Wednesday, 17 October 2012

I Am A Hipster Basher

By the very nature of the topic bestowed upon me this week, this entry will most likely end up as a bitter Christian Bale-esque tirade filled with four-letter words, although the words are more likely to be funny ones such as ‘bulb’, ‘conk’ or ‘nest’, rather than anything worse today. For I am not trying to prove some kind of point. This is more than can be said for a certain group of our fair society- the kind of people who are marked out through the use of phrases such as “bang on trend”, the excessive avoidance of socks, and an intense dislike, bordering on racism, against any music act that has been around any longer than three years.

What was, back in my day, referred to as ‘indie’, seemed to spring forth from the fertile ovaries of the mid-2000s, and would have seemed like quite a respite for many after the previous few years of cringey pop groups wiggling around, thumbs hooked 'casually' through the belt loops of their white cargo pants. (Except for me, I would rather like to see S Club 7 reform, PROPERLY this time, and find out whether Paul can still get ‘down on the floor’, without slipping a disc). Indie took off, and its culture, with its curly mop-tops and people playing actual guitars (gasp!) now seems to have morphed into a ubiquitous jumped-up brute. What was fresh to begin with is now staler than that McDonald’s chip you dropped down the gap between your car seat and the gear stick a few months back. Yeah I’VE seen it.

Wouldn't stop me eating it though.
It is now a sprawling embarrassment of ‘edgy’ haircuts and inane plinky-plonky music that ends up on sickly, washed-out adverts for the kind of company that pretends it’s your biggest pal, and that by flogging you stuff in a gentle, whistling, trendy way, it is somehow ripping you off a bit less. Like Starbucks in audiovisual form.  And yes, I might be sounding like a hipster-basher at this point maybe BEACUSE THAT’S WHAT I AM AND AT LEAST I CAN ADMIT IT, ALBEIT RELUCTANTLY. I dislike using the H-word almost as much as the H’s themselves- hipsters must never admit they are a hipster, for fear of cancelling themselves out, as if the only way to put a stop to them is to declare full-throatedly “I DO believe in hipsters, I DO I DO!”, and clapping your hands in their face.

Luckily for them, there is a plethora of indie ‘icons’ to keep the wheels turning (the wheels of a vintage custom bicycle, natch), such as patron saint of I-wish-I-was-genuinely-cool, Nick Grimshaw. Fashion-wise, I have a bitch fit each and every time I see everyone’s favourite broom handle, Alexa Chung, simply turn up to things dressed in some brown shoes and what resembles a BHS school shirt, and get a rapturous round of applause and a bag of Haribo Starmix from fashion editors.
Although I suspect she would prefer to be seen with a packet of Werther’s Originals poking out of her bang-on-trend satchel, for even more authentic ‘granny chic’.

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