If I was an evil maniac, I'd have strange hobbies such as flesh manipulation, eyeball golf and T-Cell sculpture. But, since I am not an evil maniac, I have to settle for more serene leisure options, like embroidery, sculpture and reading magazines. Magazines like, say it quietly, Vice Magazine. Have your drum kit ready, because it really is bit of a vice. The old ones are the best, readers.
Well, after the scandalous two score and nine days last month when the June issue just didn't want to come home with me and nestle on my kitchen counter to be fumbled and groped by the greasy hands that bless my residence, I was losing hope of being able to get this issue. Luckily, for what ever reason, the creatures - for that is what they are - who deliver Vice to the distribution points in Liverpool every month deigned to supply the goods that this addict wanted and yesterday I jumped for immature, smutty and quite artistic joy when I saw it looking at me through the window of Size, which is actually not full of very tall and scary
Swedish people, as many seem to think, although there must be a reason why they sell so many obscenely huge sized shoes when the majority of people in Liverpool are stunted in their growth cycle form eating too much McDonald's from when they were just a vendor of shit on a bun with odd looking ketchup. Hey, I survived the despair generation intact, and would purchase a pair of the trainers there if my bills would ever let me have enough money to actually be able to buy them.
But, I think I'm talking off the right track here, as I came here today to talk about the rather bizarre world of Vice Magazine. If I'm right, big people must read Vice Magazine. And when I mean big, I mean bigger than Proposition Joe from The Wire. That guy was big, and he wasn't trying to hide it, which is more than can be said for the people who distribute Vice. It' s very rarely within easy view, and when you do find it you get very excited very soon. That's me, and because I'm a sad Monsieur I go straight to a cafe and read it over my Latte, evading the looks from frowning passers by as I do so. Although, to be honest, this months issue has a relatively straight faced cover, unlike the usual in your arse or bare something or other placed artfully in glossy semi-glory in pride of place on the front page like a purple dildo in a sex shop.
At least this month I can leave it on the kitchen table and not have worry about my toddler asking what that thing on the cover is expectantly. The inside is the opposite option though, there's more questionably artistic photo shoots with girls who look like students in need of a bit of cash, and there's the usual brilliantly awful cartoon from Johnny Ryan at the back. But, for those who say that Vice is an immature collection of semi pornographic images and dirty jokes, it generally is except when it does some genuinely eye opening independent journalism like the feature on North Korean deserters helping fellow deserters by sending balloons with drawings and letters describing their horrific stories back over North Korea as a form of reverse propaganda. Read it and feel extremely sad, people.
The best thing about this issue is that it actually has some content of an actively interesting nature. If you can finds yourself a copy, have a look.
Le Monsieur.
No comments:
Post a Comment