This is probably my all-time favourite picture. It seems to sum up Blackpool well - humanity colliding as it does all together on the pavements.
The man with the placard was a regular in the town centre during the Summer and you can just see his colleagues behind him.
The young girls are part of a dance troupe. If you look carefully you can see one of them is whistling and he's telling them to keep it down!
Woolworths and Shoemarket are long gone, but I think Mecca remains
In my final year, 2000 I entered the best of my Blackpool work, including this one into the Ian Parry Scholarship - a prestigious competition in memory of a photographer killed whilst on assignment.
I didn't win, but got an honourable mention. This entitled me to a portfolio review with the picture editor of a magazine internationally known for it's photojournalism and to attend a dinner with the actual winners along with some luminaries of the noble trade of speaking truth to power.
Incredibly excited at what was definitely going to be my big break into the world of international photojournalism I went down to see said editor who took a look at my pictures before dismissing them as either 'lucky grabs' or 'student stuff'.
He then went on to show me what is apparently proper photojournalism, which consisted mainly of pictures of African people engaged in knocking lumps out of their fellow citizens, cutting off their limbs or dying of AIDS.
Duly chastened and somewhat disillusioned I went to a pub and consoled myself in the traditional manner.
A couple of hours later and suitably refreshed I turned up at the appointed time to the Lillian Bayliss theatre in East London to attend the awards ceremony.
I was shown to my seat and a glass of champagne was thrust into my hand by a distinguished looking chap in who sat down next to me.
I looked at him and did a double take. I was sitting next to my hero the legendary photojournalist Don McCullin!
As the awards were handed out McCullin provided a secondary commentary and was refreshingly frank about some of Fleet Streets finest photographers. One in particular he described as 'the biggest c*nt I ever met' and another famous ennobled royal photographer as an 'total arselicker'.
Incredibly excited at what was definitely going to be my big break into the world of international photojournalism I went down to see said editor who took a look at my pictures before dismissing them as either 'lucky grabs' or 'student stuff'.
He then went on to show me what is apparently proper photojournalism, which consisted mainly of pictures of African people engaged in knocking lumps out of their fellow citizens, cutting off their limbs or dying of AIDS.
Duly chastened and somewhat disillusioned I went to a pub and consoled myself in the traditional manner.
A couple of hours later and suitably refreshed I turned up at the appointed time to the Lillian Bayliss theatre in East London to attend the awards ceremony.
I was shown to my seat and a glass of champagne was thrust into my hand by a distinguished looking chap in who sat down next to me.
I looked at him and did a double take. I was sitting next to my hero the legendary photojournalist Don McCullin!
As the awards were handed out McCullin provided a secondary commentary and was refreshingly frank about some of Fleet Streets finest photographers. One in particular he described as 'the biggest c*nt I ever met' and another famous ennobled royal photographer as an 'total arselicker'.
Afterward I was invited to dine at a Michelin starred private eaterie with the winners.
I'd like to say it was a fabulous occasion, but sadly, due to nerves, and the amount of free Guinness and champagne I imbibed much of the evening is lost to me.
However, I do recollect a rather voluable argument with someone (possibly Times photographer Pete Downing) about my entitlement to have salmon for both a starter and a main course.
Shortly afterwards I was invited to leave.
After being skimmed by a minicab driver who threatened to remove one of my kidneys unless I paid an extortionate fare I found my way back to my B&B where I spent much of the following day vomiting up some of the finest cuisine available to humanity into a toilet.
I'd like to say it was a fabulous occasion, but sadly, due to nerves, and the amount of free Guinness and champagne I imbibed much of the evening is lost to me.
However, I do recollect a rather voluable argument with someone (possibly Times photographer Pete Downing) about my entitlement to have salmon for both a starter and a main course.
Shortly afterwards I was invited to leave.
After being skimmed by a minicab driver who threatened to remove one of my kidneys unless I paid an extortionate fare I found my way back to my B&B where I spent much of the following day vomiting up some of the finest cuisine available to humanity into a toilet.
Obviously I survived all that, but I learnt one thing: Never, ever enter photo competitions.
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