Hipsters

These people are slowly spoiling everything.

Take music, for instance. The purchasing of vinyl had become something that only true die-hards bothered with as record shop after record shop began to close down. There were still record fairs, charity shops and car boot sales where records were sold and occasional gems were found.

Then from the distance, wearing skinny jeans and drinking fancy £5 coffees, a group approached. “We want to collect records,” they said. “We want really obscure things that nobody has heard of. It’ll make us better than everybody else. We don’t care what it costs either.”

The world listened and record shops began to re-open. This sounds like it was actually a good thing, doesn’t it?

It wasn't.

The newfound demand for vinyl saw the price increase to ridiculous levels and forced proper collectors to stop buying so much.

I’ve seen well-played albums in dog-eared sleeves that aren’t remotely rare on sale for up to £20. Why? Because some twat with a stupid haircut in a blazer and a flat cap will happily pay it – probably with mummy and daddy’s money.

I recently heard a conversation after a gig between two such people who’d just purchased vinyl.

Twat One: “Has that got the demos or the live set on it?”

Twat Two: “I’m not sure, but it will be totes amazeballs.”

At this point I wanted to get in our car and drive over them. I wanted to keep backing up and driving over them until the police arrived. Then when I told the police what had inspired my rage, they would have driven over them too.

As a man with a beard I’m concerned that onlookers might mistake me for one of them. I use supermarket brand anti-dandruff shampoo to clean my beard rather than spending hundreds of pounds a year on bespoke products for it. I also don’t pay anyone to maintain it, let alone some beard specialist who will relieve you of up to £50 for the pleasure of waving a comb close to it and trimming six hairs.

The ultimate hipster sighting came last weekend in Bridlington, of all places. One of them rode past me on what can only be described as a hybrid of a BMX and a penny farthing. Just think about that for a second…

He must have been hopelessly lost as there are no cereal cafes or crisp sandwich boutiques in the East Riding.

What I really hope is that someone stole his bike, punched him in the face and said “piss off back to London with all your craft artisan fucktardery.”