If you have ever wondered how we got to be, in the Western World, a bunch of shallow, egotistical, materialistic and money-hankering bastards, you can find a reason right here in Esquire magazine, by way of its very pointless existence.
It's a modern-day chicken-and-the-egg; Did Esquire make us cunts? Or did Esquire spring forth from Cuntdom?
A few days ago, my boss left a copy of this filthy aspirerag in the toilets at work. I suggested he was trying to make a political, anti-consumerist stance in its very placement. He maintained he'd read it from cover to cover and simply couldn't be bothered to hang on to it any longer.
And it is worse than Hitler.
Esquire sums up all that is wrong with middle-class aspirations; it is meaningless, empty and vapid. As I blankly picked up its glossy pages whilst intending to rid my bladder of excreta, I flicked through its desire-saturated pages and felt a desperate pang for a return to humanity.
Instantly, immediately, I wanted a better body. I felt gangrenous for not having the chiselled physique of Djimon Hounsou as he reclined self-consciously in the sun. I pondered lasciviously over an anonymous, brow-furrowing squarejawed gutfuck looking self-absorbed in a Paul Smith shmutter. I hankered desperately for the easy look of Jude fucking Law as he walked self-reverentially from a 1950's aircraft, puckering over his fucking shoulder in a Dunhill fucking jacket.
Ultimately, I felt overwhelmingly self-useless, and I hadn't even pulled my penis out yet.
What struck me first, as I began to urinate in angry spurts, was the glut of adverts; Greek Gods in Hermes suits, A-List Slebs in dinner jackets, obscenely homosexual drones brooding from behind a pair of Ray-Bans. As I continued to flick, I found some actual content. Most of it was hopelessly aspirational; Business pages with a holier-than-thou bollock-swaggering arrogance, commentary from fame-addled, brain-dead aresebuckets, and the worst kind of demi-sponsored photoshoots.
The most despicable was a good half-dozen pages devoted to Citywear. Some shaven-headed cuntbasket had been employed to stare like a dribbling Jerry Springer fan from amid the woefully trendy wreck of a train crash. I continued to flick in slack-jawed astonishment at heavily Photoshopped images of explosions and upturned carriages ripped asunder as this utter zombie of a man in a dapper Dolce & Gabbana suit pretended to run, or pointed and grimaced at something off-camera, trying to entice me into buying a £2,000 suit.
But all I could be enticed into was murder.
Ultimately, I wished I was there at the brainstorm - the self-reverential meeting where pony-tailed advertising mavens sat, their legs at perfect right angles and their jaws jutting out into the room like gatecrashing boars at a barmitzvah, revealing to a rapt crowd of absurd fashionistas their quasi-ironic dreams of an overwhelmingly trendy photoshoot using a fucking commuter disaster as a backdrop.
I swear to Jehovah, Buddha, Allah and the little pixies at the bottom of the garden that I would've gleefully shoved their swollen unimaginative heads into a blender while they continued to expound their vision of pouting manwhores flogging aftershave at Ground Zero. I could've cared less as I painted their balls with Bonios, setting ravenously hungry Dobermans at their crotches while they argued for a centrefold strip amid the desolation of Kabul. I would've thought nought of hammering rusty spikes under their pontificating fucking fingernails while they suggested installing catwalks at Auschwitz and taking moody, black and white pictures.
These are the motherfuckers that push house prices up. They made the East End trendy. They set impossible image standards for mankind, and make any future sexual adventures on my part ruthlessly redundant.
That, and I look like a fat gerbil.
They have studied all of humanity with a lazy eye and deemed them slavish consumers, over-spenders who must pay ten times the going rate for clothing simply because it was designed by a student working under the aegis of an Italian. They convince us that to be admired, wanted, loved, you'll need money and a large amount of style - providing they've approved it first.
And they can bite me. I'm sticking to ten bob t-shirts from Primark.
And guess who's getting all the sex???
Can someone please lend me two grand?