Postcards from the edge
I spent three summers as a teenager working in the Weymouth joke shop located 150 metres from the beach. Every hour I braced myself for the swell of new arrivals. Families, groups and couples from Bristol, London and the Midlands would pile in. The old man and a wolf mask sold well. As did the Boob Inspector, Damn Seagulls and Sh*t Head caps. The biggest seller was the Heavy Drinking cap – two cans of beer could be strapped to the sides, there was a tube to drink through. Some would take photos wearing the caps without paying. The boss wouldn’t have been pleased but he was usually upstairs with his mistress or in the pub across the road. It was all very ‘Carry On Weymouth.’
When I wasn’t working in the joke shop, I’d be sneaking into one of the half-dozen holiday camps looking for adventure. Every week there’d be a change-over of holiday-makers, the town refreshed. I was overwhelmedby Tony Ray-Jones, by Martin Parr, by Simon Roberts and John Hinde’s Butlin’s holiday camp collection – seminal sandcastles on the beach of photographic history.
