Magazines need to end love affair with London
Sun streaming in through the window, glass of something chilled close at hand, you settle down on the sofa with your glossy mag and finally get a few minutes to yourself. Ah, bliss.
What better way to relax than to get the gossip on Jen and Justin's upcoming nuptials, find out what nail varnish we should all be wearing and read a feature entitled 10 Ways To Flirt With Your Face?
Serious stuff, I think we can all agree on that.
Flicking through the pages however, your blissed-out vibe starts to fade. Ooh, there's a special offer to win a haul of beauty goodies. Darn it, you have to enter at the counter of John Lewis in Oxford Street.
Wow, those trousers look cool. Oh, you can only get them on the third floor of Harrods. On a Tuesday. At 11.24am. From a man called Miguel. He'll be wearing a red rose in his lapel. Tell no one.
There's also constant references to surviving rush hour on the Tube, a guide to the best new supper clubs in Camden (insert roll of the eyes here) and talk of some elusive thing known as "Shoreditch style". From what I can gather, this involves trying very hard to look like you haven't tried at all. And failing.
Now, if you're anything like me, by this point you will have shattered the aforementioned tranquility by chucking your mag across the room, walking to the window and shouting BUT I DON'T LIVE IN LONDON at the top of your voice. With added Black Country twang for extra effect.
It doesn't matter what your poison is – Grazia, You, Style, Glamour, Cosmopolitan – they're all completely obsessed with the capital. It's as if life ceases to exist past the M25 Orbital.
The restaurant reviews? London. The style pieces? London. The relationship guides? Laaahndahn bloody Laaahndahn, innit.
They also wheel out people who only exist in the capital, such as dating gurus, yoga gurus and "street style" gurus. They've gone guru gaga down there.
My personal favourites however are the fashion bloggers.
I'm pretty sure it's against the law to be a fashion blogger anywhere other than London. Besides, you'd probably get your head kicked in if you tried.
I'm still not sure what these people actually do. I have never read a fashion blog in my life. I've never met anyone who has.
I think it involves taking pictures in the street of people who wouldn't be seen dead in Next or Wallis and then holding them aloft as shining beacons of rebellion and coolness instead of the die-hard try-hards they really are.
And what do you write in these blogs? "This is Tom. He's wearing jeans, vest and an ironic hat. Which is nice."
There, job done. Book my train ticket, I'm off to the big smoke.
It's a shame because I adore magazines.
The escapism and entertainment, the culture and comment, the style and stars – all have their place in popular culture. You can lose yourself in a good mag for hours, days even. They can elevate the humble bath, train journey or sunlounger into a thing of female fantasy.
But this London addiction has got to stop. As well as annoying, it's downright offensive to all but ignore the majority of the country.
Do these writers – I imagine they all have names like Charli, Cordelia and Mimi – honestly believe there is no shopping, fashion or culture outside of their fair city?
They need to get themselves down to Bilston market. Pronto.
