Love Bites: 20 Years of The Skinny

My adult life is completely entwined with The Skinny to a degree that is, I am certain, deeply unhealthy. The first issue came out in the autumn after I graduated, and the first thing I did of any material value in the chaos of my post-art school life was write a feature for it. I got involved in the precursor publication, Noise, because the editor was the bouncer at the bar I worked in and my flatmate was shagging him so he was invited to the lock-in we inevitably had after every shift. That’s it, that’s the whole reason for my entire life’s trajectory.

Going back through the archive is a visceral, painful, joyful experience. Back to the start, there’s so much chaos and grime, indie sleaze before we knew that was its name. A lot of out-of-focus photography and unhinged article ideas. Hardly any fucking women anywhere because 20 years ago we still had to make an individual case that we could write, play instruments, be funny.

The magazine started because the people making it wanted a place to express themselves, to document the culture around them without having to appease the London gatekeepers or, worse, move there. A lot of us just wanted jobs we liked and to do something with our arts degrees. It continued, and continues to exist, because it turns out that’s actually really important, and having a space for coverage and criticism of local culture supports the development of that culture in myriad unforeseen but essential ways.

It’s a precarious thing, which never seems to become less precarious. In an old issue, March 2007, I found an editorial, handwritten on lined paper and scanned by Sophie, then publisher, clearly having a breakdown as it felt like it was all collapsing around her. She was still hopeful though, and she did turn it around. The editorial ends: 'Happiness, regardless of the state of the world, can always be found in a magazine. Enjoy x.'