Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not cool. No way, no how. I know this because I say things like ‘no way, no how’.
Lyrical references to late 70s punk bands are lost on me. I don’t like coffee. I have no problem giving my custom to evil multinational corporations if they have what I want. I think there is no place in this world for skinny-jean wearing men (especially if they combo it with boat shoes – gah!). I usually equate the word ’boutique’ with ‘rip you off’, so I’m immediately suspicious of ‘this little place’ you’re just dying to show me. If it’s ‘undiscovered’ then, in this hyper-connected day and age, it’s usually because it’s lame. I don’t care what the new black is. I’ll still go to Vietnam, even if Laos is the new Vietnam (is it? I don’t even know).
I enjoy crocheting. I like reading. I’ve had radish emergencies and I have at least one Richard Marx song in my playlist (but no Michael Bolton – I’m not cool but even I have standards). Although I come from the 80s, I have no 80s cachet: my big inspirations from that decade were Sooty and Mr. Squiggle. I like libraries. I like going to chain cinemas – they have comfortable chairs and above-average sound quality.
Whatever the new ‘it’ is, I’m not it. I’m not even being post-ironic. Or whatever hipsters are doing these days. I am the anti-hipster. Dags rule (should I add ‘4 eva’ on the end of that? To really prove my point…)