I head out of the station. Photos of Sabrina Carpenter are plastered all over the tube walls. I wander around, trying to figure out where I’m supposed to be. I’m confused. Where’s the hotel?
“Are you staying here?” security asks.
“No, I’m a photographer,” I say.
“Where’s your camera?”
“…It’s small,” I respond.
“Those are some funky shoes.”
“Thanks,” I say, and I’m off.
What is an LD accreditation?
A woman walks by who looks like David Bowie. It trips me out. I should ask for her autograph.
All the photographers get chaperoned to the red carpet. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be shooting here, but I follow like a sheep. There’s a photo draw to determine fair positioning—how democratic. Everyone puts their ID into a bag and waits for their name to be called. Bowley. Jackson. Stephen. My ID is snapped in half and taped together.
I have no idea where to go, so I head to the corner. It’s a terrible spot. My camera will not cope here. I find a producer and explain that there must be some mistake. Yep—I’m in the wrong place. They take me to the VIP box.
The box—that’s what we’re calling it, but really, it’s just a room—is much better. Three other photographers are here. Getty veterans. Worst case, we can probably just buy their photos if mine turn out shit. It’s fine.
“How many people were here last time?” I ask Dave, one of the photographers. “Maybe three or four,” he responds.
“I’ve never been here before, so you have to be nice to me,” I say, slightly jittery. They proceed to give me advice throughout the day. I think they find it entertaining that I’m here. I only get in the way once. I think I’m learning.
I mention my autograph book to one of the producers.
“Did you get approval beforehand?” “Uhm.”
Apparently, the induction guide that I signed but didn’t read strictly states no signatures. “Instant removal off-site.” I shove it back into my jacket pocket.
One of the photographers’ assistants gets a call. “I’m at work, still. The Brits,” I hear him say.
They keep calling us the premium photographers. VIPs. I am not. I’m just a spectator.
“I’m just happy to be here,” I mutter.
A man dressed as a Brit award walks in. I ask if I can take his photo.
“No, keep the head off.”
He says he can’t—he’ll get in trouble.
Me and you both.
Someone else walks in. Not sure who. Their shoes are awesome. Prada.
Prada is too expensive to justify. (Or is it?)
“It’s so civilized here. Maybe we should start shouting at each other,” one of the photographers jokes.
I hope we don’t. I’m enjoying the tranquility.
We start taking photos of each other. We’re obviously bored.
Random celebrities trickle in and out. I don’t really know who anyone is, but we have a face sheet—exactly what it sounds like: sheets of paper with names and faces. It doesn’t help much.
Okay, it’s picking up. More people are funneling in. I only have time for one portrait. Maybe two per artist. I need a faster camera. Or they need to slow down. These aren’t the most flattering photos. They’re going to hate them. Thank god for Getty.
I don’t like the Brit backdrop. It’s ugly. I shoot everyone against the black curtain to the left. I love making things harder for myself.
Someone says, “It’s very demure in here.”
I’m not sure what she’s on about, or if it makes sense. I’d describe this room—the box?—as anti-serious. Perhaps not demure.
Sabrina arrives. This is the moment. Or so everyone thinks. Three security guards. The only person tonight with this level of protection. She’s famous.
I take several bad photos of her and one funny photo of one of her guards. ;P
I get closer to try for a portrait. Her bouncer pulls me back. “You’re way too close.”
I’m not. Am I? This is my job.
I wonder if she’d have signed my autograph book.
Please, please, please can I take one more photo.
No. And she’s gone.
I’m tired of taking pictures. I want a cigarette. My camera batteries are dying, and I don’t have a charger.
Does anyone have a Canon PowerShot charger?
I don’t even need to ask—no.
Vicky McClure walks in. She lives in Toton. I grew up in Stapleford. I want to tell her we’re neighbors.
I don’t.
Paloma Faith walks in. We were also neighbors. Evering Road.
I take a quick portrait of someone. No idea who.
I’m always the final person to shoot in the lineup.
“What’s this for then?” an unnamed celebrity asks.
“i-D,” I reply.
“Oh, so you want to know who I am?” they retort.
“No… the magazine,” I snap back.
She drags me to another wall. “Take another.”
“You smashed it.”
I’ve taken two photos. I don’t think it matters.
Millie Bobby Brown comes in. It takes me forever to realize who she is. She’s an adult now.
I take my one photo. It’s out of focus.
“One more?” I ask.
“No, sorry, we’re good.” Noted.
A publicist rings me about one of their artists.
“Please can we review the photo you just took?” she frantically asks. “They were stoned and didn’t realize you were taking it.”
Starry-eyed, they say. If they hate it, I’ll delete it.
But can you get me into the Warner Brothers after-party?
I need to get signatures somehow.
“I’m not in a fucking box,” someone says to me.
I don’t know how to reply.
I’m with Bose. They sent me headphones. My brother already claimed them.
“Where’s the Bose box, then?” they ask. “It’s 333,” I say.
I have to sprint the length of the O2. There are so many boxes.
I’m on the wrong floor. This is all so obscene to me.
Sabrina’s performance is fun. They remix what I think is the national anthem into “Espresso.”
I understand the three bouncers now. I’ve had two beers.
“Don’t get too drunk,” I tell myself.
Danny Dyer called someone a “cunt” live on air.
I think I talk too much. I have way too many anecdotes.
I go to the bathroom during an ad break.
A man is topless, drying his shirt. Life is a spectacle.
The show is over.
I’m at Claridge’s, and I think this party is sponsored by Perfect Magazine.
I’m quite drunk at this point. I force everyone I see to sign my autograph book. I should be embarrassed. But I find it hilarious.
I sit down and turn to my right. It’s Charli, baby.
“Charli, please can you sign my autograph book?” I ask.
“Are you joking?” She eyes me up and down.
“No, I’ve never been more serious in my life,” I reply.
“Sure.”
She signs: “lol charli xcx.”
She must think I’m an absolute weirdo.
Mike Skinner is playing. I sit at an empty VIP table.
“Sir, stand up.” Security, as ever, on my case. I’ll do anything anyone tells me.
Where are all my friends?
REDACTED is high on mushrooms and refuses to sign my book. I force them. They eventually cave.
I ask if they have more shrooms. “No.”
Isamaya Ffrench calls me a great photographer.
I think she’s being extremely polite.
“Will you sign my autograph book?” I ask.
She puts the Sharpie in her mouth and obliges.
I don’t know where that pen’s been.
I have ten pages left to fill.
I ask everyone to sign—bouncers, fans outside.
I fill the book. All 80 pages.
Everyone keeps telling me they’re not famous.
Nor am I.
“Sign it!” I keep shouting.
I should apply this level of determination to more aspects of my life.
And it’s finished.