In 1991, the Observer took a poetic trip with Britain’s first Raving Loony Green Giant Party councillor around Sidmouth, an ‘almost comatose’ spot, where retirees dozed in rented deckchairs, ‘their papery skin broiling in the summer’s first bout of sun: their faces as angrily vivid as grilled tomatoes in the cooked breakfasts set before you in the local hotels.’
On to this soporific scene burst town jester, 40-year-old Stuart Hughes, in his ‘wrecked’ red, white and blue plastic sandals, ‘tacky silver topper’ and harlequin jacket, consoling a woman shat on by a gull (‘her blushing husband frantically dabs a tissue on her surgical stocking’): ‘That was a Tory gull, love.’
