When I was in grad school my friend G gave an outstanding presentation on lad’s mags. ‘I have performed a content analysis,’ he explained, ‘and have divided them into three categories: trash, awful trash, and really awful trash.’
Some months later, as we whiled away our days in the library, writing our dissertations and worrying about the future, G noticed an advertisement (in the Guardian, I actually think) for a trainee journalist position at Zoo Weekly, the publication that had inspired the creation of the ‘really awful trash’ category. ‘You should apply, Jean!’ he said. Oh, how we laughed as I filled out the form. Oh, how we laughed more when they invited me in for an interview.
‘Don’t take your top off,’ said my then-boyfriend, with a note of genuine concern.
‘Every writer has to start somewhere,’ I thought to myself as I walked down Neal Street towards the Emap offices, in an outfit that I estimated was appropriate for an interview at a pornographic magazine. ‘If they offer my the job, I will fill the pages with subversive feminist messages!’
My interviewers were a bitter woman and an overgrown man-boy. I only wish I remember what exactly I said when they asked me why I wanted to work at Zoo. I’m mystified! But I do remember the moment when I knew I hadn’t gotten the job.
‘Sometimes,’ said the overgrown man-boy, ‘Readers send in some very graphic photos. For example, recently we got a photo of a man with his penis in a toaster. How would you deal with that?’
I cringed.
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Would I be allowed to cover my eyes?’
Covering these magazines with paper bags, however, is a much better idea.
