James Nichols Englishlads 2021 Page

Three weeks later, the server costs doubled. The payment gateway froze his account. EnglishLads went dark.

James Nichols refused.

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 nichols englishlads

James Nichols didn’t throw a party. He didn’t write a sad blog post. He simply turned off the computer, went to the pub, and had a pint of bitter with a double whisky chaser. The lads scattered back to their roofs, their warehouses, their building sites. Most never knew his last name. Three weeks later, the server costs doubled

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. James Nichols refused

“You, son,” he’d say, leaning out the window. “Ever fancied making a few hundred quid?”