Zoo

This is just a quickie (ooer missus) on Zoo as I only have a copy of what my boss lovingly calls ‘the perineum issue’ – i.e. the one that falls between Christmas and New Year. It’s never entirely fair to judge any publication on that alone, as it’s really tough to fill – believe me. For starters you’re up against it, time-wise (personally I had to write three issue’s worth of copy in the time I normally have to write one), you’ve also no doubt got Michael Buble’s Christmas album playing in the background (or possibly just in your head, it’s hard to tell through a mince pie fug) AND it’s hard to know exactly what – if anything – will be happening culturally or news-wise in that time, so chances are whatever you’re painstakingly working on in the manner of Scrooge’s fingerless-glove-wearing staff will be hideously out of date by the time it hits the shelves. Oh, and by the way, magazines start gearing up for Christmas in JUNE. Humbug.

So, with that disclaimer I’ll be as brief as poster girl Lacey Banghard’s (possibly not her real name) undergarments on this particular issue.

Obviously there’s a large part (ooer missus – sorry, I can’t seem to stop) of the brand which is about boobs: the bigger, the better, so it seemed timely to write about it today when The Sun – that bastion of breast baring – has finally given into pressure groups and ended its Page 3 topless pics. Sort of. They will now only be available online, and will instead be replaced by covertly snapped images of women trying to enjoy their holidays. The slags are asking for it.

Zoo’s women are innocent enough (as I’ve said before, outside the terrifying chasm of internet pornography, a bit of nipple seems almost quaint) but my favourite part is the narrative they all create about themselves, in the manner of a nineties boy band. None have boyfriends – although they are all looking – and they all seem to have issues with the cold, and needing someone to warm them up. Or a cardi. None ever mention a cardi, but honestly ladies, they’re under a tenner in Primark.

As someone who a) worries all the time and b) has no circulation, I find it hard to see a saucy picture of a naked lady without wanting to ask the following:

1. How do you keep your feet warm on a shoot? Seriously, mine can be outside of socks for only seven seconds in any conditions without turning the shade of blue that Hallmark knows as ‘frosty bitch’. These ladies have lovely pink piggies – must be Photoshop.

2. Where on earth are you finding your bras? I mean, I have enough trouble elbowing underwear-starved women out of the way at M&S to find the ONLY bra in the whole shop in my size, and mine are…how to phrase this? Not the size of space hoppers in quite the way yours are. And then to find teeny tiny knickers to match your weird proportions… Your mum must work in the stock room, right?

3. Whose house are you at? I mean sure, those of you who have ‘made it’ and been on Big Brother have been promoted to a studio, but there’s no way the newbies have strayed further than their nan’s front room. I’m actually considering taking design tips from one of them – is this a sofa bed? We need something compact for our study, and white is so classic. But then one coffee spillage and it’s all over…am I right?

The rest of the magazine is dedicated to the action films, comedians, TV series, cars and musicians that are going to be big in 2015. Areas that my personal interests meet in the venn diagram with Zoo readers’ taste = Jurassic World (and Chris Pratt in general); Jennifer Lawrence and decent one-liners (my fave in this issue is from Mark Nelson: “I don’t tan. My sunburn looks like a 1950s propaganda poster of the spread of communism.”)

Things that I will probably never understand: Russell Kane (as a columnist or comedian, I just don’t like the guy. I interviewed him once and most of his anecdotes started with the phrase ‘when you’re having sex with a beautiful woman’ – it was straight out of The Fast Show. But not funny.); phone lines where grannies simulate sex at you for 36p per minute, or this tattoo (although I did play Where’s Wally for a while with Bumblebee Man).

I genuinely would like to read a more standard issue of Zoo, rather than this list issue, as I think there’d be more humour in some longer articles, and I do actually like that about it. It has such a British seaside feel to it – if it were a hat, it would read ‘kiss me quick…if you’re a slutty granny’ – and is pleasingly tongue-in-cheek. I still find topless women bring out the uptight private school girl in me, it’s not something I feel super comfortable about as a feminist, but based on today’s historic changes to Page 3, it doesn’t seem like they have long to last. People are already starting to look back on them fondly, when, as school boys, they found one abandoned in a hedge, or snuck a peek at a copy on a bus. It’s a slightly strange custom, but then we’re a slightly strange country. Boris Johnson is a mayor. An actual MAYOR. OF LONDON.

Ok, so that wasn’t such a quickie after all (that’s what she said…) and to close, my favourite bit of picture captioning from this issue, in their ‘bands to watch’ section.

How to nip a promising music career in the bud with just five words…