Tuesday, 16 August 2011


This post is about hipsters.
Yes, hipsters.
Now come on don't look at me like that.
Don't worry though this isn't about how stupid they look or what goes through their mind when they act the way they do, that's for another....Geneva conference I think.
No this one is based on a rather unfortunate night out for myself, such is how many of these stories go. But from what I do wrong perhaps you can do right?
Or rightly fuck up I don't know, in whatever case you might get a good tale yourself! But I am straying from the point, which is...
I can't tell the bloody difference between girl and guy hipsters.
You can see where this is going.
I was out with a couple of fine fellows (aka two of my mates) and was talked into going to some 'unplugged' gig at a club that looked like it was painted by accident. Not exactly my usual haunt but I have always pushed myself to try new things. Besides, they promised plenty of booze and girls of questionable morals.
Good job guys.
Before we've even entered the club I'm beset with the fog of cigarettes, my first indication of the hipster. There they are, standing around talking about inane crap, tiny hats on their heads. To be honest they could be discussing current events or the classification of black holes, but I just can't believe it.
We push past quickly, avoiding eye contact, you can never be too sure with them. It was slightly hypnotic going through them all, a sea of grey ironic T-shirts and sprayed on jeans, not a big sea mind you, they're all stick thin.
We force ourselves in to the club to get to the bar. Much like outside we are greeted to a sea of of people claiming to be unique yet looking exactly the same.
(Take THAT social commentary!)
Cutting through to the bar my friends divert to have a look at the selection of musical talent for the night. I'll admit that it's not my cup of tea, as long as the music is good and in the background I honestly don't mind. They look like the kind of musicians who will be playing some absent minded song about how love never finds them even though they could get any girl in here without trying.
I go to my usual place, the bar, and wait for them. With no stools I perch, which I prefer to do anyway. It takes a minute to find the barman and longer still to actually get a drink, so I use the time wisely.
Letting my eyes wander around the bar it difficult to get a good look at people. My gaze sets on a lass to my right, like myself perched on the bar. Much like the rest of the people here she is in those skinny jeans, sprayed on possibly. Her tight ass keeps rolling around as she talks to her friends, beer bottle delicately poised in her hand.
She is wearing (as they all are) a very oversized shirt with some weird saying only she thinks (but everyone else) gets. It doesn't bother me though, as long as they are happy thinking we don't get it. Her arms are also covered in tattoos, not of any particular style or design, more like someone passed out in kindergarten and was drawn all over. I could probably spend all night figuring them out.
I can't figure out her hair though. It's shaved in one part, long in another, a line shaved here, spiky there. It might be bleached, I'm not sure, it's bloody confusing. Her friends notice me checking her out and make sly nods to her, indicating my approval.

Read the rest of this story in:
'Sex Games' by Mouna Lott and T.H.Rusty
Out October 2011

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