INFORMATION NOTICE: The Winter Moonwalk for WINTER magazine

"I like to move it move it"  

Introducing "The Winter Moonwalk" – the inadvertant ice dance manoeuvre that can be turned into an impromptu pavement party, as demonstrated above – in the exciting new magazine WINTER magazine, publishing later that month with contributions by Peter Lyle, Warren Van Camp, Teju Cole, Gym Class Magazine's Steven Gregor, Der Wedding's Axel Völcker, Flaneur magazine's Fabian Saul, Enver Hadzijaj and many more. Support the project via the magic of crowdfunding at Winter's Indiegogo page. Go on.

This gif was made by Maïa Beyrouti Illustration.

The Limits Of Self-Deprecation

By Peter Lyle:  I can't pretend this was my idea. The inspirational, successful, strong and handsome founder and editor of Manzine, asked me if I'd like to write it: The Limits Of Self-Deprecation. I felt that I would, and I quickly began to formulate some pretty obvious observations around the subject. I then sat around for a few days, which soon became a number of weeks, and now it's a couple of months.

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Essays On The Emotional Man. No.2: Need

The Trials of Life as experienced with the trousers round the ankles while wanking in an NHS toilet facility. By Simmy Richman
The stages of man can be mapped by the things we want: from gadgets to show off to friends when we’re at school, to bikes, to girls, to cars to – if such things take your fancy and you read the wrong kind of men’s magazines – statement watches and nice suits

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Essays On The Emotional Man. No.3: Sadness

Simon Mills addresses the social trend for crying, assuming such a thing exists, before moving on to some more humanistic and personal insights on the phenomenon and the taboos surrounding it

Some men can’t cry. You can take them to a soppy wedding or a horridly sad funeral, show them pictures of orphaned kiddies or that bit from ET and… nothing. Not even the thinnest cataract of salty mist.
Oh, they’ll choke a bit and get a bit dry-mouthed as the scalenus muscles in their gullets constrict the thorax, but the lacrimal glands' nicotinic and muscarinic receptors will fail to activate, and the tears just won’t come.

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An interesting trip to the former Iraqi Embassy in East Berlin, with photographs and text.
By Daniel West. Photography: Andreas Lux

An abandoned villa, one careful owner (deceased). Impossible to resist. So off we set, the two of us, tourists of the apocalypse.

In an overlooked corner of suburban Berlin, of course. A light industrial estate – innocuous. But you could see in a snap it had form. That unyielding Modernism, the crunch of glass underfoot as you mount the steps. An archtectural smoking gun.

Inside the once-plush carpets are caked in scum. Wallpaper limps off in sheets or arid cracks. A mosaic that has lost its own logic. Cramped rooms with no windows, one chair in each. Two disembowelled TVs. Like an open wound, we agreed

Planes passing overhead can’t drown out the echoes of bureaucracy. A solitary leather brogue, three copies of the FT from 1989, typewriters,

files, magnetic tape, a Japanese machine with two bulbs (they read “OPERATION” and “TROUBLE”).

 Elsewhere, domestic horror. Floral three-piece suite, Persian carpets, photographs of false Mesopotamian idols, an Air Algeria calendar. Prudish lace curtains barely concealing Saddam’s leg. Uncle Sam peeps in.

And what of all that shock and awe? But the exit is just empty bottles and spent fags like always. A tickertape washout for the comedown-cum-climbdown from hubris. An AfPak hangover full of party poopers, and the faint stench of shit.