Thoughts from a non GQ reader

I once flicked through an abandoned copy of GQ magazine in an airport lounge.  Have you ever seen one of these behemoths?

I was bored and it was just there on the table I was sitting at, so obviously I was going to leaf through its pages.

At first I wondered why anyone would buy a brand new magazine and then leave it in the departure lounge.

Then I picked it up.  This was a heavy magazine!  Maybe the owner was worried it might prevent their flight from leaving the ground and left it behind.

I turned over the cover and was greeted with an advert.  Fair enough, plenty of magazines start with an advert.  This was followed by an advert, then another advert before moving on to numerous pages of adverts and adverts.  By ‘numerous’ I mean 22.

That’s right; the ‘Contents’ page was on page 23.

By this time I had this overwhelming urge to grow back some stubble, head back to duty free and buy a suit/watch/aftershave whilst pouting and looking intensely into the distance.  Maybe THAT’S where the owner of the magazine went?

I kept turning pages and eventually I found an article, on page 37.

This was ridiculous.  I was being bombarded with more images of men in various states of undress than I’d like.  I have a limit.  That limit is roughly 0.

I decided to test a theory.  I closed the magazine and then let it open at any random page.

Advert.

I tried again.

Another advert.

I flicked the magazine like a flipbook and stopped it randomly.

It was an article about a man who, whilst walking through the autumn leaves in his coat had decided to….oh no, wait, it was another advert.

What a infuriating, pointless and really, really, ridiculously good looking waste of my time.

zoolander-poses

Down wid da kidz

Picture the scene…

The train out of London Victoria was going to be departing late this evening.  It was sat in the platform, but wasn’t going to be moving for at least another 15 minutes.  My friend Barney and I were sat at a table talking bollocks and watching the train fill up with an overabundance of commuters who took advantage of the delay to get an earlier train than they usually catch.

Stood next to us was a couple, although I suspect they weren’t romantically linked; merely colleagues.  He was dressed in a full length business coat over his business suit, carrying a business briefcase and sporting business hair.  I think he may have been a businessman, but I may have been wrong; maybe a plumber?  She was dressed similarly business-like with pearl earrings, starched skirt, Margaret Thatcher hair and perfume that could strip paint.

They were poshly discussing that the train should’ve left four minutes ago.  He said it was unlikely we’d have to wait a further 11 minutes until we departed.  She agreed that it would be ridiculous for the train to wait until the delayed time displayed on the boards if a space in the ‘traffic’ opened up.

This went on for a good 2 minutes, which may not sound like a long time…but it really is.

The train’s doors then closed and it began to pull out of the station.

It was at this point that Mr and Mrs Business stopped talking, smiled at each other and…without saying a word or indicating any premeditation…they high fived each other.

Full on.

Up high.

It was so out of place that it stopped Barney and I mid-bollocks.

I can imagine it would be like hearing your mum say “Booyah!” or having your dad get down to Dubstep.

There’s nothing wrong with it, except everything.

st_howto_f