iiii Magazine is an independent arts and culture publication, based in London and Manchester. We talk about culture in the sense suggested by Francis Bacon, when he said of intellectual enrichment: 'the culture and manurance of minds’. Our approach to culture is the same: that something bright and engaging may be derived from detritus. We love cultural ephemera in particular, and despite Bacon’s near-perfect turn of phrase, it is the position of the magazine that it is not sufficient. We publish articles that stretch our assumptions of what culture can be, so long as they are forged with originality.
We place no limits on subject matter or form — we have published incisive criticism, personal essays and memoirs, humour pieces and odes to oddities — but we take as a guiding principle this from Flann O’Brien’s The Third Policeman (1967):
‘Always ask any questions that are to be asked […] Turn everything you hear to your own advantage. Always carry a repair outfit. Take left turns as much as possible. Never apply your front brake first’.
¶ Visit Our Shop
Support the magazine by visiting our SHOP.
~ With the help of Studio Hyte, we created a football (scarf) with no crest, no local, nor national allegiance — a garment that challenges the ugly attitudes that alienate so many from the beautiful game.
~ As well as looking fresh, your (scarf) is also doing its bit to address the aforementioned issues, with 10% of all profits raised donated to LGBT charity Stonewall (Charity number: 1101255)
¶ Work With Us
iiii Magazine is a non-profit organisation, and our modest team of editors, reporters, and social scribes work on a voluntary basis. We do have plans to address this in the future. As it is we are looking for a creative, driven individual to join the team, to help shape future editions. If you would like to work for iiii Magazine, do send a CV and a cover letter outlining the sort of role you would like to take to firstname.lastname@example.org. We will do our best to get back to you quickly.
¶ Forthcoming Editions
A Publication by iiii Magazine: A look at football culture through twenty classic kits
(crest) is a book that entwines history, design, and football culture to enliven debate about belonging — both local and national — in a fractious British and European moment. Classic football kits are artefacts highly sought after by collectors and fans alike. Is this a question of design, of a club’s success, or of nostalgia? Can it be all or none of these things? In twenty short essays by twenty writers, (crest) charts the peculiar histories of each of the 2018/19 Premier League football clubs through the lens of a prized classic kit from the past decades. The book takes football seriously at its root, and looks at how larger forces drive the sense of allegiance of football-loving individuals — what hidden personal stories make the Beautiful Game beautiful when it can seem so ugly?
Produced by iiii Magazine, (crest) will feature quality photography and minimalist design. iiii encourages deep and engaged archival research, as well as idiosyncratic and strange personal stories. Whatever the mode or the form, iiii Magazine is committed to providing generous editorial support to writers.
The online publication continues all year round, and publishes articles in three broad categories:
- Esoterica and funny writing [the stranger, more parochial, the better]
- Long-form interviews and features
- The 500 [react, respond in 500 words to an artefact, a lyric, a piece of punctuation, anything]
If your text does not fit into one of the above categories, don't fret, we just need a pitch. Please send a query or an extract from your text to email@example.com with SUBMISSION in the subject line. Work should be previously unpublished; but we will consider work under consideration elsewhere if you let us know. We are run by a team of volunteers, and thus we are unfortunately not yet in a position to offer a fee.
Please provide a short author’s bio-line which will be published under your piece. 'Algenon Overling is a fictional writer based in 12th Century Denmark. He likes to relax with his kestrel and his crossbow. Good with kids’.
Please defer to the short style guide. It not only saves on editorial nit-picking, but illustrates commitment to the publication.
- Oxford commas, yes. In lists of three or more things, include a comma between the final two, before the ‘and’ (Manchester, Leeds, and London).
- Titles of books, films, exhibitions italicised. Titles of artworks ‘Like This’ (2018).
- One space after full-stops. Always.
- ‘Use single quotation marks “except for quotes within quotes” at all times’.
- Include spaces before and after em-dashes. (I wouldn’t — but for in unlikely circumstances — consider a teacake).
- Dates: 5 May 2016 / Decades: 1980s.
- Special formatting requirements are difficult to manage on an optimised website, but we will always try to meet a writer’s needs.
Claret & Blue Episode 2: Call it a Draw
There was a man at the end of my garden.
He was holding onto something. An A-framed advertising board or a teepee or two doors leaning against each other, or, something. It was hard to tell through the kitchen window; it was reflecting bright rectangles of lamplight over the dark mass outside.
But there was a man stood there, I was certain of that.
Every now and then he was underlit by his phone. It would catch his brow and his nose, and — was that? — yes, his gums and his teeth. As he looked down he would smile for a few seconds, then stop; draw back the cloak of his top lip.
I turned down Walter Geography on the stereo and returned to the window, the song title Love Chutney and Duress ticking backwards across the glass.
I had played this scenario out in my imagination a thousand times before: if an intruder were to approach the kitchen side with its floor-to-ceiling French doors — a fantastic vantage point over all the lots in the street — I would turn and escape through the pottery room, the front hall, the room where I washed my dog, the room with the shoes and hat-stand; I’d open the front door into the street, and, as a diversion, make a scene shouting names of men I knew — Ross! There’s someone in the house! — I’d quickly double back, up the stairs — treading on the quiet ones in sequence 1, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9 — barrel into the shitter, lock the door, out onto the ledge, the extension roof, down into the shrubs and wait quietly behind the Andrei Arshavin water feature. With water coming out of its skin.
He could see me, this man, where he was stood.
He could see me, and yet, unfazed, he stayed where he was.
Forty days had passed since the night I met David Moyes. It was an unassuming evening: lots of walking and laughing, telling tales of long-forgotten bars and karaoke songs and ill-advised cigarettes; cursing the fierce drizzle that soaked our clothes, but praising it for the immediacy it gave the East London landscape — in its erasing the distance, we could think only of the moment, of each other. He kissed me on my eyepatch.
Oh, David. I don’t want this to end.
I was conscious of the people passing, looking at us a little too long. Pretending to put something in the bin I was sitting on. Delaying their retreat to the promenade to take a look at David’s pinched complexion.
What I liked most about David was that his age didn’t close him off to the world, didn’t narrow his vision, sharpen his prejudices. He was like a knight with the open mind of a horse. He’d seen some things, big battles.
He knew that I was nervous, and he knew what to do.
Close your eye he whispered. And I did. I love you, I thought in the privacy of my mind.
And then he was gone.
For a moment the man in the garden seemed to fracture into seven silhouetted figures. My bare toes pressed white and bloodless, I could not move. The A-frame he leant on flexed, became scapulae, wings — large angular wings like meaty fans — and the seven pitched high into the roof of the Bura-Bura tree, which shook off its long fruit with the force of their landing.
I was rooted and I was staring, a little too long I thought — I’m an igloo, I’m a chunky igloo — but as I blinked the dryness from my lenses, the seven avian figures were dragged back into the singular silhouette stood underlit, the frame stationary as it presumably had always been. He was whistling my favourite KT Tunstall tune from her old stuff.
‘When I was at Sunderland’ came the voice between bars of the serenade, ‘Jack Rodwell and I used to enjoy drawing, brass-rubbings and that.
We made some really unique pictures, you know — aye, unique they were. He liked doing sycamores, manhole covers, ladder detailing. He said it was the alphabet of the Earth, you know. He was good like that’.
The man came closer, dragging his object behind him.
‘We made entire scrapbooks of the North East, you know, this is Alnick, Gateshead, Longbenton. We had a handshake, a clubhouse at the back of the daycare centre. We were so happy, making our pictures, you know. We called ourselves Wax Atlas. Then it all went to poo’.
He was five feet away from the window. He had Crayolas in an ammunition clip over his tummy.
‘They took my pictures — Niall Quinn, Paddy McNair — and they hung them in the changing room. Jack’s, too. Acted like sort of eel-people.
Imagine if the world could spell, they said. And all it could say was 'bark'. And all it could say was 'Stanton & Staveley'. All it could say was 'I’m a ladder'.
They laughed me out. They had wanted me out from the start.
The custard-coloured man, David Frances Moyes, appeared at the window.
‘I’m here now’.
I was happy to see him, but I had so many questions.
Why did he leave that day? How did he find me? Why do sea monkeys come in fucking packets?
Before I found the requisite power in my tongue to speak, David exhaled deeply onto the window that stood between us, and he drew some testicles and a penis with his finger.
‘I’ve made you a picture’, he said, turning the easel to face me. ‘I’ve made us a picture’.