Thanks to a sustained century-long effort at making the absolute most of one scene in “Dracula”, Whitby has firmly established itself as the Horror-themed East-coast seaside destination of choice. Like most seaside towns in the region, it also likes to cultivate a wistful aura of post-Victorian shabbiness, which is permanently on the cusp of tipping over into plain old urban decay.
Maybe that’s the explanation for this anthropomorphic chip-cone:
See how it leers and chomps maniacally on one single, solitary chip seemingly plucked from its own head, gamely trying to pretend everything will be wonderful if you only purchase deep-fried potato fingers from this establishment. One eyelid droops like a stroke victim’s; one damaged thumb is held jauntily aloft in a desperate attempt at jollity. It’s like the eyes of Dr T J Eckleburg, only without the divine symbolism, and also more horrible.
The accompanying large woman in the purple coat was pure serendipity. But it’s her expression of hostile resignation that really makes this picture for me, I think.