Although the magazine will still feature cartoons, interviews and opinion pieces, the naked women are gone, replaced by tantalisingly almost nude women in the print magazine, but with nude shots still available if you buy an online subscription. Is it just a clever marketing tool to grab the attention of a readership that dropped from a high of 7,000,000 to a low of only 800,000? Or will tactfully covering up the naughty bits, and bringing Playboy down to the middle shelves alongside GQ and Esquire, erase the rampantly misogynist image Playboy has garnered?
It's time to down newspapers and get another round in with Bruce Abrahams. Spring might look like it's on its way but don't let the warm weather fool you into thinking it'll be plain sailing. This week the boys are shaking their heads over Brexit, Rotherham, the Adam Johnson Trial and Tony Blackburn.
“Have you ever experienced a carbon fibre riding crop?” a velvety voice whispers in my ear. I take a drag on my cigarette and raise my eyebrow, acting coy. “Sounds painful.” Being subversive is the essence of being cool which explains why once-only-whispered-about clubs like Torture Garden are increasingly popular. So popular, in fact, that regular revellers are finding it difficult to separate the tourists from the fetishists. Our reporter from the edge chronicles the invasion of the hipster onto the scene.
Earlier this month the prime minister personally intervened to block a bid to make sex education compulsory across all schools. According to current law, it’s compulsory in state-run secondary schools, but not primary schools, academies or free schools. He did so against the will of the women around the Cabinet table, including education secretary Nicky Morgan, home secretary Theresa May, international development secretary Justine Greening and business minister Anna Soubry.
After the 50 Shades of Grey fiasco and the Tinder Apocalypse, the worlds of dating and fetish have become weirdly linked in the mainstream by people who have no idea about either. Along with a white picket fence, it’s now common to desire the occasional spank over the kitchen sink. But when it comes to real fetishes, how are young people meant to navigate dick pics and pansexual relationships while catering to the deepest and darkest desires they have chosen to indulge?
To send or not to send a dick pic? When this particular question is directed at viral content producer Lucy Baker the answer is an unequivocal “No”. Her song, “Don’t send girls pictures of your penis” has been viewed over 89,000 views on The Tab Durham’s Facebook feed. The adult subject matter of the song is juxtaposed with Lucy’s sweetly angelic vocal cords to make it ever more side-splitting. The Erotic Review harassed Miss Baker on what (or who?) moved her to pen (th)is catchy tune.
If you enrol at Philippe Gaulier school for clowns, don’t expect to leave as a comic genius - the school believes true talent is only found once in a generation. But according to professional politic-enthusiasts Bobby Friedman and Rupert Myers, Gaulier never checked the Houses of Parliament. Rife with buffoon-like behaviour, aspiring comedy writers can always cut-and-paste government goings on directly into their shows. But it was Jeremy Corbyn’s earnest and heart-felt plight that moved the two to fill the London stage with a full-length musical.
My first experience with dating apps happened when I was studying abroad: I decided to use Tinder to make friends. I’ve always been a guy’s girl, so I figured that in chatting up a certain type of man, I could establish — or at least feel out — a place for myself in creative London. Presenting photos with my best angles and an About Me that stated I was from New York and a fan of hip-hop and whiskey, I had no problem roping in multiple drink offers from journalists, DJs, and innovators. I was able to bypass the need to peruse blogs and magazines to discover where, and with whom, I ‘should’ be hanging out.
On Halloween we went to a Ru Paul’s Drag Race night. We took care with our costumes – the right level of taste and glitz and contouring. People danced with each other, groups of friends leading others to the main stage, praising outfits, winking; we danced all night. One of the last costume changes saw Sharon Needles come onstage in full David Bowie getup, man dressed as woman dressed as man. The place went wild, then sort of teary; I bawled into my gin. This was Ziggy, and so much of what we were here to celebrate was possible thanks to him. The room was packed with people who used to be the odd ones out, and now hundreds of odd ones out of any, all or no sexual/gender identity were packing the rafters to celebrate that difference, that symposium of irregularity.
On the basis of ‘can’t live with, can’t live without ’em’, we bade farewell to our seasonal pilgrims as they drove homeward toward the border and the first traffic jam of their journey on the A30. Such Schadenfreude was a little unbecoming for those of us who are immigrants, but enjoyable nonetheless. It being a post-New-Year Sunday, a few of us had gathered at random in the Old Doom Bar with our newspapers for a quiet, pre-prandial pint. It is an unspoken rule that we eschew comment on serious news, so it was Mr Danczuk whose misfortunes formed the basis of our discussions. There was a sense of déjà vu about the affair. What is it about middle-aged men that compels them to text or tweet nubile young women in terms that they must – if they thought about it – realise would inevitably be characterised as inappropriate?