Like just about everyone else, we only read Vogue for the adverts. After all, we have no interest in finding out what anorexic interior designers, married to metrosexual avant garde carpenters, think about the newest hotel in Morocco. And after the jump, we bring you our analysis of some of the best adverts in British Vogue's April edition.

These two are so fucking rad, man, they've just done a gram of coke each and are five minutes away from shagging that man with the paunch and the spotty back over there in the corner, and they'll wake up and shoot up and drag themselves back to their Willamsburg loft where they'll hang out with lots of people who are thinner and more interesting than you.

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"I am strangely, terribly greasy. You wish to embrace me, but I will just slide out of your arms with my shiny greasiness. I am tempted to roll in the conveniently nearby sand and exfoliate my dampness away, but that would detract from my sweaty beautifulness. So I shall stand here next to this wall instead."

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"Why? Why is my hair so red and spiky? I am shocked!"

"Get your stupid fucking handbag off me, bitch."

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Haha! I spit on your stupid size zero you fat ugly cows!

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This girl will stomp up and down your naked back in her death-defying shoes, before crushing your head between her pneumatic buttocks with demented glee. Then she will feast on your brains.