Jackal

The more powerful the class, the more it claims not to exist, and its power is employed above all to enforce this claim. It is modest only on this one point, however, because this officially nonexistent bureaucracy simultaneously attributes the crowning achievements of history to its own infallible leadership. Though its existence is everywhere in evidence, the bureaucracy must be invisible as a class. As a result, all social life becomes insane.

The fanfare parps ‘London’s latest luxury magazine, made for stylish minds’. Sifting through the fugue our experts have translated this as thus: ‘yet another sub-style-bent-gent-slapper-chap-slag-mag for trough-toffs hits the streets, a glossy, solitary brain cell-shopped and put-together journal rife with overpriced accoutrements, extortionate threads, unnecessary objects and dumb-aspirational mind debris’. Too much for their tiny minds to process this exclamatory emission goes straight to the cerebral cortex that activates the CONSUMPTION cord.

The Jackal (to the glimpsed view, the askance glance it looks like The FUCKED: deliberate subliminal slogo-massaging from the crack team of recent Oxbridge flotsam turned meedge-gradz? Unlikely) joins the amassed assortment array of  street-flyered middle-managing mind muck (c.f. Shortlist, Time Out, Shim, NoMusicalExpress, Debt not food, Stylist, ES (free with the Evening sub-Standard) all ‘bibles’ for the well-offluent unthinking credit whores surviving on Pater’s plastic, a uniformed conformity accepting amoeba-mass carrying expensive rhino-hide bin-bags to store their gaudy wrist-wear and scalp-sauce.

A magazine published to counter and cater for the rise of ‘Alpro Male’ shaker-makers, who grow their hirsute chin-follicles in the image of their UFC crushes, these fem-men in crises seeking affirmation through mediatised modes of manliness, their reflection a shadow of their self-esteem, unknowingly infected and affected by the same body-dysmorphia for decades aimed at their sub-sex counterparts: ‘da birds’.

Beard

‘Be totally honest, guys, do I look a booby in this? The Jackal assured me this look is IN this week’

This new consumer-crowd occupy the desire-abyss created by the ‘beauty industry’, raptors seeking low-vibro gateways, ‘ we can make you look younger’, ‘we can make you feel younger’, ‘we can make YOU younger’.  All illusory, all part of the seduction. Owning does not make cloning. No metamorphosis will take place. Your emptiness will return shortly after adorning said outfit/garment/paste/trinket.

Alpro

Britpop anachronism, intellect vacuum and serial seed sower Liam Gallagher and current paramour. Is this really what you want to be?! 

Jack-Ed Robin ‘Shit me with your’ Swithinbank (you just KNEW there’d be someone with a name like that, probably the descendant of a land-owning slave-runner going back centuries), spawned from quasi-dead livestock, almost certainly inbred to the point of illegality (it’s only illegal within the lower ranks) is (dis)ably abetted by* Henry, Jeremy, Lionellen, iMax-Brutus, Eevon and Tex.

Omen

When the Jews return to Zion / And a comet rips the sky / And the Holy Roman Empire rises, / Then You and I must die. / From the eternal sea he rises, / Creating armies on either shore, / Turning man against his brother / ‘Til man exists no more.

Lest we forget, the antichrist, arch enemy of the Nazarene, the desolate one, the numbered beast, Damien Thorn was borne of the JACKAL, this ‘free’ magazine is an OMEN. Nothing’s for free, especially from these kind of print-stables, what they appear to ‘give’ they recoup ten-fold, your essence, your spirit, your soul becomes the preserve of them to be rinsed, purified, puréed and pillaged. You have been warned.

Do you really want to look like THEM? Wanting to look like them requires thinking like them, becoming them, your volition submission kick-starting a perversion of the bodysnatchers,. Once in they will burrow, fester and assume control, however, you can never BE them, they wouldn’t allow it, theirs is a closed shop, a democratic dead-end, a genetic fluid-emission sharing-frenzy devoid of feeling, these partnerships are inhuman transactions, enacted purely for breeding more of the discharges ad finitum. The system is ridden with these mutoid slaves to Himmaculate Consumption Guides whose edicts are ‘spend on trend, pay for spiritual dismay’ they know that total satiation is never an option, this is a gaping void that can never be plugged. However they persist, you must resist.

You will know them through their utterances such as ‘I’m good’ when asked of their well-being, their daily coffee ritual will inevitably commence with ‘Can I get a *insert sugar based coffee flavoured milk here* to go …’.  Their dress sense will feature such ‘brands’ as the ‘keeping it street’ Jack Wills, the pheasant pluckers go-to jacket Barbour, chinos (mustard/plum/lime green), and laceless deck shoes, a get-up that renders even their younglings middle-aged fogeys, ever-decaying entities.

With an exterior like that can you imagine the inner-catastrophe? Show no pity.

Guy Debored 2017 ©

*collectively these banter-brethren go by the name of Thomas Carlyle’s Diogenes Teufelsdröckh (which translates as ‘god-born devil-dung’). If the cap fits, lads.

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