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’. 

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 We will do our best to get back to you quickly.


Forthcoming Editions

As well as publishing submissions on close to anything all year round, we will publish a number of articles on set themes. Find the forthcoming editions listed below.

  1. Close-Up (Submission Deadline: 18 May)
  2. Kits and Colours (Submission Deadline: 18 October)
  3. Slang (Submission Deadline: 18 February)
  4. TBC

Articles could be of any length up to 5,000 words. A regular feature of iiii Magazine is ‘The 500’ — in which a writer may write about anything that inspires / disgusts / amuses / titillates them in 500 words. We have found the need to be precise and terse a fruitful exercise for writers.

Please send a query or an extract from your text to 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 Work should be previously unpublished; but we will consider work under consideration elsewhere if you let us know.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’.

Style Guide

Please defer to the short style guide. It not only saves on editorial nit-picking, but illustrates commitment to the publication.

  1. Oxford commas, yes. In lists of three or more things, include a comma between the final two, before the ‘and’ (Manchester, Leeds, and London).
  2. Titles of books, films, exhibitions italicised. Titles of artworks ‘Like This’ (2018).
  3. One space after full-stops. Always.
  4. ‘Use single quotation marks “except for quotes within quotes” at all times’.
  5. Include spaces before and after em-dashes. (I wouldn’t — but for in unlikely circumstances — consider a teacake).
  6. Dates: 5 May 2016 / Decades: 1980s.
  7. Special formatting requirements are difficult to manage on an optimised website, but we will always try to meet a writer’s needs.



Claret & Blue:
Shaving David Moyes

Jordan Harrison-Twist


In the evening-time, Kumar’s All Store in Stratford is electric. I was in there buying an emergency Lion Bar, some spiced Polish sausage, pickled mushrooms, and oranges. It’s a well-kept place: bottled water lining the fridge units; bagged confectionery adorning the serving hole; unpopular things, long Turkish breads, tinned chickpeas and beets at the back of the shop, lit by the fly killer. Spitting away.

I picked up a Badger shaving brush and inspected it, thinking about the smooth neck and jawline it promised. There was something about the flush curvature of its hairs which was pleasing to the touch, and I flicked it back and forth against my palm, translating the sensation to my face in my mind.

‘Don’t often see a young man like you with a thing like that’, said a man, softly; his tinny quiff barely visible above the one-blade Bic razors, sixty in a bag.

‘Just curious’, I replied blind, to the faceless presence in the aisle. ‘I’ve never used one before’.

The gentle Dunbartonshire accent was alluring — not quite pure Glaswegian, but that was its chief component; its outer edges buffed perhaps by many years in the capital.

I continued my shopping, thumbing at the shelves, semi-admiring their patterned lines and regularities. But thinking only of this Scottish man. Where did I—

At the terminus of the central gondola, reserved for party goods, funny-putty, collapsable horse toys, table mats, I turned my head to take in the expanse of this place. And I saw him.

In a shin-length claret puffer-jacket with sky-blue zipper and pocket-trim, his huge hood aloof and bespeckled with evening rain, there he was. There was a cleaning tub and utensil in his hand. He was having a thought.

‘Guess you’ll be giving something a scrub’, I said. Shit.

‘I’m sorry?’ he replied, and approached. His bulbous eyes aglow with reflections of the televised game-show at the till.

‘Scrubbing something — you know — removing the bits of soil and stuff’. Shit. Christ sake.

He whistled through his nose sympathetically and smiled, so the trenches by his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks exposed the contours of his skull. He looked like a goblin. Like a sexy goblin.

Then I recognised him. His jaundice. His supply-teacher pizzazz. His West Ham United official merchandise whistle.

It was David Frances Moyes.

‘I tend not to use tubs like this for housework’, he oozed, sidling closer. ‘Declan Rice is having an apple-bobbing party at our ground; party bags, Travis CD for dancing.

Kouyaté’s made a flan.
Do you like flan?’

He reached out his hand and laid it on my forefinger, knuckle, and index. The tip of his nose next to mine.

‘Cheese and eggs in a sort of, savoury, historical cake. What’s not to like’.

David Moyes was hungry at the thought of Kouyaté’s flan and he began to chew, his teeth closing around my cheek, gnawing at me affectionately. Like a suckling foal at a nipple. Braying for a little sweet milk.

‘You know,’ he purred, ‘if an anaconda bites you, clasps its jaws around your arm and starts to squeeze’, he ran his fingers up my forearm, ‘really tight — forcing the air out of you — so very very tight; you know what you should do? You should… relax. Push your hand deeper into its jaws as far as you can go. Till it unclenches a little. Ask your assistant-manager, or your kit-guy, as calmly as you can, to wrench open its mouth. And you are, away. Free. Alive’.

So I kissed him — David Frances Moyes, the World-Weary Wicked Witch of the West, with his tie and all of his breath — his life; his liveliness. I licked up the length of his tongue with mine and I touched him on his pelvis. David Moyes, I thought, formerly of Real Sociedad and Sunderland. No-one would believe this.