, answering Slack messages and engaging with the world's latest tragedies: COVID-19 deaths, mass shootings, the ever-increasing swirl of misinformation. And then I would make dinner, lose myself in another screen, and try to sleep. Perhaps I was initially drawn to 'Get Ready With Me,' or GRWM videos — a trend that has flooded practically every social media platform in recent years — because I could live vicariously through them. TikTok I'd imagine myself putting on makeup, even though I'd been barefaced for weeks. I'd imagine myself as someone who had places to go, who planned to be seen, even though I was going days without leaving my apartment. Usually, the videos' protagonists filmed themselves in cute bathrooms in sunlight-filled studio apartments or fancy French hotel rooms, and I'd imagine they were going to spend the day strolling down boulevards, drinking wine at lunch, and reading books in parks under the sun. The women in these videos exuded a confidence I admired. They knew exactly what products worked for them, which ones they wanted to define themselves by. 'Regardless of how high-maintenance or low-maintenance a woman is, every single woman is her own expert,' Glossier founder Emily Weiss says about beauty routines in the 2023 book Glossy: Ambition, Beauty, and the Inside Story of Emily Weiss's Glossier. Before founding the billion-dollar beauty company, Weiss started a blog in 2010 called Into the Gloss, where she interviewed celebrities about their favorite beauty and skincare products. It was essentially the first iteration of the GRWM phenomenon. The blog marked a pivotal moment for beauty culture, according to Glossy author Marisa Meltzer. Weiss had recognized 'the power of personal affiliation, of embracing and monetizing the idea that this-is-what-I-use is deeply linked to this-is-who-I-am.' I didn't know who I was. But these women appeared to. And that fed into a hope the beauty industry had been selling me for years: that maybe figuring out who I am is just a matter of finding the right products. I started wearing makeup in high school, the same age my older sister had been allowed to wear it. When my mom took me to Ulta the summer before my freshman year, and I sat at the Clinique counter as a woman matched eyeshadow duos to my complexion, it felt like a rite of passage. Strawberry Fudge, she recommended, a light pink shade for the lid and dark brown for the crease. I maintained the same drug-store version of that Clinique routine for years. I wore it religiously, not because I had any real passion for it, but because I thought it was a thing girls were supposed to do. An expert had even shown me. Who was I to stray? Then in college, I studied abroad with a girl who didn't wear makeup. She was kind and adventurous and knew how to be friends with everyone she met. One weekend, a group of us was getting ready for a night out. She asked to borrow someone's mascara. I wondered aloud why she didn't have any. 'I ran out a while ago and just never got around to buying more,' she said. Fascinating. To me, running out of mascara was like running out of an essential, like toothpaste or shampoo. To this cool, nice girl, it was an afterthought. I wanted to emulate her nonchalance. After that, I started wearing makeup less. I went to class without mascara, stopped replacing eyeshadow palettes, and went on dates with little more than moisturizer on my face. I took pleasure in being the kind of girl who didn't wear makeup. When I did put it on, to attend parties or go to internship interviews, I worried it looked like I was trying too hard. It didn't help that I was dating a guy who egged on this insecurity. He didn't seem to care that I rarely wore makeup around him, but one night I was heading to a friend's graduation party. He was in my room, hanging out while I got ready. I started swiping mascara on my lashes and putting powder on my face. 'Why do you wear makeup for other people but not me?' he asked. I didn't know what to say. I mumbled something about wanting to look nice for my friends. They'd all be dressed up. 'It feels like you want other guys to notice you or something.' The thought hadn't crossed my mind. I reassured him I wasn't trying to attract other people. Looking back, I can see his comments were rooted in insecurities that my 20-year-old self was not equipped to handle. But in the moment, I let the words sink in. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was a vain person. Another night, I was getting ready to see his band perform at a house party. I put makeup on, slipped into my favorite jean jacket, and examined myself in the mirror. Why did I want to wear makeup tonight, I wondered. Was it too much? In a huff, I ran over to the sink and splashed water on my face. Dark water droplets fell toward the drain until the mascara and eyeliner were washed away. Then I felt even sillier, having spent so much time trying to appear chill and unbothered, two things I clearly was not. After graduation, I started working my first grown-up job, and I was eager to dress the part. Makeup again became a thoughtless habit. I'd put on eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and powder before going to the office and dutifully removed it all each night. My college relationship petered out, and, slowly, the self-conscious voice in my head did too. When the pandemic hit a year later, I stopped going to the office and stopped putting on makeup altogether. My office became my kitchen. Meetings became Zoom calls. Work clothes became sweatpants and T-shirts. As the months went on, the monotony and anxiety that filled daily life morphed into a low-level depression. I craved distraction. A dopamine hit. A place to rest my mind that wasn't steeped in doom and gloom. I don't remember what came first: the desire to perfect myself or the videos that showed me how. 'I'm pretty sure I'm the person I see most now,' I joked to my friend one day. Living alone during the pandemic, I had endless time to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and no one around to make me self-conscious of my self-obsession. Plus, on every Zoom call and every FaceTime happy hour with friends, there I was, my face in a box in the corner. I began to fixate on my skin. Was I getting dark circles? Had those lines on my forehead always been there? For every problem I encountered, Instagram had a solution. I could try the moisturizer that Jeanne Damas used or watch a video of a stranger to learn how to apply concealer under my eyes. I started ordering skincare products online. Kiehl's avocado eye cream and hyaluronic acid. Then, I moved on to makeup. Glossier skin tints and cream blushes. Rarely did I have anywhere to wear them. But the buying was entertainment enough. It's no wonder to me why the skincare industry boomed during the COVID years. It's likely the same reason lipstick sales go up during recessions: When things get tough, we allow ourselves little indulgences to get through. Beauty brands milked that tendency, employing influencers to hawk shiny bottles on every corner of social media, the place we go to remove ourselves from the difficulties of the present. These splurges became a way to connect to beauty in an increasingly ugly world. There was a part of me that craved these influencers' lives. I wanted their world, as writer Sheila Heti says, 'to be mine by putting it in a cart on the internet, and buying it, and having it arrive at my door, and unpacking it, and knowing it's mine and no one else's.' Recently, we've seen tween girls bombarding Sephora, eager to add a new Drunk Elephant product to their skincare ritual or a Summer Friday lip gloss to their makeup collection. We gawk and watch in awe when their own GRWM videos break into our algorithms. But it makes sense to me. Young girls love to play dress-up, to cosplay the adult women they hope to one day be. When I was little, I decorated my room with Eiffel Towers and envisioned the 20-something version of me living in an apartment in Paris with vines growing over the balcony. I would be a writer who wore long skirts and cut her hair short and sipped coffee in outdoor cafes. A belief grew in me that when I was older, I would no longer feel the uncertainty of being young. I awaited the day I would be like the women I saw in movies, when I would know exactly who I was and what I was doing, and my clothes and face would always feel beautiful, and I would stop thinking so damn much. I wouldn't question where my life was going. I could just live it. Instead, there I was in my 20s, still fantasizing about the millions of directions my life could take. I'd research different ways to be online. How to go to grad school. How to live abroad. How to move to New York. How to achieve the perfect 'no-makeup makeup' look. And I'd live in those possibilities for a while. It is normal to be young and to try on different versions of yourself. Indulging in GRWM videos felt like an instantaneous way to do that. But the proliferation of this content — and our appetite for it — highlights what I fear is a growing belief that the most important part of living is appearing. That what makes us who we are is how we look, not how we feel. Buying milky cleansers, creamy moisturizers, and shiny lip glosses didn't bring me closer to the person I wanted to be. It wasn't until I took real steps to address my mental health that my life meaningfully began to change. For one, I found a therapist who helped me believe my desires were valid. She helped me break down my life goals into manageable steps. I began to feel I was brave enough to do things like quit my job and move to a new city if I really wanted to. And I did. There are still times I succumb to Instagram beauty reels. I'll find myself 20 seconds into a video of a gorgeous woman applying a new blush or a coppery eyeshadow. I try to remind myself that these are just objects. Rarely are such things transformative. What I really crave is connection. Romance. Experiences that will crack open new neural pathways in my brain, remind me I am alive. Great art brings me that: books, movies, the opera. A new city to explore. Friends who bare their souls. A gorgeous sunset. Over the last year, I've made an effort to have more of these things in my life. There is nothing inherently wrong with finding aesthetic ways to boost your confidence. But these videos encourage us to think there is some combination of products out there that will encapsulate the elusive, ever-changing thing that is the self. It's an alluring, futile quest. One in which we will always struggle — always try, always fail, always buy. I turned 29 last year. I still don't know exactly who I am. But I no longer obsess over it so much. For now, I'm trying to be a person who spends less time watching other people, and more time walking through the world myself.
Yahoo
4 hours ago
- Yahoo
Pride on High viewing area to benefit Columbus LGBTQ+ groups
COLUMBUS, Ohio (WCMH) — Those heading to the Stonewall Columbus Pride March this weekend can reserve their spot at a special viewing area that benefits central Ohio LGBTQ+ organizations. Boasted as the ultimate parade watching experience, Pride on High is a ticketed event allowing guests to view the march from Parlay Sports Club and Kitchen, Hyde Park Prime Steakhouse, or the recently opened El Vaquero. The event is the only one in the Short North offering live entertainment, food and beverages during the parade, along with shade and private restrooms. In its 15th year, Pride on High was created by organizer Mike Maly and his husband, who noticed in 2010 that nearly all of the restaurants in the Short North were closed during the Pride march. Watch a previous NBC4 report on Pride on High in the video player above. Out in Ohio: Stonewall Columbus gets ready for Pride 2025 'All of the restaurants were closed for the Pride parade, and my husband and I actually went down to Hyde Park and there was a high-top table, an umbrella and two chairs, and we sat there,' Maly said. 'That following Monday, I called them and said, 'Would you consider being open?' And that was the start.' Their first year, Pride on High just welcomed 25 guests. But the event has steadily grown, from about 440 attendees right before the COVID-19 pandemic to more than 770 last year. Tickets to Pride on High cost $75 per person, with every dollar benefiting the LGBTQ+ organization of your choosing: Stonewall Columbus, Kaleidoscope Youth Center, Equality Ohio, or Mozaic by Equitas Health, a community center for transgender, gender nonconforming, and nonbinary Ohioans. 'The mission is to bring the Columbus community together and provide funding for LGBTQ+ youth and community initiatives that, in turn, provides resources for a safe, educated and healthy future,' Maly said. 'Each and every one of these organizations, I know exactly where every dollar goes, and it's not wasted.' List: 2025 Pride Month events, festivals in central Ohio NBC4 will be streaming the march from Pride on High, with anchor Colleen Marshall hosting alongside Columbus drag queen Virginia West and Amber Nicole, who will be performing two songs before the parade. Maly said this year, 'It's important for everyone to be seen, to be heard, to celebrate who we are' in the wake of federal measures and legislation at the Ohio Statehouse that opponents deem 'anti-LGBTQ+.' Maly said the rhetoric is having a tangible effect on Pride on High, as sales are down 50% compared to this time last year. 'I think with the political environment and everything that's going on out there, it's impacting the sales,' Maly said. 'This has been very tough this year. I've worked for over 30 years and making people's lives better and making sure that kids have a better future, and that's what keeps me going.' Nissan, Walmart dial back Stonewall Columbus sponsorships for Pride 2025 While ticket sales may be down, Maly said donations to operate Pride on High are higher than they've ever been before. 'That tells me that there are people out there that truly do believe in who we are, what we are, what we bring to the world, and this is ridiculous what we're going through right now,' Maly said. 'Hopefully, we'll get some of the folks to come and join the party.' Learn more about Pride on High and purchase tickets here. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
8 hours ago
- Yahoo
They've been going to Bonnaroo for more than 10 years. Why these 'roo veterans keep going back: 'It'll change you'
On June 12-15, tens of thousands of people from all corners of the Earth will once again convene on a 700-acre farm in Coffee County, Tennessee for four days of non-stop music and a grand celebration of art and culture. Since its inception in 2002, the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival has welcomed some of the biggest names in music to the small town of Manchester. In 2025, the festival will feature one of music's most influential young artists, three-time Grammy Award winner Olivia Rodrigo and CMA Award winner, Luke Combs — Bonnaroo's first ever country music headliner. For many festival goers, the annual lineup of artists alone is reason enough to camp out for four days and endure the often-unpredictable Tennessee weather. But for seasoned Bonnaroovians, the appeal behind the festival extends far beyond the music and centers around the connections made at the festival — connections which exceed a vibrant weekend filled with dancing and running from stage to stage. What to pack? What should you wear to Bonnaroo? Three veterans weigh in ahead of the 2025 festival "Bonnaroo is gonna present to you a lot of people that are gonna become friends and loved ones for the rest of your life," said Matt Chapman, a 13-year Bonnaroo veteran from Atlanta, Georgia. "It brings together people who share the same interests and the same positive energy." Chapman met his best friend at the festival in 2014 and four years later the two were able to meet and interview electro-funk duo, Chromeo. A few years later he met his current long-distance partner, Shaina Bradley, an 8-year Bonnaroo veteran from Chicago, Illinois. The two first locked eyes when their "groop" camps were neighbors during the brutal heat wave of 2022. That same year, Steven Stedry — a Manchester local and 17-year veteran — along with a friend, was able to bring joy and a reignited sense of community to other attendees by posing for photos wearing chrome replica Daft Punk helmets after two cancelled festival years due to the COVID-19 pandemic and flooding. "I think it set a vibe going forward like, 'Hey, we survived this, we made it through this, and we're all going to be okay,'" he said. Together, these three festival goers have nearly four decades of Bonnaroo experience, dating back to the early years of the festival — earning them the title of veterans. Here's what's kept them coming back year after year and the lessons they've learned along the way. Stedry remembers the long lines and Wal-Mart parking lot waiting periods of 2007, when all of Manchester would be brought to a halt due to the debilitating traffic caused by the festival. Having hundreds of thousands of people in his hometown was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Stepping into the festival grounds was a whole different beast; blacktop roads, paved paths, and gravel spots were nowhere to be found. "Back then it definitely looked like you were on a farm in a sense, it was so new. But the collection of people is something that has held true from year one to now," said Stedry. "You can look at all these people that have come together and they all coincidentally come to this for the love of music and the pure thrill of entertainment. "I think that's what's made it such a magical place." Growing up as a music lover in the South, Chapman had never experienced anything quite as "insane" as Bonnaroo. His first time on the farm in 2008 was mind-blowing, he said. "The first day was overwhelming but it quickly turned into something really exciting and fun," he added. "That overwhelmed feeling went away thanks to how awesome everyone around me and the crowds were." The 10-year anniversary of Bonnaroo in 2011 was a highly anticipated event with rap icon Eminem set to take the stage. As the crowd eagerly prepared for the show, an intense thunderstorm rolled in sending festival goers scrambling for cover, diving under tents and seeking shelter wherever they could. With unreliable cell service at the time, many were left unaware of the storm's severity, heightening the sense of panic as it seemed like all of Manchester would be drenched throughout Eminem's entire set, said Stedry. The storm hit hardest between 10:20 and 10:45, just moments before Eminem was scheduled to perform at 11. Then almost miraculously, the downpour ceased right on cue. As the skies cleared, waves of people sprinted toward the main stage. In the rush, Stedry's friend lost his flip-flops. Determined to reach the stage together, Stedry scooped him up and carried him through the frenzied surge of fans. When Eminem and his crew finally appeared, the crowd erupted, surging forward in a wave of energy. "You don't see a lot of rap artists live up to their name, and that show truly did," said Stedry. "Just seeing the whole crowd interaction was truly a magical moment." During her first Bonnaroo in 2016, Bradley found herself unexpectedly separated from her group, leaving her to navigate the festival alone. However, fate had other plans. In the crowded, buzzing energy of the farm, Bradley crossed paths with four strangers who, by sheer coincidence, were attending all the same sets. What began as a chance encounter quickly turned into an impromptu friendship, as the group navigated the festival together — helping each other refill CamelBaks, grabbing food and soaking in the experience. Later that evening, Bradley was reunited with her original group. As the Chainsmokers took the stage at 1 a.m., she spotted them just five feet ahead. Despite Bonnaroo being a once-a-year event, the experiences had on the farm and the connections made extend far beyond a single weekend in June, often transcending into life lessons carried for years to come. Chapman said the inclusive space has transformed him into a better, more positive person and has allowed him to find happiness among like-minded individuals. 'Let the farm in, let the festival in," said Chapman. "Let the place and the people there change you, because it'll change you for the better, so long as you focus on the right things.' For Bradley, the annual festival provides an escape from the chaos of the outside world and has instilled in her a deep sense of gratitude. Similarly, the festival has allowed Stedry to develop a deeper appreciation for life and its fleeting nature. "Enjoy it, love it and live in that moment in its full entirety because you never know when that time is up," said Stedry. Diana Leyva covers trending news and service journalism for The Tennessean. Contact her at Dleyva@ or follow her on X, the platform formerly known as Twitter, at @_leyvadiana This article originally appeared on Nashville Tennessean: Bonnaroo: Why they keep going to the farm, 'it'll change you'
