The Influencer

There’s something faintly ridiculous about the fact that I’ve become an evangelist for a pair of flip‑flops. Not Birkenstocks. Not those overpriced “ergonomic sandals” that make you look like you should be teaching yoga in Totnes. No – humble, campsite‑shop flip‑flops from Dorset.

I found them last year in the kind of shop that normally sells buckets, spades, and inflatable flamingos – the sort of place where you go in for milk and come out with a fishing net and a lilo you don’t need. And there they were: Surf State flip‑flops. Cheap, cheerful, and – here’s the kicker – built better than the £40 ones you see in airport shops.

Most flip‑flops have that fatal flaw – the toe post that’s pushed through the sole like a tent peg. It works fine until one day, on some stony track, it rips through, and suddenly you’re hobbling like a wounded soldier, clutching a bit of rubber and questioning all your life choices. These Surf State marvels don’t do that. Their toe post is moulded into the upper. No holes. No tear‑through. No indignity.

And they’re absurdly comfortable. They cradle your feet like some over‑attentive butler, while every other flip‑flop is the footwear equivalent of a park bench. They even double as my safety boot and welding boots.

But here’s the problem – I can’t find another pair anywhere. Search online and you get the “budget holiday flip‑flop” version – cheap foam and a nylon thong. Not my moulded, orangey, black‑strapped foot heaven.

So now I’m like some tragic influencer – except instead of flogging protein powder or telling you to “like and subscribe”, I’m standing on a patio waving a sandal in the air shouting: “Find me these, and I’ll name my next grandchild after you!”

Mountain Warehouse is rumoured to stock them, but you’d hardly scale Ben Nevis in them. This is the most un‑mountainous footwear imaginable. They’re not for hiking – they’re for sitting outside a caravan, drink in hand, wondering whether to have another sausage. Oh, and for welding.

And yet, they’ve ruined me for all other flip‑flops. I’ve tasted the perfect summer shoe, and now I’m cursed to trawl campsite shops like some deranged pilgrim, muttering “Surf State” under my breath, hoping lightning will strike twice.