God Save The Queen

Until I decided to start preparing for the GRE exam, C knew never to come home from work without my crack.

By this, I mean the British tabloid papers and magazines left behind on the planes. While his colleagues fought over InStyle and Vogue for their wives and girlfriends, my man was bringing home The Sun and Heat magazine. Early on, he thought it would be fun to give me some slices of British life in print; what he wound up doing was creating a monster.

At the start, I was not prepared for The Sun’s "Page 3 girl". You open up the cover page of this family newspaper and WHAM! boobs are staring straight out at you.

But apparently, Brits like nothing more than a cuppa with a side of boobs in the morning. Sure, there's a thoughtful quote from the Page 3 girl included, but I get the feeling that's not the point. The Sun is a sister publication of the New York Post, published under His Murdoch, yet they are nothing alike as you've probably figured by now. Nor are Heat and Now magazines remotely similar to our Us and InTouch. Why? They just don't care. It’s like this:

Us is the girl who is saccharine sweet to your face, while slamming you behind your back. She's running for Homecoming Queen. Heat, on the other hand, is the chick who pours the salt in your wounds while looking you in the eyes. With a raised eyebrow. In front of the whole school.

Within days of perusing the take-no-prisoners style represented by the British media, I am hooked. It's like reading Page Six, only expanded into a fifty-page snarkfest. My mind can't take it all in and my heart starts racing at the sight of the neon pink and yellow covers. One particular day, C came home with a Hello! Magazine and I was not amused. The overkill of spin-doctored interviews and prettily posed photos is the closest thing to American celebrity reporting...

'Here’s Heather McCartney making a five course meal, with perfect hair and make-up. Sweat glands? What sweat glands? Here she is in the den on a pristine, ivory carpet. There she is again in the loo by the Italian marbled bidet, wearing an evening gown. Just because.'

I told C: if you love me- never, ever bring it home again.

And the human interest stories. We're in no way that interested in our fellow Americans, but the Brits love human interest stories. Instead of being displayed in publications that feature alien abductions and the "Elvis is alive" repertoire, the lady who hasn't washed her hair in 12 years is featured just page right of Tony Blair.

Too much information, luv

It's trashy, pushes the envelope, and rots your brain; but it's compulsory reading in the UK. Gotta love it.