God, how I miss this magazine. I had to hunt for it — weirdly Suffolk was strangely backwards when it came to stocking anything thought of as vaguely dodgy. How do I know that they thought of it this way? Because, as with almost every publication I bought, they would start giggling when they talked about it. Wait, I hear you cry, wasn\’t the common thread in all these situations you? Was it not you that they were laughing at? Well, the fact that they kept repeating the name while stuttering out chuckles like Beavis and Butthead on crack suggests otherwise; but you indulge in your cruel fantasies at my expense if you must.
Anyway, to the magazine — it was a design classic: each issue was a piece of art that was carefully constructed with equal amounts of sass, wit, knock-it-out -of-the-ball park brilliance, and understated intelligence. How many magazines are there on the stands like that now? Not so many, I\’ll warrant you. The above cover, Cher Guevara represents an almost perfect distillation of what they were able to achieve. They would hit you from an oblique angle and make you think — what more can you ask of a magazine? There is a Sleazenation sized ache in my life that nothing ever filled. Surely the world will hear the challenge and produce some adequate replacement? Surely? We can only hope.
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