The first issue of Radical magazine was created by young people in their bedrooms. In fact, the editor (me) is writing this very description on her bed, or rather on the mattress that sits in the centre of her floortrobe like a raft. It’s strange, now that Radical finally exists as its own polished entity I feel compelled to highlight the icky boring bits. To draw attention to the time, and effort that a small bunch of real, fleshy, unorganised people put into its pages. We tried. We were honest. And now we have this freakin' magazine.
All of its sixty-four pages have been printed on recycled paper with eco-friendly inks. It holds lots of words, thousands of them actually. Many form cohesive sentences. Some have thankfully been written by people other than me. There's an interview with a graffiti artist who wants you to question what is vandalism. There's an article about fun & rubbish at Earth Frequency Festival. There's Miranda, a painter and sculptor who's pulling the thorns out of the word 'ugly'. And there's Bob, a gardener walking the delicate line of give, and take with the Earth.
A copy is $10 bucks which yes, could get you pretty far at a food court. But I'm willing to stick my neck out and say that this magazine is better than a small falafel kebab with chips, or three rolls of sushi. So why not pack a lunch and buy this weird magazine’s nobody’s ever heard of instead?