“…and please take your own loo roll if you use the toilets – it’s not provided. Have a nice stay.”
“Thanks, mate!” Nate’s dad says. He seems happy. I don’t understand.
We chug around the site, eventually locating Sector D5 next to the picturesque toilet block, which boasts a sign that reads: Warning! Asbestos!
Our small patch of heaven is littered with cigarette butts, a manky chicken shop box, complete with gnawed thigh bones, and, more alarmingly, a discarded pair of women’s knickers.
“This is what it’s all about!” Mr Nate says, hopping out of the van, stretching his arms in the air, and taking a deep breath.
I turn to Nate again. “Is your dad OK?”
“He’s had a pretty rough year,” Nate mutters. “Happiness is relative, I guess?”
“It’s only a couple of nights, right? Then we move on,” I reply, as brightly as I can. I mean, I’m aware this is terrible, but we have to somehow make it work. “How bad can it be?”
Barely thirty minutes later, and I see just how bad it can be.
So, I’ve quickly established that we absolutely can’t take any wide shots – there are just too many appalling things that we’d get in the background. What we can do is some nice close-ups, and I convince Nate that we’ll get one of me and him, just sitting around a simple gas burner with a camp kettle on top of it, and we can do one of those stripped-back, enjoying-the-simple-life type of posts which is all about freeing yourself of the unnecessary clutter of modern life (e.g. bad boyfriends) and getting back to the basic things while holding a blue-and-white tin mug. Me and Nate will be in our hoodies, and I’ve told him we need to aim for a look of “natural chill” on our faces – so, nothing that looks posed, just something that captures a moment.
The first issue is that expression is really hard for Nate to pull off, and in every photo he looks bored.
“That’s just my face,” Nate says.
“Well, can you try to do something else with it?”
“You said natural!”
“Looks natural, I said.”
Nate tuts. “Do you have to sit so close to me?”
“It’s a selfie! How am I supposed to get us both in and the camping stove?” I wait for some sort of response, but get none. “Also, we’re sharing a tent, Nate, so you might as well get used to me being in close proximity to you. Wow.”
“I like my own space. It’s nothing personal.”
“Well, it sounded pretty personal.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
“OK, well, it sounded it.”
“So I sound personal, but I don’t look natural? Fuck this,” Nate says, heaving himself up.
“Stop! Where are you going? We haven’t got the photo yet!” I get up and grab him by the sleeve of his hoodie.
He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t turn to look at me. “Fine, then get someone else to take the photo, and then we can go and get some food.”
OK, he’s hungry, that’s probably why he’s grumpy. I glance around to see if there’s anyone nearby who looks like they won’t nick my phone if I ask them to take a pic. The options are:
•Bald middle-aged white man, beer belly, St George’s flag tattoo, who has just called his dog a “bender” for trying to sniff another dog’s bottom.
•The two twelve-year-old boys who look like bulldogs in vests.
On balance, I feel my chances are higher with the boys. “Lads?” I call over to them. I obviously hate using the word “lads” but I want this over as soon as possible, and with no incident.
The boys look over to me, seemingly sniff the air like feral wolves, glance at one another, then start to approach.
“All right, lads, yeah,” I continue, adopting the tone of the common man, “can you take a quick photo of me and my mate?”
“Gis your phone, then,” one of them says, holding a grubby hand out.
“OK, so…”
He snatches my phone from me. “Nice phone. You rich?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
They stare at me.
“I saved for it.”
The boy turns my phone over in his hand.
“Just take the photo,” Nate says.
“Oi! Little bit of respect for the photographer!” the second boy says.
Nate’s eyes widen and he starts scratching at his forearm.
I clear my throat and look at the boys. Time to bring them onside before they batter us. I know they’re twelve, but they’re scary and fearless and probably have “blades” or whatever the youth call them these days. “See the match today?”
“What match?” the first boy says.
“The … football match.”
The boy squints at me. “Which one?”
I don’t know why this is so hard. I literally hear straight guys say that line all the time, and the other straight guy always seems to know what is being referred to.
“Let’s just take the photo,” Nate says.
“You gonna cuddle up, then?” the second boy says.
“Ha ha ha ha!” I say. “We’re just gonna sit around this camping stove. Try to get us looking relaxed and natural, ideally with a bit of the flame from the stove in the bottom of the shot. We’ll just pose with these simple metal camping mugs – make sure they’re in shot too.”
“Righto,” the first boy says, kneeling down to get his angle, which I must admit impresses me.
Nate sighs as I pass him one of the mugs, and I sit down next to him. “Yes, so, I’ve always enjoyed laughing in a relaxed way!” I say, laughing in a relaxed way.
“What the hell are you saying?” Nate asks.
“I’m talking, so the picture can capture us in mid-relaxed conversation!” I explain. “Jesus, Nate, surely that’s obvious?”
“I’m still shooting!” the boy says.
“Just laugh, Nate. All you have to do is laugh. And if you can’t do that, just talk to me.”
“Saying what?”
“Improvise. Impro-fucking-vise.” I cannot believe how hard Nate is making this. I get that he’s sad about Tariq, I know that this campsite is a long way from ideal, but unless I can somehow get him to smile and enjoy himself, he’s not that great an actor
