10 years of Glamour

Whilst on my magazine journalism course, I've been looking at my mag-habit a completely different way. We're told in lectures that women are largely impulse buyers, while men are more brand loyal, but I have basically bought the same magazines for years. A couple of monthlies, a couple of trashy weeklies, and the odd giant, luxurious Vogue or Vanity Fair for fun. The only one I buy practically every month is Glamour, which today celebrated 10 years on our newsstands.


Glamour was launched in 2001 as the smaller-sized magazine "that fits in with your life, as well as your handbag." I'm trying to work out from which point I started reading (I was 14 in 2001), but when I look at the first ever issue, currently published in PDF format on their Facebook page, I feel like I remember the cover. Maybe I had it or my elder sister did. I do know I've been reading it many years before I hit their market age range of 25-35.

So what's so great about Glamour? It has a real mix of subject matter and feature treatments - not Cosmo-sexpert, not Elle or Vogue-fashionista, but friends, single life, relationships, style, beauty, health and culture. I just flicked through that first issue and it was a really good read. Most of the celebrities featured have remained high-profile; Kate Winslet was their coverstar as a fresh-faced new mum, Gwyneth Paltrow's wardrobe was the most desirable and Victoria Beckham wrote a style feature.

It had tips on entertaining, timeless beauty, great reads (I think they would be wise to go back and extend their books content) shocking real-life features and fabulous celebrity access. I still read it every month, but I do think Glamour's upmarket content has slipped from that glossy first go. There used to be a layer of celebs who were Glamour-worthy; Rachel Weisz, Liv Tyler, Halle Berry, Cate Blanchett, Sandra Bullock and Natalie Portman all graced the cover in its first three years. Now, you're more likely to find Katie Price, Lily Allen and even Abbey Clancy staring back at you. Either the 'Glamour woman' has changed, or the team's budget and access has.



Obviously their sales figures must look favourably on La Price, or she wouldn't have popped up multiple times, but putting her there seriously downgraded the escapism and luxury factor for me. Similarly, Abbey Clancey's recent cover was a tie in with The Great British Hairdresser, on which editor Jo Elvin appears. It was trying to make a case for Abbey being misunderstood by the press, and really being a very sweet girl, but I think it missed the mark on what readers so love about Glamour.

Elvin has steered the ship since the launch (and writes a practically perfect first editor's letter in Issue 1.) In a recent lecture, Haymarket publishing veteran Mel Nicholls used Glamour as an example of brilliantly written and designed coverlines. They use bold sans-serif font, different sizes and colours, and highlight numbers, key words and hot lists. They especially know when to push a great offer or competition.

Features wise, Glamour isn't afraid to throw in something a bit political, controversial or uncomfortable. Recently they ran a feature about women in their twenties and thirties getting sick of hearing about other peoples' babies, which I'm sure got a lot of flack. But the team are not afraid of stirring up debate; post-Twitter, I even had a little clash with Elvin last year over their Women of the Year choices. She's very Twitter-active and often responds to reader comments.

I've also done work experience at Glamour, and the team were very lovely (and truly glamorous) in person. It's successful for a reason, and that reason is a good sense of consistency, reader needs and marketing genius. I love their little franchises and would miss them if they went: Hey, it's Ok, the witty lists on the last page, and the more recent Celia Walden lunch interview. I think Glamour deserves some serious applause at its birthday celebrations tonight. I think it's the cream of women's mags, and manages to be universally appealing without trying to please all the people all the time. Bravo.

Here are some of my favourite covers from the last decade (often the month they stopped dialling Britney and took some risks):

November 2004: Renee goes brunette.
The focus is unusually on fair skin and piercing eyes.


July 2003: Charlie's Angels. Glamour
breaks with industry tradition and triples
their cover star. Smokin'.


December 2008: Leona isn't the most exciting of celebrities, but as well as being one of their few mixed-race cover stars, it also looks like they've let her be herself. I also have to give them snaps for putting a cosy jumper on the cover in winter, rather than a skimpy party dress (see also Charlotte Church last December.)

December 2009: Leighton Meester
They also recently put her co-star Blake Lively on the cover, but
this shows a nod to the future of glamorous Hollywood, as a
new generation comes up through the ranks. More Blair and
less Jordan, please!

Bloggers bite back...

A guest lecturer today told my year of journalism students that blogging is not opinion, it is a conversation. This started me thinking about little old MissWrite, and how I got to where I am with it today. I started off just wanting to comment on things I saw and heard, much like a columnist would (except a columnist usually has some sort of authority or status that makes that column worth reading.) I had only my thoughts, my laptop, and at times, my temper. I have always sort of thought that blogging was about sharing your opinion, and to some extend I still believe that. What Adam Tinworth was saying was that your blog has no commercial value, no stamp of valuable journalism (rather than citizen journalism) unless you offer a concept and engage with other people online in your analysis of it.

This, in turn, got me thinking about the comments function of a blog. I was delighted the first time MW received a comment; a little thrill of 'I exist!' (in cyberspace) ran through me and a blogger was born. We only write to be read, after all. But I have been slapped over the wrist on more than one occasion by commenters who thought I couldn't take fair criticism. I had one anonymous troll (I'm still convinced they're one and the same) who just had it in for me. The different between their disagreements with my posts and others' was that it was personal, pedantic and laced with venom. Every not-quite-literal phrase was picked up and every motive questioned. So I chatted back to them, not in an especially feisty way really, but genuinely wondering what their issue was. And swiftly, I was told by the blogging community that we just don't do that - accept their comments with grace or don't blog at all. I remember someone commenting that 'If I wanted to get into this line of work, I should expect to be criticised.'

I do expect feedback (and get it in gallons on this course, an avalanche of red pen) but which overlord of the blogosphere decided I couldn't react to it? As I suspected, and Tinworth confirmed today, it is a two-way conversation. If people are allowed to comment on my ramblings, I am certainly allowed to comment on theirs. And so the circle continues. Stephen Fry has today - and lots in the past - used his blog to defend himself from rumour and negative press. Good on him - if he was indeed misquoted, why shouldn't he have a platform for rebuttal?

Similarly, a peer brought this blog to my attention today. NME receive a lot of web comments, some clearly on a mission to ridicule their brand in general, and today a couple of their writers got in and debated with the 'trolls' that were beginning to depress them. Why not? It's their job to report on things, and if people are just blandly criticising the topic (which they clicked on), the website (which they clicked on) and not discussing the points made in the blog, I think it's fair game to knock them back in your own comment. What do you think? Is there an unwritten code of conduct for bloggers to remain quietly dignified? Comment away - but don't expect me to stay out of it.

Cute as a cupcake

Since I returned to student life, I must have made about 150 To Do lists, all scribbled on cheap Wilko ruled paper and lost to the bottom of a bag or the floor of a lecture theatre. Every time I tick something off mentally, another task pops up and I panic just a little. So I thought a while back of buying a little whiteboard to keep a rolling list of errands and course work, but even Argos, would you believe, charges extortionately for these things. I'm so glad I didn't buy this clunky school version, because today when I was in good old New Look (buying shoes, I confess) this absolute beauty of a board was in their crafty impulse buy section:


Not only does it pick up my largely-pink bedspread in a very white room, it also has cupcake doodles, is magnetic and makes homework that bit more fun. Oh, and it's only £7.99. Guess I can have my cake and eat it, Argos overlords.

Hate Never Dies

When I was little, I remember my sisters and I (along with some family friends we thought of as 'plastic cousins') singing a little ditty that went like this:

Margaret Thatcher, put her in the bin
Pop the lid on, sellotape her in
If she comes out, knock her on the head
Glory, glory, Margaret's dead

I didn't think much about it at the time, but this means I've been wishing the worst on Baroness Thatcher (albeit death by bin) since I was about six. I certainly knew who she was - this was John Major era - and in the finest black-and-white logic of childhood, that she was a Bad Person. The curious thing is that, as Thatcher vitriol was presumably not knocking around on the playground, our parents must have taught us this. There is something potent about propaganda in song which meant this zoomed back into my mind when I clicked on this link, posted on Facebook today. I can see how the site might be humorous, but I didn't laugh - I was interested. Something is so culturally consensual about the 'we hate Thatcher' standpoint, whether you're the son of a miner or someone who was three when she resigned. But I only realised today, as I watched people counting down to her demise and making playlists to celebrate, how little I actually know about the woman, her career and her legacy.

It is clear that with this week's cuts came a lot of bad memories, and Thatcher's reported bad health and hospital stays have been consistently linked in with George Osborne's announcements. Unemployment has become a regular part of the news again, and though people aren't quite as vitriolic about Cameron, the resigned feeling that the Tories are going to cock it up again for the Average Joe has been wafting around since before the election. Although unlike Family Man Dave, it seems to me Thatcher never wasted much time trying to be likeable.

Funnier than Is She Dead Yet was the irony of the Chilean miners' rescue dominating what should have been her 85th birthday. People were all over Twitter and Facebook with their Thatcher/Miner jokes. Largely people who hadn't even hit puberty when she was at the peak of her power. Obviously a bad legacy spreads, and we all rightly hate Hitler without ever having been persecuted by him, but it just fascinates me how one woman has dominated decades as the villain of politics. She was our first and only female Prime Minister, a fact eclipsed by her Iron Lady image and the social mess she left. Will we ever elect a woman again? It seems unlikely, for if she has the balls to head up a party she will no doubt be compared to Thatcher, but if she is as saccharine and smarmy like Cameron, she'll have no chance either. One thing people appear to agree on is that these new cuts have a good chance of recreating the depression and turmoil of the 1980s.

Johann Hari thinks that Osborne and Cameron have 'blindly obeyed the ideological precepts they learned as baby Thatcherites: slash the state, and make the poor pay most.' He makes a good case against the depth of the cuts; their disregard of the advice of prominent economists, the Financial Times, and the evidence that countries like South Korea, who stimulated spending following the recession, have made a better recovery. British history, not only the Thatcher years, but the post-WW1 recession, also suggests that this is not the way to go. Forgive me; I am not a politics expert or an economist. It just struck me for a moment how much the shadow of a dying 85-year old continues to hang over the news and common debate. Something doesn't sit well with me about stirring up a mob of people eagerly awaiting a person's death, whatever they've done, however long they've lasted - and while unemployment can have devastating knock-on effects, there was no genocide here, no dictatorship. She was not one person acting alone, in this country is is a party and a parliament who make things happen, for better or worse. Hari may be right about the 'colder and crueller' country ours has just become, but let's not forget the many people, organizations and events that contributed to that. Including your vote.

Image: The Guardian

Big diff

Ok, so I moved to Cardiff, became a student... and stopped blogging. This is partly because of the exciting brand-new experience that is Cardiff Journalism School, and partly because we've had to start new blogs, open social media accounts from Flickr to LinkedIn, and my head is still spinning from all the online and mobile journo things I'm learning to do. So I will post properly soon. Right now, in honour of my jubilation at being back in Wales, here are my favourite ever Gavin and Stacey moments. Feel free to post your own as a comment - and if you haven't yet discovered G&S (by which I think we all know I really mean Nessa & Smithy), for the love of Bryn get yourself out and buy the DVD. Noswaith dda!

Oh, Doris, where's the salad?

Pete, have you thought about my bhunas?

Tell'em what gwarn' blud

Can we ALL stop calling it a HONEYMOON?

You can't denyyyyy me

It's no way to live
(actually any reference to Nessa's past, but there aren't enough good clips!)

More elaborate post to come soon....

TwitPick

Rapper 50 Cent is the latest celeb making waves in Twitterland (if not the music industry) simply by being a chronic oversharer. But in gangsta speak. Tune in to Fiddy and you’ll learn about his oral sex preferences, who he just nailed, his musings on the ladygardens of female celebrities, who he’s just bailed out of prison, and even interior decoration (‘Ima buy this AK47 gold lamp in silver’) if you can find it amongst all the vigorous copulation. I've just realised how euphemistic 'interior decoration' is in itself, but I digress.

The man who once took us to the Candy Shop and invited us most cordially to join him In Da Club is pretty darn funny just by being a walking reality show, but then someone set up English50Cent which translates his tales of bitches and hoes into musings on lady dogs and gardening equipment. Very amusing stuff. Not for the kids though, as 50 thoughtfully broadcasts over and over again. He also tweets as and to his dog, Oprah. You can't make this stuff up. Enjoy!

Dancing with My Self

The last few weeks I have been reading the somewhat overexposed Eat, Pray, Love, something I’ve been meaning to pick up after months of recommendations, but was finally spurred to open by of the impending film adaption starring Julia Roberts. For those who aren’t familiar with this bestseller, it is the memoir of American writer Elizabeth Gilbert, who, following an acrimonious divorce and general listlessness, took herself off to Italy, India and Bali for a year, spending an even four months in each. I’ve really enjoyed it, although it hasn’t all been unputdownable; the first section which describes Liz’s initial turmoil, decision to travel and pasta pilgrimage to Rome was a pure delight, but the middle third detailing her time meditating in an Indian Ashram and ensuing spiritual education was, for me, less compelling. I am currently part way through her adventures in Bali, which are back on her more interesting themes of immersion in culture, meeting new people and relaying poignant anecdotes. I am looking forward to seeing the film in many ways, and can certainly understand Hollywood’s eagerness to put EPL on the big screen; the visual feast on the page just lends itself to a film version, although the real heart of the story, Gilbert's constant, honest introspection, will be harder to incorporate. Today in the Indy, Rebecca Armstrong bemoans Hollywood’s frequent fudging of much-loved books and hopes that Eat, Pray, Love will not prove another casualty. It is a precarious case, as meditation on the self + Julia Roberts + a soaring soundtrack could equal something unbearably sappy, but I really hope they have included some of the individual appeal of the book as well as the inevitable shots of smiling Indian children and sunsets.

There has been a flurry of negative pre-release assumptions, from some of my favourite female writers amongst others, dismissing both book and adaptation on Twitter and in the press. The brilliant Lindy West was not a fan (the savvy Telegraph snapped her up for this cutting review) and I’m sure others will follow. Gilbert is accused of being smug, self-obsessed, hypocritical and clichéd in a ‘moany rich woman finds herself’ sort of way, and on these grounds the book is deemed worthless chick lit. I can’t say I agree. While, on paper, her New York existence prior to her travels might be deemed privileged (published author & journalist, wealthy husband, big house, friends, parties) the point of the opening is exactly that – on paper, her life is perfection. Her chronic sadness is openly based on her guilt that she isn’t happier, that she can’t make her marriage work and that she finds she doesn’t want a baby to complete the domestic picture. I have rarely read a writer more frank about her own shortcomings, selfishness and neuroses. This is, I believe, why so many women found the book refreshing and absorbing: we all have meltdowns, panics and periods of unhappiness. Yes, a lot of it is described in group-therapy schtick, but that’s how contemporary Americans communicate. This self-awareness makes us Brits uncomfortable, but also with a slight hint of envy at being able to admit to your own issues. The writer dwells on her own self more in this book than most people will in a lifetime, but she does it with an educated finesse that makes it palatable.

Whatever her motives, a newly-single Gilbert decided to end the pretence of her glossy city life and visit places that fascinated her. The tripartite structure of the book reflects the poetry the narrator finds in everything she encounters; the neat introduction describes how her tale is divided into 108 small stories, the number having spiritual significance in Yogic philosophy. Whatever her sentimental reasons for conveying her story thus, it worked for me. The small, almost isolated anecdotes are each a charming peek into a completely self-centred adventure (in the best possible way.) We meet her new friends, hear their stories, but more often than not we are privy to her own thoughts and ponderings on life. The narrator is shaken up time and time again by natural beauty, the range of human experience and the ability of others to remain smiling, in a positive look at self-discovery if ever there was one.

But the snobbery over this memoir and its subject matter is not only mystifying, it has eclipsed all critical and public acclaim the book attracted when published in 2006. I was really annoyed when the Daily-bloody-Mail ran a ‘novelty’ feature about their egotistical columnist Liz Jones taking the same trip, making a direct comparison to Jones’ preoccupation with herself that disregards all the beauty of the original. Elizabeth Gilbert is apologetic many times in the novel for her overthinking of things, and relays her joy and satisfaction with the world and its inhabitants far more than her misery at her own situation. Her gift is her ability to tell the stories of others and to put the vividness of a moment on the page. The only thing they have in common is daring to think their own lives might be worth writing about. Maybe the problem is that women are not supposed to be selfish, in any circumstances. But regardless of background, money earned and property owned (and Gilbert started life on a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, not Park Avenue) I don’t think the book is just a whinefest about her rich Western malaise. She gives good reasons for her escape, including her dependence on men for happiness - having been in relationships basically her entire adult life - and her husband’s venomous approach to their divorce flattening her self esteem. I have nothing but respect for someone who is determined to lift themselves out of the torpor of depression, be that with a U-turn in career, ending a relationship or just taking off in search of something new. But some women seem to be embarrassed by such shirking of domestic responsibility. It is puzzling to me, as there seems no better time to take off than following the painful end to a childless marriage. There is an argument that we don’t all have the money to traipse off and sit on mountains every time we feel sad, but she paid for the trip with the publishers' advance for the book – offered to a result of her own reputation as writer, built up by years of hard work.

Gilbert's choice of destinations was also interesting to me. Rome I can completely relate to, where she essentially indulged her taste for fresh, rustic Italian food, the Italian language and the stunning architecture. This was the most moving part for me, as she nurtures new friendships and finds freedom in pursuing nothing but pleasure. There is a sublime passage where Liz and her new friends celebrate Thanksgiving in the Italian mountains, and she realizes just how many things she is thankful for. At another point, she finds the strength to persevere with her Yogic studies by focusing on a nephew she is fiercely protective of. In moments like these I found myself so in tune with Gilbert’s voice that I felt the lump in the throat, the tear in the eye or the surges of happiness as she narrated them. Make what you will of the cliché of a Westerner dabbling in Yoga, religion and Eastern philosophy, but you can’t deny the power of the writing. In India, her language was more difficult to me as her openness to the idea of a non-specific God as well as energy, meditation and enlightenment are so far from my own views on the world. But it is her hope that something greater than herself can enrich her life, rather than a preachy ‘knowledge’ of this, that still managed to charm me. In Bali, her love affair with its quirky and laid-back population is filled with admiration rather than touristy condescension, and the charismatic medicine man she learns from is one of my favourite figures. Perhaps I found the book so arresting because the thought of leaving my world behind and venturing out alone is both terrifying and alluring to me; in all honesty I don’t think I currently have the balls, but I’d love to in the future, and the fact is so many people’s responsibilities and duties prevent it from ever being an option.

Whether the film is fabulous or a flop, I hope people will still read the book if they find themselves intrigued, as I did this month. Whether you are going through an introspective period yourself or simply want to travel vicariously, this is a fascinating example of someone taking themselves out of their comfort zone and actively trying to widen their perspective. Not only this, but the uncommon spirit of Gilbert’s diary-memoir style shows an appreciation throughout of the beauty, poetry and wonderful contrasts of the world and its communities, something rare and to be cherished in a book. I hope the coven of female media types scoffing at the whole concept stop and think about such things now and again; if not, I know which experience I’d rather have. Review of the film to follow...