I’ve always read women’s magazines. Almost always. Yes, there was that nasty period in my early teens when a graphic explanation of trichomoniasis in the Just Seventeen problem pages put me off for a few months, but we’ll skip over that. You see, I’m fascinated by women’s magazines.
I’m fascinated by their covers, which invariably shout, "HEY FATTY! EVERYTHING YOU DO IS SHIT, YOU MASSIVE SHITTY FATTO!" and somehow still drive sales. I’m fascinated by the terrible free gifts that come with them –- the sunglasses that deliberately lacerate your face, the lipgloss the colour of animal semen -– that somehow manage to further increase circulation. I’m fascinated by the way that, after four decades, they still haven’t run out of sex tips.