October 13, 2025 |
The hardest part about being asked to pick the “maddest things that have ever happened during 25 years of 10” is the edit. What to leave out? I worked at the magazine from 2006 to 2010 and then went back for another stint (couldn’t keep away, still can’t) from 2016 to 2020 and I can confirm that mad things happen there daily. The place is an (incoming non-PC colloquialism) absolute nuthouse… in the most fabulous possible way. So, writing this is like being asked to choose your favourite child (if your children wore Margiela and occasionally set fire to things). But after various phone calls and texts, an argument… in fact, quite a few arguments… I give you 10’s most outrageous happenings, and no, I’ve not made any of this up.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
There was a period in 2009 for about five or six days when the 10 office became the victim of an elaborate hate-mail campaign. Every morning, a letter arrived – beautifully written in great detail in the most considered hand: lots of lovely curlicues, the odd inverted crucifix – to remind us of the “sins of commerce”, the “evils of fashion” and, the best bit, “the rutting and filth of Soho pornographers”. This, of course, was completely excellent and possibly the work of the same person who once posted a pair of false teeth, aggressively sellotaped to a single Vivienne Westwood flip-flop (right foot) in some kind of high-summer, punk-adjacent fashion moment meets faux-choppers postal protest. More of this please.
THE NUDISTS
The upstairs bar at the Kings Arms on Poland Street in Soho was 10’s unofficial second office for more than a decade. (Deals were made. Vodka-sodas were consumed. Reputations were ruined.) But on one Friday night in 2007 we arrived at our usual table to find it occupied by – wait for it – four completely naked men with an average age of about 75.
Turned out the four, who I’ll describe as “large-testicled gents with intimate piercings”, were part of a “gay naked pool league” and, said Jamie, the Kings Arms landlord at the time, were “well-known exhibitionists on the London bear scene” and would “take their kits off at any given opportunity”. How fabulously non-conformist. We gave them a 10/10 for their nerve and a 31⁄2 for the size of their less-than-impressive pool cues. Traumatising yet noble.
SOHO FLOODS, PRADA FLOATS
In an event that has yet to be fully explained by capital-based scientists, in the summer of 2011 some of Soho was submerged in drain water when the underground Victorian sewage system spectacularly failed after a surprise biblical downpour. Roads were blocked, babies in prams floated off into the far distance and, worse, Sophia’s hair got wet. In something approaching a fashion Atlantis, the 10 office was suddenly deluged by filthy water, which came in through the floor.
Cue cries of “Leave me! Save the Prada bags!” from the silly gay fashion assistants, who, let it be said, really did come into their own during a fashion disaster. By chance that day we had been blessed with a rare appearance by ‘Galaxis’, the token straight publisher (and notorious thirst trap) of 10, who, after rolling up the trousers of his favourite grey Kilgour suit to reveal some extraordinarily hairy ankles, started yanking enormous printers and desks out of the water like they were made of Lego.
Meanwhile, as half a dozen designer handbags floated by, 10’s editorial director at the time, Antony Miles screamed, “Oh, my God, I’ve just seen a rat!” The rodent, in fact, turned out to be a soaking wet lint roller that had somehow got wrapped in a Dolce & Gabbana fake-fur scarf.
SPRECHEN SIE 10?
The first thing everybody notices when they start working at 10 is the amount of times people say the word “gorge”. It’s the on-repeat abbreviation of ‘gorgeous’ and an everyday term of endearment that just caught on and stayed. Indeed, it’s got to a point where anything not prefixed with gorge isn’t really language at all. See also: babe, babes and babezzz. The last one, more often than not, is a segue into sarcasm and/or a veiled threat. There are, of course, variations of the in- house argo at 10, which, at the point of writing, went something like this:
“Dreaddddful” – a catchy play on words used to describe just about anybody/anything.
“Freakydeeks” and “dumb-dumbs” – a does-what-they-say diss once used exclusively by Sophia that has recently flourished office-wide.
“Stupid pig-dog man” – a colourful chimera and nature-based invective directed to or talking about a not very nice person of the male variety.
And “Oh, Sue!” – a term of endearment-slash-mockery that has crept into daily use. Again, nobody’s really sure why, gorge.
Richard Gray, posing for an editorial shot by Maria Ziegelböck for ’10 Men’, issue 40
A MAGAZINE BEST MATE
One of any magazine’s ‘pillars’ (a fancy, some would argue annoying, example of marketing speak used to capture the values of any given brand) is its ‘tone of voice’. As such, 10, we decided from day one, should be written in a ‘human voice’. It should, without fail, “speak like your very own fashion co-conspirator; like your naughty, sometimes catty, fashion best friend from the front row”. It’s a point of view that has ‘inspired’ (been ripped off by) numerous magazines ever since.
Let’s take a quick flick through *picks up a copy of 10, Autumn/Winter, issue 18*. And we open the page at a cut-out picture of Karl Lagerfeld’s fluffy white cat, Choupette, sitting next to the newly launched Chanel 31 bag. The accompanying words then bang on about how the bag had “recently attended a high-school reunion” and how all the other guests there had “black pegs for teeth”.
Bizarre? Yes. Bonkers? Of course. That’s the flipping point: 10 should (proudly) be all of the above. Turn up the weird.
THE FLAT ABOVE THE OFFICE
One of 10’s former editorial directors and its official “in-house pervert” (his words) was a constant feature in the mag’s notorious gossip pages. In one issue, tales featuring the now-Devon-based “amateur proctologist” (again, his words) appeared a record 10 times, with the whole spread devoted to his lecherous goings-on. Many was the occasion when the office’s early starters would cross paths with parting strangers who’d slept in his flat above the office the night before. It was a never-ending parade of experimental and willing one- night-only sex partners who, and we know this because he told us in graphic detail, were “up for anything and everything, gorge”. And while we proudly take a liberal stance on sexuality and have always flown a metaphorical multi coloured flag above the office, it came to something when this editorial director casually mentioned in a phone call with a notoriously snotty Italian fashion PR that he was “considering moving my desk to make way for a leather sex sling”. Amazing! Filthy… but still amazing.
SEEDY SOHO
Drunks, pigeons, urban fox poo… and working next door to a brothel. Just four exotic and everyday occurrences when your office is based in the heart of Soho. The next-door brothel later became a studio for porn films. Its various comings (insert joke here) and goings (and again) became the stuff of 10 legend way back when. The only problem with being located next to a bordello turned adult film shooting location was that one risks being accosted by the occasional perv. Natalie, 10’s former fashion features ace (now in heaven reading this and sending kisses), was once approached by a male porn star while she was stood outside the office front door, having a cheeky fag.
“Are you in the film too?” asked the 6ft 5in sex plough.
“You want the knocking shop next door, darling,” she replied with a well-practised shrug of the shoulders. “I’m just the cleaner!” Iconique.
FASHION, NOT FRICTION
In early 2008, one former but still contributing member of the 10 team left his desk for a “doctor’s appointment”, telling everyone he “wouldn’t be long”. An hour or so later, the daft former masthead topper returned from his mysterious appointment. But what was that wet stain on his bottom? After some shrieks of “What the hell” the fashion writer admitted he’d been for a “rectal examination”. The wet stain on his camel Prada chinos was, in fact, a dose of colourless lube that the doctor had used to help ease in an anal probe. Embarrassing enough until he realised he’d just been to a “packed” Gucci press day with a leaked and obvious lube stain on his behind. What’s Italian for mortifying?
THE LEGENDARY PARTIES
From the enormous amounts of booze we all consumed to the impromptu vogueing competitions to waking up the next morning beside a complete stranger, 10’s parties have become legendary in the industry for their outrageousness. Fashion people + fabulous music + dancing + a free bar with endless alcohol = the speedy erasing of personal boundaries and zero moral compass. And they’re always a hoot. Take, for example, one now happily retired former editorial director of 10 who, after swallowing “at least” (his words) “19 triple vodkas”, decided to continue the party alone and asked a taxi driver to take him to a seedy South London sex club. It’s only when he woke up the next morning with a “married couple of straight swingers from Milton Keynes, both in their mid-sixties and wearing rubber fetish masks” and him “naked but with no memory” that he decided to stick to the gays instead. He now lives in Devon alone and speaks to no one.
THE ALAIA INCIDENT
Fashion shows in the French capital can be chaotic affairs: people everywhere and the traffic… but there’s one particular car journey we’d rather forget. Picture it: the Marais, Paris, bang in the middle of Pride. Sophia and I were heading back to our usual fashion-week residence, the now-closed 3 Rooms boutique hotel above the legendary Alaïa store on Rue de Moussy. All was going swimmingly until our Uber driver decided to drop us off in the middle of a street party. Then the hapless fellow thought it would be a terrific idea to drive off while Sophia had one foot still in the car and the other on the pavement outside. Cue screams of pain and one very badly twisted Alaïa-clad ankle. After much hobbling and tears, we managed to get through a crowd of partying Pride gays. Until… “Oh, my God,” shouted Sophia. “I’ve just seen a penis!” Yes, the curly- haired editor-in-chief had been flashed at by a drunken reveller who had randomly pulled down his sparkly hot pants to show her his tiny pierced member. But the worst of it? “My Alaïa heels are absolutely ruined!” Nightmare, gorge.
10 Magazine’s 25 anniversary issue is out now. Order your copy here.
