British GQ is a magazine for men of the United Kingdom to flick through idly and uninterestedly when they are waiting for a haircut, a manicure, or a colostomy, or if they have a few minutes to kill at a busy brothel. It consists of countless pages of advertisements and a few pages of pretty actresses in lingerie, and it playfully invites its readers to play the “GQ game”: see if you can find the tiny morsels of editorial text concealed within its pages. Even the scant millimetres of editorial verbiage tucked somewhere inside the magazine are mostly commercial pap, which tells you nothing about the real world but usually attempts to hypnotize you into buying expensive watches, pricy suits, costly moisturizer, extortionate training shoes, high-priced gym equipment, or inflated penis pills.