Last week I took an early tropical vacation from my strenuous second-semester-senior schedule. As is custom before all plane rides, I self-imposed a stringent magazine diet, denying myself all glossy, shiny media until checking my luggage onto the flight. After handing the airline employee my bags and furtively badgering her with questions about whether my luggage would actually meet me on the other side ("So when you say the luggage is checked straight through the layover, what exactly does that mean?"), only a armload of Vogues, Allures, and Luckys could soothe my jangled nerves.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Fortune smiled upon me that day. For, as I approached the magazine wall at the News & Sundries stand, a tiny glittering glossy gem caught my eye, a freshly made apple pie to my media-starved soul. Half the size of other magazines and sporting Victoria Beckham on the cover, it could only be one thing: the British edition of Glamour.
Glamour magazine itself is no big deal to me. As far as I'm concerned, over the years it's become synonymous with Cosmopolitan and is something I'll read on the treadmill rather than something I wait for month after month. However, British Glamour is something else entirely. For one, it's pocket-sized - and mini-anything is always fun. Secondly, it's British press, which is in a league of it's own.
During my year abroad in London, I learned this lesson about the British media the hard way. For months I fought an uphill battle against the home-team publications, refusing to buy any British magazines and scouring the stores for US imports. As anyone in Dowling Hall will tell you, when you are living abroad, after the novelty of a foreign land wears off, an overwhelming torrent of rage sets in. Once you realize that the red meat is rabid, that no one, contrary to popular belief, thinks American accents are cute, and that you won't see sunshine for the next year of your life, things can get ugly. After criticizing the schizophrenic weather, the antiquated school library, and the taxicabs that look like hearses, I started in on the media.
What's the deal with Big Brother? Why is the Queen Mum's paper cut front-page news? Who is this Nazi-dominatrix from "The Weakest Link?" Why is Ginger Spice EVERYWHERE???
To fortify myself, I stocked up on US publications, which fortunately were available at every newsstand. Yes, each Vogue might have cost me $12.00, but wasn't it the perfect cure-all for a bout of homesickness? However, sooner or later I realized that buying British magazines wouldn't corrupt me as much as it would double my magazine collection. Sold.
Unlike my American staples, the British magazines were a guilty pleasure, the odd tabloid a sinful indulgence shamefully squirreled away under my bed. With their garish headlines and sensationalist stories, even I, champion consumer of mixed media, had to admit they were trash. But maybe, just maybe, couldn't a closer look at these publications reveal something of anthropological interest? Wasn't there a deeper psychological meaning behind these screaming headlines that would unearth a darker nationwide pathology?
Though in the end, most of my Tufts food allowance went towards buying enough magazines to wallpaper Buckingham Palace, I like to think I enriched my cultural education as well. As the nostalgia washed over me while I clutched that small, Posh-Spiced packet, I remembered what OK!, Hello!, Looks, and UK Vogue taught me about England and why I miss the British press.
One thing I noticed is while the English press seems even more obsessed with pop culture than America, the British actually take the cult of celebrity much less seriously. What immediately struck me was the lack of formality or deification of the rich and famous. Instead of page after page of sniveling drivel about Jennifer Love Hewitt's latest tube top, British magazines might say something like, "Nice try luv - if we can see your implants, the top's too tight." The Madonna coverage is another example. Though the British press fawns over ex-pat Madonna, along the way they have invented dozens of charming nicknames for her which are normally reserved for someone's grandmother. The press might watch Madge's/Miss M's/ Mad's every move, but it's refreshing to see reporters take Madonna off her pedestal and drape her in a crocheted afghan.
Secondly, the outrageous intrusiveness of the British press can also be a healthy way to channel disgust over pop culture. The Brits are invasive to a fault. I suspect this has something to do with their long-standing monarchy, which is really nothing more than a national fishbowl. While such reporting can become tiresome (do you really care if Prince William's sixth cousin has red riding boots?), there is something wickedly vengeful about the press's utter disregard for private lives. Famous people who shed crocodile tears about their lack of privacy are annoying; why not give them something to really cry about? Channeling this spiteful sentiment, open up a tabloid and you can read everything from Naomi "Fisticuffs" Campbell's Narcotics Anonymous minutes to the diet and exercise regime that transformed Geri Halliwell into a walking stick of beef jerky. An issue of Hello! can make "Jerry Springer" and "Temptation Island" look like History Channel specials.
Finally, from an economic viewpoint, British magazines exhibit healthy market competition, with each women's magazine conjuring new ways to grab your eye and lure you to the cash register. For example: the freebies. Like a box of Crackerjacks, each women's magazine has a different giveaway calling from inside a protective cellophane wrap. Sure, you don't really need a heart-shaped pocket mirror or another black makeup case, but it's really the thought that counts. When was the last time Elle gave you anything?
Thus, while to the naked eye these magazines may represent everything that is wrong with Western society, an in-depth look can reveal startling truths about the English culture. Obviously, trashy journalism can go overboard, like it did with Princess Diana. But now that I'm back home and surrounded by familiar publications, part of me longs for the outlandish frenzy of the perverted British media. Somewhere deep down, I miss reading about the rascally antics of the terminally tan Posh & Becks. What will fill the void left by Robbie Williams and his rehab visits? Where will I catch up on Geri's latest yoga moves? In this egocentric country, it's harder to find foreign magazines than it is abroad. I guess that's what the Internet is for.
