Pants - obviously (Maxim)

Member Name: theediscerning

Product:	Maxim
Date:	07/01/03 (225 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Some faint glimmers of life

Disadvantages: Practically every page

This is where theediscerning gets on his high horse and slags something off big time. Hope it's fun for all concerned.

Late last year theediscerning completed a junkmail offer for a 3 month subscription to the UK edition of the men's lifestyle magazine Maxim, purely because it was at the special rate of £1 for the quarter.

He knew what he was letting himself for, in that there would be a huge percentage of the magazine covered in products he had no interest in, and probably would never have heard of, lots of soft-soft porn pics of people he probably had never heard of, and some stupid "articles" about the modern man.

The purpose of the first is wholly to make money, which Maxim does, he is sure. It doesn't seem to carry the ABC audience figures, and he certainly ain't gonna check out elsewhere how much it sells, as he would only make him feel more pessimistic about the world around him.

The purpose of the second is purely for teenage boys to masturbate to on their slow roads to being men. They are a pernicious, debasing evil (the pics, not the teenagers), if such a immoral word can be used, as they feature none of the hallmarks that make the delights of British womanhood what they are - namely individuality, wit, fullsome natural figures, and a character.

The purpose of the third is just to waste time, and to make sure coke-addled journalists can be overpaid with some semblance of self-belief that their life has been made worthwhile.

Of course, theediscerning was hoping for a little more for his £1 than the above multiplied by three - especially as it was the Christmas period as well. And he did. The first month, he got a free "advent" calendar. Yes, 24 pics of semi-nude bimbos, most with foreign names, because maxim readers like the exotic, most with pierced navels (yeuck! gubber off with your pseudo-daring, Hindi-nose-ring-parasitizing body corruption), and most complet
ely unheard of.

The second month theediscerning was proud to get a comedy DVD with the benefit of some sampler clips from other DVDs, and a whole episode of The Office (yay!), season one (slightly less loud yay). Smashing, and when theediscerning eventually buys a DVD player (scheduled for 2007, currently) he will be pleased as punch.

The last month he got a "supplement" for no real reason, featuring three characterless females in undress, and various suggestive poses.

By this time you may well be thinking theediscerning is a humourless, frigid prude, with fire and brimstome emitting from his nostrils if he comes across the sight of female flesh. Well, bunkum, theediscerning loves naked flesh, especially that of his partner; and he could tell a tale or two about his sexlife that could make your mouse cable fry.

While theediscerning has been typing this he has had the ignominy of Christina Aguilera's jacksie staring at him from beside his monitor. Aren't values lax in public libraries these days?!

Theediscerning does not care one jot about some American broad, whose music he will never buy, and has even less wish to get pictures of her 99% nude in a paddling pool. The current issue also features Jerri Byrne (who the hell...?), Paulina Rubio (again, who...?), and a whole host of lesser "lovelies", who are even more obscure.

There are pictures of boobies to illustrate an "article" about relationship self-defense, which is itself worth a minor rant in passing - who the hell needs advice on what to do if your girl likes to shop too much? Jaysis, get a grip. You're supposed to love your partner, which includes wanting to be with her every minute of her life, even if she's currently half-way through trying on 37 pairs of jeans. If theediscerning can be thrown out of a New Look changing room because he wanted to be with someone (on a platonic level) then you sure as h
ell can too.

There is also the delight of Miss Office Angel 2002, which appears to have been a complete year-long effort to get 12 decent, attractive (mostly), individual females and turn them into bland, characterless, unattractive totty. Well done.

If theediscerning can put his mind into that of a Maxim reader for a while, then why couldn't we have (fnarr, fnarr) a shot (oo-er) or three of Dawn from The Office? British talent, a burgeoning star, and one of the best things about something completely excellent. And extremely attractive, or so it would appear. There you have the case for current interest, as the second series was blazing the airwaves at that time, and a decent way in to get some interesting journalism, such as asking how it is that such attracive young actresses as her (and Liza Tarbuck and Klaus Kinski's daughter) can be sprung from such ugly mugs.

And of course, once we'd have seen her semi-nude in Maxim, and read a paragraph or two about her love life, we would have got to know "all" about her, and would have practically felt as if we'd bedded her last week.

Or isn't that the intention of this type of "journalism?"

As far as the actual journalism goes, half of it is very cheap and shoddy, and relies very heavily on photos to save effort. (The other half theediscerning refuses to read, but will discuss in a minute.)

Three months ago one of the reporters was on a trip of a lifetime to Chernobyl. Lucky him, and we would of course get a decent bit of reportage in return, with lots of interesting fact and demonstrations of what life is like now. Well, that might have been the intention, and we mostly got somewhere. It still stands out as a highlight of the subscription period.

Two months ago, and the same reporter has saved money by getting a flight from The Ukraine to Siberia, to add a couple of paragraphs to his CV about some Jesus-freak who
has a cult following. Well done that man, and well done the staff writer. Blimey, the average dooyooer has greater output than these guys. If only we could get paid as much...

This month there is of course a discussion on the future of ecopolitics, and a fiction special introduced by Will Self, and featuring Geoff Ryman, somebody easily labelled "the next Zadie Smith" and lots of other brilliant hopes for the future culture of the land. Oh, sorry, our mistake. There's a two-inch long interview of a bloke who stood on a puffer-fish on holiday, and an X-ray of someone who'd shoved a jam jar up his Harris.

Easy mistake to make though, even though Geoff Ryman would never be mentioned in such an exclusively heterosexual club as World Maxim. Here we all have to be interested in boffing young skinny bimbos, and of course, all have to pander to the wishlists of the bastardised yuppies that run this sort of publication.

Yes, all the lifestyle tosh about this sort of effort is based on wish-fulfillment, from the adverts, down the adverts-disguised-as-journalism, that tell us how we should live our lives.

This month we need all aspire to owning a £31,000 BMW, with which to carry home our new article, which apears to be a metal box with a few tiny holes punched in. It is indeed a metal box with a few tiny holes punched in, and is the latest in mood lighting. £330 to you please. It's a wonder why we're not all invited to join in with the American chap who built his own loop-the-looping roller-coaster (honest). The photographic evidence is the best bit of the issue being looked at.

And of course, no man can do without clothes - else how could we get to pull all the females in Maxim? Luckily, there is a monthly fashion (victim) parade. This month's is the best, because it was photographed in near as much pitch black. Thee' kids you not.

This type of drivel, where we must all confo
rm to a template that you must all recognise is horrid, is just ridiculous. The adverts all suggest choice, unique qualities and ways to make a stand and be different, while offering completely the opposite. Such an argument can be better put by any media studies A-level student, so it's not worth reading here and now.

To get back to the product in hand (soon to be in recycling bin), it sucks. There are faint glimmers of humour to be had on the jokes page - in between the pointless pictures - and on the regular page where someone rings up a customer hotline (this month, the Odeon cinema ticket service) and gives what is usually given. Oh dear, the latter is just as if Henry Root and his fivers had never existed...

Maxim - and here it must be said that it stands alongside all the other similar mags in shoddy guilt - is responsible for (at least) attempting to turn every man into a bland, label-wearing, power-buying, hyperconsuming, MP3-addicted twit (and no, that's not theed's first choice of vowel). In this world all females are reduced to thong-wearing randy sufferers, who, apparently, all men can bed, and love - just as long as they don't shop.

Is there a better description of hell?

Summary: