by Steve Jones

Created on: July 16, 2008   Last Updated: July 18, 2008

It was around half past eleven in the evening and I was travelling home from a friends house on a train, soaking wet and generally miserable. The carriage was cold, relativity empty the rickety train rocking me back and forth, a young couple just ahead of me on the train holding each other whispering into each others ears, the occasional giggle spluttered from worn faces and tired eyes. Two men just of to me left talking and laughing in a language I didn't understanding and I was keeping to myself listening to the music played at reasonable volume through my headphones. The table I had perch next to had laid on it a variety of free news papers and magazines that are handed out in the street. Bored and agitated I leafed through the one at the top of the pile. It was one of those 'Men's' magazines that, I must admit occasionally have the odd interesting article in them.

Unfolding it the first thing that struck me was he cover. Plastered in a huge serif font were the words "Leave your boring Job" good advice I though as my job is ridiculously tedious. Insurance a fools endeavour! More bored than intrigued I began to leaf through this pulp. The next two pages consisted first of a very young nubile young woman, barley out of her teens, hair draped seductively over one eye, thick eye-liner emphasising her dark, and admittedly beautiful eyes, giving a look that all males, myself included fall for every time. I must admit I sometimes envy the power that a woman has over a male, the knowledge that we are all basically lead with our small heads. God knows what this woman is famous for or what she is promoting, there is a caption to the top right of the picture in minuscule writing that my worn and blurry eyes couldn't quite make out, but I don't suppose that was the point. The following two pages are a double spread advertising some sort of male perfume with one of those football types in a dinner suit, dickey bow undone starring straight at you backed by a grey scale Union Jack. This is you, you are British, sexy, debonair, you are James Bond. You've just killed six terrorist and had rough sex with a supermodel I a phone box and you still haven't broken a sweat.... nice.

By this point the magazine has offended me enough and I quickly leaf through the rest of it as I seem to suffer from some masochistic streak that when I find something that annoys me, truly aggravates me to the point were I want to rip out a hair and begin chewing on it. I become obsessed with it and

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