For the purposes of this blog (and ergo modern science) I decided to dive headlong into the murky world of Women’s Real Life Weeklies. I regret to say I felt kind of bad about buying it. My snobbish sensibilities got the best of me and, as I looked down the mile-long expanse of my own nose, I sidled up to the counter, practically throwing a pound coin at the till attendant before stuffing it guiltily into my bag as embarrassed as a 16 year old buying condoms. The headlines are as obnoxious as strobe lights, and as you leaf through the glossy, primary-coloured pages you can practically feel that drip-feed of dopamine, the ching-ching-ching of a winning slot machine combination.
What is it that practically every entertainment media we deride and snort at has that makes it so addictive? What it is about Coronation Street or the Daily Mail or
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