Meanwhile, In Weston…

“Trudging slowly over wet sand, back to the bench where your clothes were stolen.
This is the coastal town, that they forgot to close down.” (‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’ by Morrissey. 1988).

This isn’t Weston-super-Mare through rose-tinted sunglasses. It’s Weston through a gritty lens and grotty hangover. No golden-hour sunsets over the pier. No smug glistening seascapes from Marine Lake.

It’s just the raw and ridiculous but utterly authentic chaos of everyday life in a seaside town that gave up pretending to be classy sometime around 1983.

Meanwhile, In Weston is a front-row seat to the absurd and amusing theatre of the everyday: seagulls mugging beachgoers, hen parties limping along in inflatable dinosaur costumes towards a drunken oblivion, pensioners cursing the wind blowing up the Bristol Channel like it’s personal. It’s a town where WTF?! isn’t rare…it’s routine.

If you want picture-postcard Weston, go buy one. This is the version nobody puts on a fridge magnet , but it’s real. And real beats pretty every single time.

So Meanwhile, In Weston is the side of Weston-super-Mare that the local tourist board likely ignore.

I don’t. I snap it. Because, well, somebody bloody has to.