The laminator says cheese

I pride myself on having a wide variety of friends. A handful from school, a smattering from university, and a fair few from all of the fun jobs I’ve had over the years. Not to mention the ones I’ve nicked from other friends, acquired at a wedding, met online or got talking to at a gig because I liked their t-shirt. And they’re all very different, from Nick the fat racist sexist policeman (a man about whom there are many stories I could tell – some other time, perhaps) to Mikey the mod legend all the way through to Glenn the camp accountant, devoted husband and father.

There is, however, one thing they all have in common and that’s a cruel streak.

That doesn’t mean I want my friends to be nasty – my ego is far too big and fragile for that. But I do like my friends to be capable of bitchiness, whether that’s delivered with clinical and disinterested wit, seemingly wide-eyed ingenuousness or brutal forensic precision.

The one exception might well be my friend Helen who is one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met. I worked with her for a couple of years in which time, thanks to some concerted coaching, I just about managed to get her to the stage where she allowed herself a wry smile when something bad happened to somebody she didn’t like. But even then there was an undertone of aren’t I awful for thinking that? But that’s Helen all over - everyone who meets her likes her and she naturally gets on with everyone. It’s a gift I have never had, and I’m coming to terms with the fact that I never will. Ordinarily I’d hate someone like that, but she gets away with it because she’s just so fucking nice (damn her).

On reflection, I think her almost implausible niceness is exactly what made it so funny that her holiday in the Gambia was such an unmitigated diplomatic disaster.

It all started so well. Helen loved the Gambia - the beaches were lovely, the drinks were plentiful and the relaxing poolside lounging was just what she needed after months of being barked at in the office by a boss who closely resembled a Magic 8 Ball with Tourette’s. But most of all she loved the people. So friendly, so kind, so appreciative of everything and so in love with life. She visited the villages and was simultaneously moved by their inspiring spirit and shocked by the poverty they had to endure. On the final night, she and her friend wanted to say thank you. So they took a couple of the hotel staff out for drinks. They went to a nearby bar and she asked one of the guys, Lamin, what he wanted.

“I’d love a fruity cocktail” he said.

She went up and got the drinks in, brought them back and handed them out. Lamin took a thirsty slurp and instantly looked concerned. He asked what exactly the drink was and Helen listed all the ingredients. Vodka, of course, played a major part. As she did so Lamin’s concern swiftly turned into full-on consternation. His crest fell quicker than Abi Titmuss’ knickers. Because Lamin hadn’t said “fruity cocktail”, he had said “fruit cocktail”.

And what Helen had done, fundamentally, was to buy Lamin – a devout Muslim – a big fuck-off Sex On The Beach.

It put a decidedly sizeable crimp in proceedings. Lamin said it was all right, but from that point forward his actions gave a very different message. He kept muttering prayers under his breath and hugging himself. Then he started rocking back and forward like Arthur Fowler after he nicked the Christmas Club money and went snooker loopy in prison. He seemed under the distinct impression that nothing he did from now on could save him from an afterlife chock full of fiery and unpleasant damnation. In short, he was a less than scintillating companion for the rest of the evening.

Having ruined diplomatic relations with the Gambia a chastened Helen arrived at the airport with her friend, ready for the flight home. They were waiting in line to check in their baggage when Helen had the idea that it would be lovely to have one last photo, one final souvenir of the trip. Because it wasn’t as if the entire holiday had been ruined by an accidental Sex On The Beach turning a friendly barman into an infidel, right?

The person in front of them in the queue was a friendly looking middle aged gentleman with kindly eyes. Helen tapped him on the shoulder and asked him if he’d mind taking a photograph of her with her friend. He seemed unwilling at first. “Oh no, I don’t think I’d be very good at that.” he said. But Helen is so nice, and was so insistent, that he couldn’t deny her simple request. So he took a photo of them. Helen took the camera back off him and looked but the man was right – he was certainly no photographer. The pair of them were off centre and out of focus. This simply wouldn’t do as the ideal end to her holiday, so she approached him again.

“I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind taking another one?”

“I really think you should ask someone else, I’m really not good at this sort of thing.” he replied.

“It’s very easy.” said Helen, “This camera’s got a lovely big screen. Just centre us in the screen, hold the button halfway down until the green light comes on and then press it all the way.”

"Oh, I don’t think that screen will be much use to me.” came the response. But Helen would not take no for an answer. The nice man acquiesced, just as she knew he would, and in the process created the immortal moment for which the holiday would always be remembered. But it wasn’t the instant where Helen and her friend stood there and beamed, the shutter clicked and the nice man in front of them in the queue took the photograph.

No, the single defining moment happened the merest of split seconds later when, to her horror, Helen noticed the white stick in his other hand, a detail which up to then had completely escaped her.

And the second photograph? As luck would have it, it came out perfectly.