Tidings, my friends, and allow me to welcome you into a new year. Since the first toll of the bells on Hogmanay, I have been inundated with messages from fans and disciples alike. I had to put my phone on DND, lest the desperate, clingy thrums of notifications dampen the century-aged Scotch I swirled in front of me. I had a humble celebration this year; around 300 people in my 14th floor flat, Lost In Translation projected onto the wall, and trance-art-rock-rave-garage soundtrack provided by my colleague (brother) on his portable decks. I think the festivities ended around 3pm on the 1st – the light was beginning to fade – and a well-off acquaintance of mine had paid off the 4 sets of council workers that had come to assess the ‘noise pollution’ situation. Sigh, reader. It must be such a drag to be a normie. If only my neighbours had expressed a modicum of curiosity regarding the curated exhibition of a coke-fuelled soiree I had organised, I’d have been more than happy to educate them! They would have had the rare opportunity to instil culture into their newborn from an early age!
Anyhow, I digress. The majority of questions posited by my ardent readers are curious about my ‘Resolutions’ for the coming year . Now, before I address this point, I’m afraid I need to sternly address the emailers who sent me this particular inquiry. The implication that I need to improve anything about myself – that I am less than omni-divine – that my constant pursuit of cultural enlightenment against the swarming tides of idiocy, complacency, and daytime TV is not a noble quest – is nothing short of PREPOSTEROUS. If I had the power, you would all be hanged. Harken unto Lord Yorke’s decree: ‘when I am king, you will be first against the wall.’ I do not, and absolutely refuse to henceforth, ever make any kind of resolution to ‘better’ myself, to change myself, to assess and reflect upon myself in any way. That is a fundamentally weak mindset. It’s probably why you’re all virgins.
That isn’t to say, however, that you readers could not do with a few choice improvements to bring you in closer contact with your divine, hipster calling. Below, I have detailed the beginning of your journey into Hip spirituality. Think of this as your Bible.
1.The Moustache, Beanie, and Short Trouser With Visible Yellow Sock Combo
There is, contrary to popular belief, a uniform to our profession. Whilst I am reluctant to enforce any such dress code, as it’s very woke-mob-Orwellian to do so, some of you dress in such horrific attire I fail to even recognise you as one of my own. The best part of this ensemble is that it flatters nobody. The wiry, brush handle, island moustache in a sea of clean shaven skin isolates the bottom lip and gives both the illusion of an overbite and no upper lip – classic white boy fare. The tiny beanie will give you that vogue foreskin sheen, and also imply that you’re worried about a prematurely receding hairline. Finally, the short trouser will allow you to appear at least half a foot shorter than you actually are, and the lurid coloured sock which connects the lip of your brogues to the cuffed hem of your trouser will indicate that you are prudish and fearful of showing skin – it evokes the Victoriana terror of bare-ankle-eroticism, making you appear wise, old, and sage. This is a very attractive quality. Plus, the horrific triad of unfashionable gear will force people to listen to your gospel, rather than look you directly in the eye, rather like the sun.
2. The Ancient Technology
It’s important to be able to one-up the people around you without ever even having to open your mouth – your arbitrary assets should speak for themselves. I find that the best way to do this is to accumulate and display as much barely-functioning (if at all) technology as possible. Record players are child’s play, even cassettes are gaining in clout – you need fax machines, dial-up radios, room-sized monitors and wall-mounted telephones. I’m in the process of acquiring one of Reich’s own supposedly decimated orgone accumulators. If you think a 2018 edition Crosley and a trip to Oxfam vinyl will cut the mustard, you’re a pathetic, undedicated poser and need to be purged from our ranks.
3. The Reproach to Women
Finally, the crown jewel of resolution – organising your retort to women. It’s a common myth that us hipsters are involuntarily celibate, that we’re the butt of the feminine joke, that we dislike the female of the species because of our own inability to obtain one. Fellas – this is WRONG. Women like muscly, braindead jocks—they don’t ever go for the sensitive, passionate type like ourselves. They’d rather be cheerleading the star striker than smoking straights and listening to Chet Baker. They’d rather be watching 50 shades than helping you unpack your Oedipal Complex. So, don’t bother. Close ranks with your own – women are overrated. Also, Mum, if you’re reading this, I’ll be at yours at 6pm sharp tomorrow with my dirty laundry – and I’m only staying for tea if it’s steak pie.
Regards,
Oatis
Author: Naomi Maeve [she/they]
qmunicatemagazine.co.uk 