In vogue.

- I am absolutely terrified of fashion magazines. The amount of shit they've sold me over the years is ridiculous. Lonely, catty women write articles on which lipstick will make you a happier, thinner person. And we all buy this crap with utter dedication.

- And the models make me sick - whippet thin, androgynous, purported to be the image of womanhood, posed in the most childlike, pathetic ways, made up like a child's ragdoll. The magazines endow them with five page spreads, each image more gormlessly misognyistic than the last. Probably just before a mock-empowerment article telling you which hairstyle will make you most likely to have a successful career as a receptionist until Mr Right sweeps you off your feet and into a family-sized faux-Tudor cottage in Kent.

- All in all, I'm just bored of this bollocks spouted by know-it-all magazines. The advice given is always hollow and meaningless. They hold up a life of rabid consumerism as mecca. They relate shrinking in size with growing in character - doubling articles on weight loss with enlightening little messages about 'detox'