Englishlads — James Nichols

They weren’t crying for the porn. They were crying for a lost England—gritty, real, unapologetic. They were crying for the lads who didn’t know they were art, and for the strange, stubborn man in the Ford Transit who saw them anyway.

“You, son,” he’d say, leaning out the window. “Ever fancied making a few hundred quid?” 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. They weren’t crying for the porn