Cigarettes

Another trend I've noticed about the Dodgy Hipsters of Liverpool, of which there are an irksome number now I know where they skulk about: why do so many of them smoke rollies? Hobo chic? Retro thingy charm? A display of dextrous attention to detail, being handy, dainty and at the same time laissez-faire, cavalier and all those other words the types probably quite like throwing into their own blogs.

It's not as if they're nice. Maybe it's an effort to save money, better spent on vintage just-above-the-waist leather jackets and pointy tan Chelsea boots. And razors that don't work properly. Dicks.

I realise the blatant cheek of slagging a gaggle of people I'd be a hair's breadth of joining if I had the money. Not intentionally mind, but I like caffeine, literature and music that isn't shit. So, apparently, do they. I also smoke rollies occasionally, but not by choice. This leads me to ponder what the difference is between the Hip and the rest of us. I know for a fact some of the other lot, the squares, the Dicks if you will (I say 'dick' because that's what we say we look like when we do something particularly maladroit or spastickish: "I was dancing like a dick last night"; "I split me pint over him- must've looked like a dick"; "Dunno what I said to her, but she thought I was a dick") listen similar same tunes, drink in the same bars, read the same dodgy novels... and yet they don't get my hackles up in anything like the same way. Bollocks to it, this is a thought for another time. To quote Bernard Black, I can feel bits of my brain falling away like a wet cake. I've been off my tiny porcelain balls on cheap coffee, running round the commercial district of Liverpool (it turns out there is such a thing) trying to hoodwink recruitment companies into setting me loose on some unsuspecting prick's call centre. I'll be back when I've had some sleep. Then some beer. Then some more sleep.