His final shoot was in a derelict swimming pool in Bolton. The model was a skinny, nervous lad named Callum, a picker at an Amazon warehouse. The roof leaked, and the only light was grey and wet. James didn’t even use a flash. He just stood there, clicking his ancient digital camera, while Callum laughed about his nan’s dog that only ate cheese.
James Nichols of EnglishLads was not a man who dealt in the abstract. While other site owners spoke of “communities” and “platforms,” James spoke of lads. Real lads. The kind who kicked a scuffed-up ball against a brick wall in a Manchester drizzle, who smelled of Lynx Africa and last night’s chips, who had a laugh that could peel paint off a garden shed. james nichols englishlads
Ninety percent told him to piss off. The other ten percent, the ones with a glint of mischief or a desperate need for new tyres on their hatchback, got in the van. His final shoot was in a derelict swimming pool in Bolton
His star discovery was a kid named Liam from Doncaster. Liam was a roofer’s apprentice, nineteen, with ears that stuck out like jug handles and a smile that was half-charming, half-feral. James shot him on a discarded sofa in an alleyway, drinking a can of warm Fanta. The set cost nothing. The result was pure gold. Subscribers called it “the poetry of the pavement.” James didn’t even use a flash
“That’s it,” James said, lowering the camera. “That’s the real thing.”