Standing in the bright chaotic room above a Newcastle café where the entire staff of Viz works, it's hard to believe this was once Britain's third biggest-selling magazine.
In the late Eighties and Nineties Viz was outsold only by the Radio Times and TV Times: 1.3 million readers would fnarr fnarr at the Fat Slags, Biffa Bacon, Buster Gonad and all the other monstrous characters that explode off its grainy pages. The jumble of potty-mouthed gags and cartoon strips has hardly changed, but in recent years Viz has slipped back into being a minority cult.
So some readers will be amazed to learn Viz turns 30 this Tuesday, which will be marked with an exhibition of drawings at the Cartoon Museum in Bloomsbury, London, in November. Luring the creators of Viz to London is in itself a remarkable feat, according to their pink-lipsticked office manager, Stevie. Viz has been rooted in Newcastle ever since a young Chris Donald put together the first edition in his bedroom in 1979. He sold all 150 copies at a punk gig, and immediately his teenage hobby of writing fanzines evolved into a full-time job that would occupy him, and his brother, Simon, for the next 20 years.
Neither of the brothers is involved today. Like the best punk bands, Viz has seen members come and go. In its heyday, five people were writing six issues a year, now there are 10 issues, written and drawn by Simon Thorp, Graham Dury and Davey Jones, who between them have put in 75 years at Viz. "I suspect it's harder work than it used to be. But it's just as much fun," says Dury, "It's a much less onerous task than a proper job."
Polite, modest and mild-mannered, they couldn't be less like their grotesque creations. If they were a Viz cartoon, their worst habit would be an excessive fondness for biscuits. They hardly even swear. All are married with children and they even go on big family holidays together.
Now part-owned by Felix Dennis, Viz was propelled to meteoric success in the 1980s by John Brown, a London publisher who developed the brand, and made a lot of money, through merchandising. It was later bought by James Brown, the founder of Loaded, who quickly sold it on to Dennis.
In 1999, Chris Donald left, having fallen out of love with the whole idea and returned to his great passion – trains: buying three disused stations, one of which he converted into a restaurant. Simon left to pursue a TV career.
As we chat over tea, the incongruity between these pleasant middle-aged men and the rudeness they spend their lives generating is striking. When they're not dreaming up filthy plot lines they're fielding the infamously silly correspondence from readers for the top tips page. Then there's a wordsearch of swear words and the defacement competition, in which readers draw phalluses on an old-fashioned photograph. Curiously, given that 92 per cent of readers are men, this is often won by women.
Most of their jokes come from sitting around on leather sofas talking about last night's telly or the day's newspapers, bouncing ideas off each other Once they've decided what's funny they go down to their drawing boards and knock up the strips. Each is responsible for a different strip although they can draw each others if they have to. "But the really anal readers always notice and complain."
Although circulation is now a respectable 100,000, it clearly isn't what it used to be. Is this because Viz has lost its shock value? "We have always wanted Viz to be funny, not shocking," says Thorp, "We've never thought 'what taboo can we break next?'" But they agree there are fewer boundaries than when they started. Nevertheless a feature in the current issue revolves around calling TV presenter Jeremy Kyle the c-word. Given the magazine is fully lawyered before publication, it's amazing they get away with it. How do they do it? "We have proof that Kyle is one," says Dury in a matter-of-fact voice, "we have a photo in a safe". And then they all fall about laughing.
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