There’s only so much you can write about sex week before you run out of content. Like an editorial refractory period. After enough time at Critic you really start to scrape the bottom of the barrel for the salacious and the scintillating.
And I’m fresh out. Which is a good thing, because I’m getting old anyway and I don't have much more to give this mag. This horse has run enough races and, to be honest, I’m looking forward to the day when my trainers take me out back and put me out of my misery. Three issues left.
At the end of the year, a massive amount of Critic staff are going to be rotating out, including me and almost all of the senior leadership. A few have completely checked out already, which I’ll be assured of when none of them even read this column. But no matter! We have a saving grace: you. Probably. If you want to.
Jobs will open here towards the end of the year. I’m not sure what the next Editor will do in terms of structure, but I know that this magazine will need the young creative juices that can only be squeezed out of the brains of Otago's most twisted, manic and curious students. So if that sounds like you, come pop by the office. We’ll crack your head open like an 1800’s sperm whale and soak up the precious juices inside. Mmm, content.
Anyway, something about sex week that you should know: we put out a survey asking what you wanted and we got a very divided set of answers. Half of the respondents said “Tits! More boobs!” that sort of thing. The other half said the exact opposite, saying they didn’t want juvenile content and the trivialisation of sex. So I’m not sure what to do with that, but it confirms a pattern we’ve encountered about sex content: someone will always, always be upset. You went too far; you didn't go far enough. You filled the mag with smut; you didn’t show a single boob. No matter what we print it’ll cause someone to send an angry email, and more than anything else, that’s something I’m looking forward to never having to deal with again.
Bottom line is: if you think the mag’s shit, do something about it. It’s your magazine. Don’t complain if you’re not willing to make it better. And hey, the same goes for sex! Funny that.