The Real Hipsters – Those Who Dare

The Real Hipsters – Those Who Dare

If you have to use the increasingly tired word ‘hipster’, of course, you’re not truly hipster.  Similarly, if you refer to yourself or something as ‘posh’, you are possibly a kind of Kerry Katona-type eating Iceland party food on a drug comedown.  As the beard rose to fame throughout the 10’s and continues it’s decline into the history books, taking it’s place alongside 1970’s paedo moustaches, a well-established, low-key elite of ironic fashionistas will always enjoy their place at the top of the fashion game; people so brave, so unafraid of irony, synthetic fibres, un-flattering fits and in many cases, even personal hygiene for the sake of capturing that edge.  It’s the real hipsters.  The original, daring, shocking, the hideous, the downright bad asses: British pensioners.

Don’t kid yourself if you think you’ve got one up on a British pensioner.  They’re far from stupid, if a little quiet at times.  They’ve been there and done that.  They lived through a war, or at least the aftermath of one, for crying out loud.  If you think you’ve got it hard, they went without, roughed it, lived on rations and practically invented the entire secondhand shop look back in the 50’s.  These bad-asses live by a mantra of ‘make do and mend’.  They know what they’re doing and they do not give a flying V how outlandish the looks they pioneer are, and there’s a very strong air of competitiveness right across this entire subculture of over 70’s boys and girls.

You might think that these homies are past it and out of the competition, but the fact of the matter is they’re in control and they are at the top of their game.  They’re not the slightest bit intimidated by your expensive trainers mixed with Oxfam Tweed, Supreme t-shirts etcetera.  They’re next level.  Whilst you’re sifting the second hand shops, they’re rocking genuine first-hand originals from the 50s and 60s, but just to prove they’re macking it, they’ll pull those light blue Farrah’s up over their tummy buttons.  They’re fully aware that this displays their pouches.  Do your balls hang that low?  Of course not.  You’re a whippersnapper;  a beta-male.  It’s their way of signalling their dominance over you, their younger rival.  Except, there’s no competition.  If you dare to look down, they’re either rocking light beige socks AND jesus sandals, or some white early 90’s trainers that cats like you and me simply would not be able to source, no matter what Facebook groups we were members of, no matter how quick you are on eBay.  They are not available.  You cannot get them, OK?  Who’s the hipster now?

If you’re still thinking you’re in the game, you look reasonably handsome with your faux-wild beard (you put wax in it and trim it daily), 50’s-style demob short-back-and-sides and cut-in side-parting. But this has never been about looking handsome and there’s no faux-wild about these cats. They’re edgy.  They worked their asses off for you and me over the years and they rock wild, wild facial hair. And that’s just the women. The brothers in this group pre-dated Gillette.  They used to use multiple usage razors.  In fact, they don’t buy anything for a single use.  That’s just plain stupid.  But now they’ve hung up their suits and workwear, they’ve let their facial hair go feral.  Wild.  It comes out of their ears and noses and even grows on strange growths on the side of their eyes.  Again, that’s just their women.

You can wear all the expensive branded cammo’ print you like (they got theirs for free in the 40s and the 50s, when National Service was in).  OAP’s rock fox-tooth, dog-tooth, bobbled jumpers (how they get them that bobbled, you will never know, or master) in the most disgusting 90’s pastel colours and prints imaginable.  It’s truly gangster.  Obscene!

If you want to identify the alpha amongst these groups, seemingly to you by accident, he’s tucked the bottom of his jumper into his oversized underpants.  These weren’t grey 40 years ago, they were brilliant white, but they’re his medal, proof he’s been there and they’re meant to subconsciously draw your attention to his big, swinging private parts.  It’s gravity and time that have given him the edge over you size-wise.  Don’t go standing near him at any urinal any time soon.  To begin with, he’ll assert his dominance by waiting around two minutes to urinate.  They attribute this to something called ‘prostate problems’, something you apparently won’t begin to comprehend for at least 40 more years, but it’s really to show off their amply low jewels.  When he does let it flow, you’ll understand how many drugs these cats take.  And they drink on it too.  All this is why you just saw thick, brown liquid dribble when he eventually ‘urinated’.  The accompanying groan further asserts his ‘pimpness’.  You smelt something really bad too, didn’t you?  Well imagine how off their tits these cats are?  You might buy 5 per cent cocaine on Friday nights and then talk incessantly about your knowledge of golden-age hip hop and how good you are at digital marketing, they these dudes double, triple, quadruple drop very hard pharmaceuticals day in day out, just to stay alive in many cases, but in other cases; to pass water, crap, breath, not get another heart attack.  The list goes on.  So they’re pretty high.  Every day. Be careful.

So keep trying.  A lot harder.  Just recognise that all your music was ultimately based on theirs if you trace back its lineage.  They’re harder than you.  They could not give a damn about the latest iPhone.  So next time you call one of them and they answer on their seemingly hand-me-down Motorola clamshell, just shut up about worthless, shallow, consumer-driven shit will you and recognise you’ve been ‘out hipstered’.  

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