Saturday, February 23, 2008


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?


marianne said...

I suspect you could probably buy sex for less than two grand. Just sayin'.

Clarissa said...

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!!!!! I sat next to a cunt fuck on a plane last night who, while he didn't have Esquire, was reading something which I imagine to be equally bad (vapid): Male Vogue.

I knew this guy was cunt as soon as I saw him. I was walking toward row 12; he was sitting in the aisle seat already. He had used all the overhead space with his Louis Vuitton luggage, and had nothing stored under the seat in front of him. Oh, and it was a full flight. He saw me rearranging someone elses luggage so I could fit my carry-on above. He was chatting on his swank mobile phone in an unnecessarily loud voice. All about stocks and ticker names and suggesting to his friend that he buy 1000 of whatever at 11 a share. Blah Blah Blah. So fucking full of himself and so certain he was impressing everyone around him.

He was head to toe trendy: from his Gucci glasses (I also have a pair of Gucci glasses - so am not pristinely non-consumerist myself) to his perfectly disheveled hair and his designer jacket and shirt and jeans and belt -- brands I don't know but they had to be brands ... he was dressed like one of the guys in the magazines, and I was repelled.

I could tell he was checking me out. I'm not a bad looking girl. And, I was wearing my Gucci glasses. And, I have the look of a mainstream girl that this type of fuckwit cunt would like. He would have been so put off to know that I use the word cunt so liberally.

A friend recently taught me to darn. I have some gloves with holes. I thought it would be fun to darn them rather than buy a new pair, so I took the 2 hour flight as a chance to practice my new skill. Sure, it's odd to repair gloves on a flight. I got a kick out of the incongruity of me with my holey gloves next to the fuckwit into his stocks and ticker names and fancy shit. He tried to chat. I was polite enough but put the walkman on as soon as I could.

I'd rather sleep with the pizza delivery boy. Or you.

Angela-la-la said...

Wayhey, Fwengey - you've pulled!

dave fishwick said...

Hello. Esquire is just an upmarket FHM/Maxim/etc. (I don't even know what they're like anymore actually, so I realise that I've possibly made an unfounded comparison, but that doesn't matter really). Replace the D&G with Next and that's it. I wonder if Esquire will start doing their equivalent of 'High Street Honeys'?

Oh, by the way, was it you that commented on my decaying blog?

Anonymous said...

Even for you that post was well OTT. My brain hurt from all the excessive wordiness used therein.

Dandelion said...

Well, I thought it was rather good. Reckon I could do better though :-)

bittersweet me said...

you sound SO angry

it is very sexy, you know.

isabelle said...

brilliant !

( and clarissa, I love you ! )

Vi said...

Hey, just remember only about 10% of men out there probably read that crap. And they are all gay.

Z said...

I'm sorry Fweng - I've just paid for a holiday and I've got my car insurance to pay next week. A tenner any good?

daisyfae said...

when i lived in the city, i acquired the hobby of tripping Esquire and GQ-reading dinks as they stepped off subway trains. Good sport it was...

fwengebola said...

Marianne ~ I've long thought about the idea of paying for sex, but it's like heroin, or dogs that get the taste for blood.
If you get my drift, ducks.
Clarissa ~ Jesus Christ. Well you win the award for longest comment anywhere ever. Whilst I admire your restraint of not killing said cunt fuck, I am slightly disturbed that you'd rather bang the pizza delivery boy to hell and back. What if he reads Esquire too?
(Though I doubt that.)
And whilst I am beyond gratified that you'd also rather sleep with me, considering the pizza delivery boy's also in with a shout, forgive me for not jumping up and down and dusting off my condoms (Best Before: Next week).
FB ~ Me, and the Pizza Hut lad.
DF ~ Esquire would never dare do High Street Honeys. But I wouldn't put it past them to do Harrods Harlots.
I don't know about the commenting. I go to lots of different places. Never anonymously, though.
Anon ~ I apologise. I was pissed and presumably thought I was being clever.
Dand ~ Right, I'll see your 'better' and raise you a 'Go on, then'.
BSM ~ You like anger?
I really don't get women.
Isa ~ I must remember to be angrier more often.
Wait, that's not good. Perhaps I should start darning gloves like Clarissa.
Vi ~ Hey, I read it too. (Briefly).
Z ~ A tenner will do fine. Simply make your cheque out to CASH and leave it under the bin next to Hammersmith tube.
Daisyfae ~ Whilst I object to ruffling the feathers of my fellow man...
Actually, I don't. Carry on doing it.

Z said...

Hang on, it'll cost me £22 plus the tube fare to get to Hammersmith. You owe me something like £25, darling.

You can have the tenner as a gift, though. My pleasure.

Jo said...

And the most irritating thing of all about these type of mags is the fact that to get to any sort of content, or even a content page for that matter, you have to endure no less than 20 adverts first. ARGHHHH

Clarissa said...

Yeah, you pushed a button with your post. Generally, a comment that long would have been a goddamn post.

John said...

Dave is right. But Maxim is worse.

fwengebola said...

Z ~ Ok, look, I'll just write you a cheque.
Jo ~ What's all that about, anyway? Paying about £4 mainly to be advertised at.
Clar ~ Oh that comment was easily more than some of my shorter posts.
John ~ Welcome. Something tells me that most of that Maxim list was probably made up.

Z said...

Oh sweetheart, I was teasing.

luna said...

Why don't you drop a note to the editor then.
What mags pass muster with you?

fwengebola said...

Z ~ YesIknow.
Luna ~ It's been a while since I magged it, but at Uni, I would often buy Muzik (is that still around?) and have several thousand back issues of Mens' Health in boxes in my Mum's garage.
I buy nothing now though. They're all tat.

luna said...

Men's Health didn't do you much good though.Have you tried Rodents Care and Nutrition?
Seeing as you're a gerbil.