This was the start of it all for me. I'd bought and loved magazines before – my teenage years can pretty much be summed up by three words: White, Dwarf and Select – but I'd never loved them as magazines. I loved what was in them, not what they actually were.
Then one day, traipsing home from work, I found myself at London Victoria with too much time to kill. I did the obvious thing: loiter in WHSmith. And there it was. The Face, volume 3, number 21. Christina Ricci glowering at me from the cover.
For some reason, this amazing magazine had completely passed me by up until that point. Maybe I'd been too young, too blinkered. But it found me in time. I can't remember any particular details about this specific issue, but it did enough to get me hooked. It only had a few years left in it, but I made those count. I bought news issues and whatever old ones I could find on eBay. This was the first time I'd had a relationship with a magazine like I do with a film or a record – every issue mattered. When it got it right I loved it, when it got it wrong I hated it. It was fickle and tasteless and pretentious and crass and fucking brilliant.
Not quite sure how to deal with the Internet or shake off that bloody "80s style bible" tag, it eventually withered and died, but it left behind some classic issues. Some of the covers from my time with it are still etched on my brain: Ed Norton's bloody nose; the dot-to-dot Spike Jonze; Spice Girls giving it all that. But it'll always be wicked Christina Ricci that means the most.
There have been other since then, but here it is, here's where the magaholism started.
Originally written for My Favo(u)rite Magazine.