Young people nowadays with their funny clothes and funny ways!

 

At the tender and merciless age of 50 odd or as my youngest son, who reliably keeps me informed, au courant and infact versant of all modern music making that make me the most in touch fifty something on this blighted isle, calls me the oldest hipster in town, I was confused by a recent and far trip out into the real world beyond the gleaming offices of London’s media land. A media-land that is the gleaming palace of wisdom that the rest of the country awaits and watches with baited breath for jewels of wisdom about culture from experts like myself and the humdrum wit of Paul Merton and the other luvvies.

 

My son took me to London’s east end – a strange place a long way away from Islington but I was fascinated by what the rest of the UK looked like so went with him. He took me to a place that was clawing and crawling with young people who, shockingly, had bear like beards and dress sense that I didn’t understand. He reliably I iapprized me with the knowledge that these were ‘hipsters’. I was appalled by their youthful excitement and antithetic way of doing things that didn’t match my own starched sense self worth.

 

They were sat around, smug in their youth, wallowing in their appalling culture of music that sounded like a noise to my discerning ear. They were giving their own culture a bloated sense of self importance like it was some kind of high art. Their music, like their scribblings, is the equal to the youthful bovine buffoon with scraggy and craggy beards sprouting from their childlike heads and has the vaguest notion of good. Real heavyweight genius is contained in my books, not in their supercilious and smirking culture of click click click websites and click click click muzak.

 

Back in my day we knew about culture and music. Our music was deeply inteligent and you could hear the words. Nowadays it’s just noise for drinking coffee to and listened to by unfledged young people having a good time.

 

We are awash with hipsters. They are the terror of these modern times with their ironic music and their ironic beards and the way that they ignore my mumblings and grumblings as I sit poker faced in their bright and shiny cafe of cool in Hoxton. It was not like this back in my day.

 

I seemed to have perambulated into a young person’s cove- you know the type of place full of the tenderfoot and hirsute and I was instantly confused by the place. These youth were dressed in a way quite different to my own attire and none of them seemed to even know who I was. Surely as someone who is central to modern culture and existing in the middle of London’s media-land I should hold some sort of cultural cache here?

 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because as I tried to order a coffee I became confused by the several different types of steaming beverages that were available and had to guess at one before sitting down and finding my neurones and neurosises confused by the awfully loud music ironically pouring out of the speakers. It was avidion of hell that only Dante could have dreamt of and I left muttering about ‘young people nowadays’ before my son ran out of the cafe and cajouled me for forgetting him.

6 COMMENTS

    • KeLL – this is not Will Self.
      It is Will Shelf
      Will Shelf sometimes goes by the name Joe Sutcliff.
      Will Shelf, is not Will Self.
      We, the Nuns of the Convent of Perpetual Vitriol, will pray for you, in your state of craven ignorance…. sadly a true indication that you are of the Pagan persuasion and your soul is not saved… so.. ooopsadaisy to you, and its SELF dear, not SHELF if you want the real thing.
      Fourteen Hail Marys to you for being naughty.

  1. Aw Bless… The Scout Leader of the “Marxist Cultural Yawnfest-festival” has been invited to the party. And he’s just so cross that they youngster’s don’t buy his jargon…. dammit…. they don’t even dance around a large painted mushroom chanting about being pixies, like the Brownie-girls do.
    (I’d just like to mention that the word Brownie is not a racist remark. It refers to small girls who salute a Brown Owl)
    (I’d just like to mention that a Brown Owl is not a racist remarks. It refers to ladies who look after Brownies.)
    (I’d just like to mention that Brownies is not a racist remark. It does not refer to cakes eaten by druggie types in suburbia.)
    Youngsters aren’t even guilty about the Empire.
    Where did we go wrong?
    We tried to indoctrinate them, but they ended up thinking for themselves, the ungrateful little bastards.

  2. Will Self said, “our music was deeply intelligent”… Do you mean “intelligent?” Two “L’s”
    Also, “You could hear the words.”
    Well, that set me off you feckin Imperialist English b’stard… cos I know that NOBODY could understand the words to “Into the Valley” by the Skids.
    Reet?
    Feckin NOBODY…
    And that’s how we feckin’ liked it….
    Away wi’ yoooooos
    FREE SCOTLAND FREE SCOTLAND FREE SCOTLAND

  3. I can’t tell what is more confusing here. Is it the misplaced attempt at satire (replete with bizarre, humourless pun pseudonym) or is it the misplaced rage in the comments?

    Answers on a postcard kids.

    P.S. Although Will Self’s aimless rambling about hipsters may not have been his best work, he is undoubtedly correct. The conformist non-conformity of urban thirtysomethings is far from authentic, and even further from credible.

  4. Listen Travis we get the feeckin news in heaven reet…
    All true Scots, dead or alive… are feeckin devasted…. we had the chance for freedom and we didn’t feckin teekit…
    And to make things worse…. to find that Self is writing for LTW…. feeckin would finish me off… if I wasn’t dead already… So don’t YOOO talk to me about feckin being angry… wee no brainer feckin “flowers in the feckin” window songster

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