I can see one now. (They’re hard to miss.) Face the colour of mayonnaise, Gameboy dangling from one ear, gerbils for shoes, an alpaca for a hat, glasses the size of a window frame. It’s what we call in the profession an arse.
Don’t mock him. Hold that snigger. He may be an arse, but he’s a important arse. A vital member of our community. An engine room of creativity. Future fashion norms – norms that you and I will take for granted – will be developed and stabilised by this sad, desperate, sex-starved arse.
Like Jesus, their sacrifice is for mankind. Ridiculed, jeered at, shunned, they must forgo the possibility of making friends, getting laid and meeting anyone without them laughing their face off. Every day they must rise and clothe themselves in something suitably dickish, just so that one day they might hit upon something actually half decent that the rest of society can copy and benefit from.
So, let’s acknowledge their importance in the progress of humanity. They are a kind of public service. Without them, we’d still be in flares. We’d still be wearing those jumbo collars you see in Cardiff. It was hipsters who dragged us away from the madness of distressed jeans and frameless glasses. It is hipsters who will be the first to lead us out of skinny-jeans hell, through the Red Sea, into boot-cut plenty.
So let’s show some solidarity for the hipster. We need them. Without them, we’d all still look like this:
Give something clever this Christmas – a year’s subscription to The Spectator for just £75. And we’ll give you a free bottle of champagne. Click here.