The Ten Best Break-Up Lines Ever

10) You might not have noticed this, I've de-friended you on Facebook and changed my status to single, I suggest you do the same.

9) The position of girlfriend has been outsourced to India your services will no longer be required, consider this e-mail to be your severance package.

8) I know that I will regret this decision the minute you close the front door, so can you leave through the kitchen so my neighbours don’t have to see you crying.

7) I'm sorry dear but I found a cleaning lady and a prostitute to do what you do at half the cost.

6) I got good news and bad news, bad news is it’s over, good news is I never have to see you again.

5) I'm renting out your side of the bed.

4) Buy a cat B***h.

3) I feel you need to see other people too.

2) It’s not you, it’s me, I find you repulsive.

1) You have to make a choice; it’s either me or chocolate.

McCall’s Quilting

Niche market magazines, such as ‘McCall’s Quilting’, benefit from a dedicated (often obsessive) clientele, as well as revenue from advertisers specialising in related products. They're the crack dealers of the magazine industry.

Quilting is ingrained in American culture and remains a popular past time. Some families can trace their heritage by the patches on quilts handed down from generation to generation. Facts I recently learnt but not by reading the September/October issue of ‘McCall’s Quilting’.

Art Work:
The art work is not particularly innovative, though it must be said that a lot of hard work has been put into brighten up a somewhat dull situation. The soft colours give the magazine a warm welcoming appearance (much like a nursing home). The quilts themselves are very pretty and the cover gives good examples of the variety available inside.

Content:
This edition offers 18 patterns that I'm sure set the hearts of the quilting faithful a-flutter. It offers nothing for anyone casually seeking a new hobby which is, as far as I'm concerned, a trick missed. “Hexies are hot!” exclaims a cover tagline, “no their not” say I setting fire to my hair out of sheer boredom.

Conclusion:

This magazine should carry a warning accompanied by pictures of people in comas. Then again if you happen to be into sewing pieces of cloth together and (sarcastically) who wouldn't be, this publication is the one for you.

As for me well I cut mine up and made this instead. 

Esquire

A good periodical should be described as three things:

• Informative
• Entertaining
• Inspiring

Esquire UK promises this in two words and an ampersand: “Style & Substance”. A lofty motto if there ever was.

   

The now Art Director, David McKendrick, once came to me in a moment of loss of faith. He looked at the latest copy of the time and said, “Other people save lives and we produce this.” His tone was despondent and questioning in the way that great men often speak when their vision, on quests of the utmost importance, is blurred. The statement resonated with me and a few days later my answer to him was thus “You produce beauty without which, there would be no reason for life.”

In no doubt he has taken these words to heart. I am reading the September issue, subs edition, with Kate Moss on the cover and it is Beautiful.

Pretension is a fearful beast but Esquire UK steers clear by not taking itself too seriously and throwing a few chuckles into everything it does. It is essentially a men’s “style” magazine covering a wide range of topics and products that wet the pallet.

From Savile Row to H&M the issue impresses with its real life solutions to real life man problems. What to drive, where to eat, what to drink, where to travel and generally how to be impressive. Its Art work is startling, well thought-out and deeply detailed on every page.

The main feature is a tribute to their worthy cover model, accompanied by a collection of photography of outstanding pedigree. *Note: Curiously there is no interview with Kate; don’t let that put you off though.

Am I informed yes, am I entertained indeed, am I inspired well let’s just say there’s a Paul Smith coat/Thomas Pink shirt combination in my near future.

Esquire UK is a righteous publication, it soaks up culture, digests it and pours art onto its pages for all to enjoy. 

Rolling Stone

Arctic Ice, Apple Pie and Rock ‘n Roll with a side of sex and drugs. Welcome to the thrilling world of Rolling Stone Magazine.

This publication comes with a big reputation for fine penmanship and exciting subject matter. Once the ‘make or break’ of the music industry, the Rolling Stone’s power and influence has waned in recent times thanks to the rise of the internet.

The Issue I'm reading, Issue: 1188 (August), stirred some controversy with a cover featuring Jahar Tsarnaev, one of the brothers who bombed the Boston Marathon, as anyone who has ever been smacked in the face will tell you, shock, surprise and sudden pain sells just as well as sex.

It looks all it should and more but feels somewhat unsubstantial. Understand this; this is not a glossy celebrity gossip rag. The appeal is the in-depth analysis of culture and subculture that has been represented by brand for decades.

Page after page Rolling Stone does the business. From Robin Thicke to Willie Nelson the secrets of rock stardom are laid bare for all to read.

Far from being one dimensional, the head line story takes on the difficult subject Jahar’s transformation from likeable, laid back teen to Americas most wanted. It’s a gloriously riveting piece by Janet Reitman, I for one, am transfixed. 

In conclusion Rolling Stone Magazine is best served cold with a slice of lemon and a shot of Absinthe in a dark basement Jazz bar in Prague. It’s not afraid to deal with serious issues and yet is entertaining enough keep from being predictable.

  

ShortList

The weekly free publication is a genuine threat to the sale and reader numbers of more traditional periodicals. The danger is a watering down of quality in order to accommodate a higher turnout.

Thursday is definitely the best day of the week. Frequently described as Friday’s eve, I'm excited but not for the weekend. The free magazine “ShortList” comes out today and I can’t wait to get my hands on a copy. 

I secure mine at the tube station on my way home. This week Matt Damon is on the cover inside a sleeve advertising Elysium. It’s an unusual arraignment, but it’s bright and gives the art department real street credit even if it is only a commercial.

As a rule, in my opinion, a magazine must be entertaining for longer than twenty minutes. After 5 I reach the staples. Dozens of reviews on products, shows, bars and video games just flip away easily. A few short pieces briefly hold my attention; so far all is not well. 

A friend once described ShortList as “similar to a hand-out from an estate agent” and up to this point one would be hard pressed to argue otherwise. There is just Advert after endless advert; unfortunately this is their only revenue stream and may prove the genre’s undoing. 

Things pick up with an in depth interview of their cover star; possibly Hollywood’s most underrated and hardest working talent. Next a piece on the safety issues surrounding electronic cigarettes, not something new to anyone but well written and informative enough. 

Lastly a sports fixture about “jai alai”, an obscure game played mostly in Miami has me quickly bored. Thirty five minutes later it’s done. The features are good and even though the whole experience feels a little formulaic and congested, I am satisfied. 

It seems that ShortList is not a bad publication, but it strays into areas inhabited by its betters, Esquire could easily have produced a more innovative style section for example and Timeout (on-line) a wider range of reviews. 

I'm reasonably happy with it and I look forward to next week Thursday, but it won't be replacing any of existing favourites. 

The Human nature

Humans have no claws or fangs, so the instinct to be defensive is strong and rooted deep in our DNA. This makes it easy to fear, hate, mistrust and discriminate anyone who looks, acts, and believes differently. Because hate, fear and mistrust can be resolved by violence.

Violence is the spark that lights a fire and fire protected us as we cowered meekly in caves, fearful of creatures with claws and fangs… monsters in the dark. Thus violence is protection. But we no longer live in caves, yet we are not free of our nature. As a result we turn our defensive instinct on each other.  

The true horror comes from within and the reasoning that all things unfortunate can be blamed on someone else and solved by steel, and flint.

An act of fire is met by a reaction of fire, this is what we know, and it’s rooted in our DNA so it’s easy to do. And the whole world burns unquenchably, civilised man turns to beast, the very thing we feared in the first place. Who will be blamed then?

What takes courage is love. To show love in the face of such adversity is the highest state of human evolution.

The 25th Hour

He waits. Reflects; How did it come to this? Not enough vitamins, too many hugs who knows. Where did it even start? The drugs, the alcohol, the money. Regardless they’re coming and it isn’t just for a finger this time.

The cold steel of the Remington pump action rests on his lap like a faithful dog. His head is slung back and his eyes are closed, listening, concentrating.  The door, someone’s at the door. No just the wind. None the less he readies his arms, shuts his eyes once more; relax the time will come.

Just get on a train, any train that’s what he should have done. What then? Start a new life? Find a job, something cash-in-hand, sample the delights of small town England. Meet a nice girl, buy her flowers, take her somewhere interesting, marry her, have children and maybe way down the line when the boys are old enough, gather the family together and tell them the truth? It will be hard at first, but there will be a long healthy life to figure that out.  

      

They would find him; he knows this, burn his dream down because that is what happens to bad men who get sloppy. Besides who in their right mind would leave London? This dark hearted bitch of a city. Who would dare betray her?

Fuck small town England, fuck the pretty girl with the respectable family, and fuck a long healthy life, how could they compare to her bright lights and golden streets. London understands the need for self-destruction, besides a hail of lead is so much easier.

    

The demons won’t have him, not this day, not without a fight. Footfalls outside, shadows of half a dozen men definitely armed; only five shells. He jerks to his feet, shotgun to his shoulder, heart thundering he sweeps through the house; calm your nervous this will all be over soon one way or the next.

The front door in his sites, shuffles on the other side; make each cartridge count. The lock slips, the handle turns, the portal is breached. He squeezes the trigger.      

Meet the Team: Gub

Gub slinks in at 0745. His hair is perfectly swished to one side and his attire, appropriate but his face is that of a man not well rested and proud of the fact. It’s probably the only reason why he’s in early on a Monday.

“Good weekend,” say I.   

Something resembling a nod is the reply accompanied by a sly grin.
“Ahh, so how is the delightful Lucy?” I inquire. His girlfriend (Lucy not being her real name of course) has quite obviously spent the night at his. 

“She’s good, yeah we had a great time,” says Gub beaming on barely the right side of sanity.

There is a warm unexpected honesty about him that projects a sense of eternal youth. It not just in his good looks which have earned him appearances in “Cosmopolitan” and “Men’s Health” magazines; it’s an attitude and a confidence of not being afraid to be vulnerable, a very rare trait these days.   

“Did she scream my name?” I say, deliberately looking for a negative reaction. Men do this to one another after becoming comfortable in a relationship, they call it “winding each other up” it’s our version of holding hands or going to the toilet in groups.

“She doesn't even know you man,” says he, mildly annoyed.
“That’s what you think,” I come back.  He realises what’s going on and chuckles with a shake of the head. There’s a pleasure in making people laugh, I think, its like giving someone a little gift when you have nothing to give.

‘Serious’ Chris of the logistics desk enters the reception pushing an empty trolley, being the youngest he suffers gladly the light hearted abuse of his seniors. As on most days, Gub and I (well I) take on the subject of his suspected virginity.

The whole exchange maybe immature and a little stupid but it ends in smiles and Chris’s emasculation, which he takes like a champ. There's a feeling of brotherhood here, underlining a deep running theme of family that is one of the ethos of Hearst Magazines. There are bad days too, but there is always someone to give you little lift.     

Vanity Fair

This week I will be reading “The 2013 Style Issue!” of Vanity Fair (September).

Certainly one of my favourite, Vanity Fair offers a deep insight into fashion and style by focusing on the celebrated citizen, both in popular culture and occasionally in more obscure walks of life. The high standard of writing on interesting subjects sets a bench mark that few surpass. 

That said I have on occasion found myself confused as to why a certain piece has been dragged out for several pages longer than it should have.

This month’s cover features a true style legend. Princess Di looks suitably vital, poised and shimmering with femininity. “The Mystery Man Who Stole the Princess’s Heart” is the tag line that steals my attention. I'm not quite sure that this is draw enough to get someone who isn't a big fan to buy the issue.

A second feature “Michael Lewis: One Man’s Goldman Sachs Nightmare” is more my speed, perhaps I’ll start there.  First though, the Editors letter. Graydon Carter gives his run-down in a superb provoking commentary, that intrigues and raises expectations. 

The art work is exciting and fresh. Each piece sucks you in with colour, pizazz, and precision. Once you get going that oh so familiar ‘I dare not put this down’ feeling sneaks up on you and leaves you wanting more.

The real question is that of the model. Is Diana still a cover girl? No doubt. Is she a still a style icon? Most definitely, but there is a whole generation of people who can barely remember her and the ones who do still feel the sting of a life cut short. Perhaps the appeal is to an American audience. I can’t see Britons charging haplessly to their local news stand, hell bent on getting the latest on their favourite deceased princess.

It is not something that should put you off however, Vanity Fair is still a solid publication and a good read. 

The Wolf

In a dark forest, where no human has ever set foot, a wolf stalks a prey. His muscles tense and coil with each step ready to explode into action.

A wolverine scuttles about at the edge of its den, unaware of his predicament. A well-tuned hunter himself, his claws are just as sharp and teeth keen, but his lack of size and sluggish speed set the match in the wolf’s favour.

The morning brakes violently in a hail of dust and debris as the wolf charges. With only a flicker to react the wolverine flings a desperate paw in the direction of his attacker catching him on the side of his endlessly gaping jaw, saving himself from its fatal snap.

The pair circle, each baring teeth and flashing steel but secretly regretting their misfortune. Blood drips from the wolf, his cuts are penetrating and pieces of hide hang unseemly from his face exposing the sticky red flesh.

The wolf attacks. This time the wolverine only manages a glancing blow as the teeth sink into his ribs, it’s enough to surprise the wolf once more who withdraws. Gifted with unexpected opportunity the injured wolverine bolts.

The chase through the under growth sends small creatures burrowing for their very lives. Only terror keeps the wolverine from the beast’s determination, and guile from the maw of death.

A hole appears, mercifully, in a rocky out crop and the wolverine dives head first for safety with the wolf all but upon him.

Unable to reach its quarry the wolf paces in defeat, mouth growling and cursing his wretched foe. Inside and secure the wolverine realizes that he is now trapped in what is little more than a rock rabbits burrow with a prowler at the only exit. He tends his wound, an ugly gash to the bone, and contemplates his next move in the dark.

   

The wolf settles down at the entrance and waits.

A day sets and another rises, a second, a third, till a week passes. The wolverine, starving and dying from his injury, can make out the wolf still lying at the opening and smell his deadly intentions. However he decides not to leave this world at the bottom of a dank pit, so gathering his last wits and with all his final strength, leaps for the breach.

Expecting a fight that would end him he stands in the sunlight back arched and weapons at the ready. What he finds instead chills him to his failing heart. There is no wolf. Only a small heap of fur the cunning beast has left at the entrance to fool him.

In desperation he eats the wolf’s wool, which nourishes and gives him the stamina needed to find real food and life giving water. Time passes and the wolverine grows angry at how easily he’d been tricked, he reflects on the fear he felt of nothing and his anger turns to rage. So he stalks the woodlands with a new found hunger and a taste for wolf meat.    

First Confessions

The silence ends as does the dream. In the darkness the warm pulsing sound of electronically generated music signals a brand new day. This horrible hour, 0448 arrives unwelcomed. 

Ablutions, clothes, breakfast packed, the obligatory moment of envy as I listen to Tina’s breath in the next room, resting, rising, gently as she slips effortlessly back to slumber.

The door, it’s not yet raining, music, last check, phone, keys, wallet, closed.

Snaresbrook Tube station at 0520 is sparsely populated with the familiar faces, so is the tube, all the usual people in their usual places, my seat awaits. We travel in silence busying ourselves as best we can, newspapers, make-up, apps, by Stratford the central line is at capacity.

A Metro becomes available. I read the free daily with a mixture of giddy delight, anger and disappointment, but its distracting and time whizzes alone as does the train. Tottenham Court Road station, disembark.

The skies have burst. I walk through the sheets of rain. Soho Square is far from desolate at 0600 but hardly the gauntlet of the night before. I imagine Thomas De Quincey lying helplessly at the steps of the old church convinced he would die years before his literal masterpiece. Curse the weather, I may ask to be paid in diamonds.

I arrive; the grateful cleaners crowd around me happily pointing out my soggy disposition, a joke about swimming to work is passed around to much joy at my expense.

I turn the key and it begins.