The Telegraph Magazine – Jeffrey Archer

Dan Burn-Forti

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Dan photographed Author Jeffrey Archer for the Telegraph Magazine’s Cover Story!

Check out the full article here .

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Dan Burn-Forti

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Somewhere in a field near Swindon, these grown men were apparently reenacting the 2nd World War. Yes, there were many who came in their Allied soldier uniforms, but Nazis. So many Nazis. What sort of person wakes up on a damp Sunday morning and dons a Nazi uniform for a fun day out? Of course it’s entirely anecdotal (and I’m sure there are just loads of lovely Nazi uniform wearers out there), but all the Nazis I met that day were rather unpleasant.

The Isle of Sark is an excellent place and I reckon something of a lockdown pioneer. If you live there you’ve pretty much decided to socially distance from the rest of the planet, which is probably not a bad idea. No cars, few people, lots of sheep and crashing waves, all with a whiff of The Wicker Man about it.

This portrait I took of Kevin for The Observer Magazine has been selected for this years AOP Photography Awards. He’s absolutely tickled pink. #aopawards2020 @assocphoto @guardian @kit_pic_editor

Welcome to the World of Outlaws, a uniquely American form of dirt track racing, where manly men sit in rather small cars with massive engines and a great big fin that pushes the car into the dirt so they can go around and around very fast for hours and hours. Yee haw.

When I sent these in to the magazine that commissioned this story about the traditional British seaside, I remember they were pretty underwhelmed. I think they were hoping for a fun filled celebration of joyous frivolity but instead got this rather melancholic set featuring children, donkeys and pensioners filled with what looks like existential angst. But they did send me to Weston-Super-Mare so I blame them.

Lad culture was a grotty invention as far as I could see, with all that geezers being geezers and ‘hello boys’ and Loaded and bleugh. This trip to Max Power Live at the NEC felt like a journey deep into the heart of it all. Nasty mucky motors o’clock.