A hipster walks into a bar...

The art of being in a bar. A hipster bar. If you’re a hipster.

Two main points. 

1. Never EVER under no circumstances should you sit near the front door. You just don’t do it. You have to give off the effect of not caring and to do that you can’t be seen in the front window sipping away nonchalantly waiting for someone you know to walk by and wave. No, as a hipster you have to be seen IN the bar. In the deep dark underbelly of the establishment hoping to be NOT seen. Catch our drift? Or keeping with the theme, catch our draft? Bomb!

2. Said it before and will say it again, if they don’t serve Westvleteren 12 then you’re in the wrong bar. End of. 

How do you sit? Well...

A) If in a booth then here is the protocol. The ultimate aim of any hipster while sitting in a booth is to lie down on the curved seat and sleep. That’s pretty much the height of not caring isn’t it?  Sleeping in a bar while people are talking around you. This is the aim. The ultimate aim. So how to achieve that with people not thinking that you’re just an idiot who can’t handle your drink? Well, you’re not a hipster without your hipster friends no? Say Nyree and I pop into a bar for a drink and we end up sitting at a booth. She has full license in our hipster friendship to stop whatever conversation we’re having midway through and say that she’s going to sleep. I then have to sit upright at the table and if anyone asks say that she was out all night partying with a Belgen band called “Staakmolen” and hasn’t been home since. They’ll understand. But, what should I do if i’ve to cover her and not move from the table? Is that what you’re asking? Well, try sighing at each song that comes on, it’s a good way to pass the time. Roll the 45 cigarettes that will keep you going for the rest of the night, or try to convert a nearby person to veganisim by explaining the benefits. The last one is a bit tricky though, because if a hipster doesn’t care so much so that they could eventually be asleep in a drinking establishment then you can bet your left deck shoe that they certainly don’t care about the ill-fashioned uneducated oaf beside them.

B) If on a stool at the bar? Again, here is the protocol. Picture this, on the counter you have an assortment of nuts in a bowl, a novel, your Nikon SLR that you carelessly placed down because you were so tired from taking photos all day, a drink, and most importantly a scarf. Why the scarf you ask? Because the most hipster thing you can do is to tie the scarf around the stool and accesorise it so it’s not so bland. You can usually tell how hip a place is from the amount of scarves tied around random objects. You should never make eye contact with anyone in the bar, even if your sitting beside your best mate, not even the bar man when you’re ordering. Eye contact is a big no no. Remember, if in doubt just don’t look about. It’s not worth the effort. 

If they play pop songs at the bar then you’re in the wrong bar. If they play Belgian underground then you’re in the right bar. If they play something in the middle, like a mixture of songs from all the decades then you can stop in there for a drink. But you certainly don’t wanna be seen there. A simple rule? If the lyrics to the song being played are from the country that the bar is in (i.e English in Ireland) then you should really think about what messages you’re giving out to fellow hipsters by drinking in such an establishment. And I use that word loosely. 

What does the TV in the bar show while you’re sipping away? If it’s sports then see you later, who wants to move that fast, what a waste of time. If it’s the news then see you later, who wants to be made depressed. If it’s a music channel then see you later, who wants to watch douches jump around in clothes they haven’t picked themselves. If it’s coverage of a fashion show then see you later, again, who wants to watch douches walk around in clothes they haven’t picked themselves. If it’s basket weaving, the Late Late show, Countdown, Ballamory or the serial epicness that is Holby City then hold your preverbal horses, we’ll check that out. If shown in an ironic way then we can defo watch that shiz. Also, Hipsters around the world love Holby City. It’s a case of opposites attract. People who don’t care like to watch people who do care, caring. Simple as. 

You know who cares though? Gareth Lyons. In the words of Faith No More, he cares a lot. He cares so much that he took this photo and sent it in to us. Shake your boom boom!

Danke Gareth!

P.S. Gareth also cares about Transformers cause they’re more than meets the eye.

Hiplympics

Nyree and I sat in front of the TV on Wednesday, with our legs crossed, sipping on a Westvleteren 12 and eating finger food delights such as Yummy Baked Potato Skins, Cajun Deviled Eggs and Broccoli Stuffed Baby Portabella Mushrooms for dinner when a thought struck us so suddenly that we almost got up off our shared beanbag. The thought was this:  Olympics, like WTF? It makes no sense. A CarBomb. Why would anyone participate in it or let alone watch it? But we were watching it even though the events are like super boring. We were sucked into it. That meant that it had a certain pull, a draw to our inner psyche. Important note: I fully believe that my inner psyche wears dec shoes. I know this because I felt most affiliation with the water based sports. And this would confirm my appreciation for all things nautical. 

Then we thought, well, if there is something in us that draws us to compete against each other as human beings and what not, then surely lets not deny it but make it better. Very metaphysical. Nyree and I are deep like that. We already know there is the Hipster Olympics in Germany where they make fun of the trendy and stylish but what Nyree and I are talking about is something different. REAL sporting events but much cooler. Much much cooler. Like so cool that Frosty The Snowman would have to leave and put on some leg-warmers from Urban Outfitters.  Which are €19.99. We checked. 

So let’s sell it. Cue the boom.

100 meter sprint: Just have a 100 meter sprint where you can only wear old indian leather soled moccasins and have to roll a cigarette during the 10 seconds or however long it takes you to run it. NOTE* The more you strut instead of run, the more you’re guaranteed the gold. If you run you’re a sap. End of. 

Javelin, Discs and Hammer Throw: Change all of these different types for one object to throw to uniform them all. What is an example of such an object you ask? Well what about the album POP by N'sync, any item of clothing from Penny’s or a carton of full fat milk. It’s for babies, you shouldn’t be drinking it.

Hurdles: Exact same as 100 meters but this time you have to jump over people who annually buy their winter jacket from Unique in Stephens Green. Extra points for landing on them.

Weightlifting, Clean n’Jerk and Squat: Athletes have to lift a bar which resembles a huge tape deck with a solid gold cord that extends from one side to the other. The option is  there for the eventual winner to wear it as an accessory in everyday life after the games.

Floor Gymnastics: You have to do your routine in skinny jeans and if you rip them by stretching too much you’re disqualified. Full movability in skinny jeans without ripping them is a constant day to day battle that all hipsters face. Athletes should not be exempt. If your legs are too big for skinnies then lay off the squats.

Pole Vault: Do it while holding an espresso. When you clear the bar you drink it on the way down to the crash mat.

Boxing: In between rounds you have to smoke a rolly and the gloves are made from hemp. Less damage that way, easier on the ol’ complexion.

1500 Meters: Over the course of the race you have to change your outfit three times, drink a Westvalen 12 and jump over the finishing rope because it’s made from hemp and someone knitted it that morning. Again, skinnier the jeans, better your chance of medals.

Relay Race: You swap mix tapes and all the people in the stadium have to dance to the winning teams mix tape when it plays at the end of the race. More obscure the winning teams mix-tap, more condoms you get for the Olympic village.

Breaststroke: Quote Bukowski and Hemingway every time you come up for air. Extra points awarded if your t-shirt has a picture of a shark on the front of it. And extra extra points if it’s a picture of an ironic shark.

Butterfly: You tape vinyl discs to your hands and use them to swim. If the record breaks then you're disqualified and the whole stadium in unison shouts “Remix”.

Front Crawl: Same as the butterlfly but this time in your right hand you hold an iPhone and in your left a copy of ‘Vegan for Dummies”. 

Swimming relay: Each team has one vintage t-shirt of their choice that the person swimming wears and who passes to the other swimmer upon completion of their two lengths, who in turn puts it on and swims their two lengths. This goes on for two more swimmers. After the fourth swimmer has swum the team show their vintage t-shirt to the judges who decide the winner. It’s all about how cool the t-shirt is really. The swimming is just a formality. 

Cycling: All events are done on a fixie and riders outfits MUST match their bike. A scarf wrapped around the handle bar may earn you favour from the judges. 

Final Day Marathon: 1 minute taken off your finishing time for each Instagram photo taken along the way. NOTE* Photo must have an effect and border outline. No snapping away and NOT touching it up throughout the race you cheating Dunnes Stores wearing bastard.

So if you like the suggestion that Nyree and I have proposed then feel free to sign the petition which can be found at 

www.IfYouThinkTheOlympicsCanBeALotCoolerThenPleaseSignOurPetitionAndIfYouDontThenYouAreObviouslyNotCoolAndThereforeDoNotBelongOnThisSiteSoPutUsBothOutOfOurMiseryAndDoNotSignThePetitionAndJustGoListenToSomeOfTheSongsThatAreInTheChartsAtTheMomentYouAbsoluteCarBomb.com 

Any help would be greatly appreciated as maybe we can get these changes up and running before it hits Rio in 2016. We don’t mean to play the guilt card but this cause is  pretty much up there with Concern and Trocaire in terms of how much we need your help. A giving hipster is a happy hipster. 

Do you know who is a giving hipster? Horacio Perez. (What a link, we know) Check out these absolute whopper images he sent us all the way from Williamsburg, New York. Boom!

"After the revolution, who's going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?"

Mierle Ukeles. 

Photographic performance by Horacio Perez, theatre director.

Actors: Natasha Katerinopolous, Alexander Cavaluzzo.

Williamsburg, New York. 2012.

Horacio Perez you beautiful man, danke tres much! 

Nyree and Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

'Whatev's, we're over it."

In Glendalough no one can hear you scream

We set out at dawn. This was dangerous. Very dangerous. In fact dangerous didn’t even cover it. It was super dangerous. The type of dangerous that makes Michael Jackson’s Dangerous Album look far less dangerous than what it is and that in itself, is dangerous. Why was it so dangerous? Well let me tell you my little hipling, Nyree and I were going into the wild. Glendalough to be exact. Why? For the night before, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for Anved, Nyree and I who were staying up downing whiskey and listening to a Belgian dance remix of Saved By The Bell dialogue, Anved said the following...

Anved: You crazy Irish, you don’t understand Mother Nature.

Nyree & Brian: We’re not Irish, we’re European.

Anved: You just don’t understand Mother Nature. If you understand Mother Nature, you understand fear. And then you’re not afraid of anything. 

Nyree & Brian: Wtf Anved, lay off the whiskey... and stop eating that hummus. It’s laced with Vodka.

But something struck home. Anved went to bed but we stayed up all night and before dawn, we took our fixies and cycled to Glendalough. Still drunk at the start but fairly sober by the time we arrived from sweat and general exertion, we drank loads of water and freshened ourselves up. Nyree then produced a sneaky bottle of whiskey from her bag, so we downed that and got drunk again, smoked a cigarette and began our drunken rambling into the uncharted abyss of the ‘Irish Wild’. 

Now, we’ve seen every episode of Lost and seen Tom Hanks get a hard-on for that Wilson ball in Castaway, so we thought we we’re pretty sorted out mentally for what could happen. But we weren’t.  After treking for an eternity through bush and briar, I took off my shoes to go barefoot and be more one with nature like an Indian or something to that effect. They’re always pegging it away from the white man in films without a care in the world. Apart from the white man that is. Immediately after making this transition though, I stood on the plastic thing that six packs of beer come in. Shit. I couldn’t shake it from my ankle. It was a little bit sore and a total fashion-fail. I felt like one of those turtles you see on a GreenPeace ad with their head stuck in it. What the hell was this doing here? This is meant to be the ‘Irish Wild’, the land that time forgot! Nyree, being my bessie, got me to sit down and rest my foot up on a rock. She took water from her canteen (The whiskey bottle we filled up with water) and ran some over my foot. Not sure what it was for but it felt good. The sun blared high in the sky. It must’ve been high noon. My ankle hurt from the plastic and I was beginning to feel traces of fear. Mother Nature was winning. 

Nyree: Can you walk?

Brian: Yeah, but it slightly irritates my ankle and it’s a complete fashion-fail.

Nyree: Totes. 

Somewhere off in the distance a bird chirps. 

Nyree: I have to go get help. 

Brian: You can’t leave me. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

Nyree: I’ll be back for you as soon as I can. 

Nyree goes to her backpack and takes out another bottle of whiskey. 

Nyree: (Cont’d) Take my canteen. 

Brian: I don’t need water, I need to ... Where you going?!

Nyree: I’ll be back for you.

Brian: No Nyree! No..................

And just like that she was gone. I saw her running over the hill, stopping to answer a text then continue running for not only my life but I suspect, hers as well. We were in this together. Trapped in the unknown. Facing fear and all his friends and being alone with our animal spirits or some shit like that.

I waited. The heat rose, I looked at my pasty casper-looking skin and thought, I’m like, so going to get a tan line. I almost thought - ALMOST- that it was a bad choice to wear my favorite Du’lamois nuatical tanktop but when remembering the stupid plastic thingy wrapped around my ankle I came back to my senses. Looking good up top, CarBomb on the bottom, such is life. My mouth was dry as if I’d eaten five slices of full-fat bread, I took out the canteen and drank it all. The whiskey tasting water stung my throat but within minutes I was feeling much better. Ah hydration, a hipster’s best friend. Apart from tapered jeans that is. Then, all of a sudden, I became delirious. Heat-stroke. I have heat stoke. I’m done for, Mother Nature has won. But then deep down somewhere deep inside my hipster soul I decided that this is no place for a hipster to die. Especially not me, because even though I had only been in nature or the ‘Irish Wild‘ as I had taken to calling it for half a day, I was already over it. Mother Nature is a bitch. And she wears clothes from TK Maxx. I will not die here! I have to move. I have to beat nature.

I stood up, the slight irritation in my ankle was now more annoying than anything else but I pressed on. For some reason I found myself with a long stick to help me walk and walk I did. Like a trendy Gandalf without the hair or the awful sandals. I walked and walked in the direction Nyree ran, the direction we came. Over hills, down trails, through thick bush and over rivers simply trying to find civilisation and with that, my bessie Nyree. Animals of all shapes and sizes moved round me. They sense a kill is on the cards. “You’re all knobends!” I shouted to the animal kingdom, but still they circled me. Hares and squirrels and all sorts of furry evil buggers. I kept moving, walking until I was sure the skin on my feet would need to be moisturised. Suddenly, I remembered my iPhone! It was in my pocket! I pulled it out and looked. Useless. I don’t know if it was the delirium or the fact that I had recently changed the clock to 24hours but I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Must be the delirium. Time has lost all meaning. I also had about 34 new Follower requests on Instagram but thought it would be better to deal with that later. When I figured out WTF time was up to. 

I came to a clearing and after calling Nyree’s name for a few seconds, I slumped down. The water that tasted strangely of whiskey had left a sour taste in my mouth and I had a splitting headache. This is it. Death. As I was about to lie down in a casual pose that would make me look cool when found a few weeks from now, I noticed a man sitting on some grass, with his legs crossed like some Yoga dude. I shouted for him to help me. He didn’t respond. I shouted again. He looked up and slowly came to his feet and began walking over. He levitated or so it seemed. His feet not touching the ground and dressed head to toe in white. This is it, I thought. He is God and I’m dying. I knelt down before him. Delerious. Barefoot. Sweating. Du’lamois nautical tanktop still intact thank god. Or should I say, thank this guy right before me. And so when he reached me I did.

Brian: Thanks God.

God: Sorry.

Brian: Thanks for saving my Du’Lamois nautical tanktop.

God: What do you mean?

Brian: You’re such a joker God. Take me with you, for I am ready. I came, I hipped, I tried passionately to eat vegan and now it is my time to leave this planet and I accept it. With all the peacefulness of a Jedi.

God: Whats wrong with you? Are you Ok?!

Brian: No God I’m not OK thanks for asking. I’m too fashionable for this mortal coil. I’m too cool. Although not now. Now I’m quite delirious and thirsty and starving. Let’s blow this shiz.

God: Hang on mate.

And with that he ran away. Why in the name of himself was he running away? Well that’s great, seriously. Meet the big man at death’s door and he turns out to be a total douche. And the white does nothing for him. Looks even more like Casper than me. At this revelation I heard Nyree’s voice calling my name. Is Nyree dead too? Maybe she could flirt with Gasper (God and Casper) and get him to send us back to Earth. Maybe she could finally -

Nyree: Wake up!

Brian: Nyree? Is that you? You look like an angel...

Nyree: Why are you lying in the grass? You’ll ruin your Du’Lamois nautical tanktop. 

Brian: Huh?

Nyree: Why didn’t you stay were I left you? I found a pair of scissors to cut the plastic. 

What the hell was going on?! I was close to death I was sure of it. And now here I am, Nyree standing over me without a care in the world and none of this making sense. I feel like that perpetual seven year old looking Leo DiCaprio guy from the film Inception. With Nyree’s help I stood up and noticed something. It was about 20 feet away. It rocked my world.

Brian: Is that Glendalough car park?

Nyree: Yeah, we only walked for about 5 minutes. I was on my way back to get you when this old guy came over saying “your friend is acting funny, check on him”. 

Brian: Gasper is nice like that.

Nyree: And that we should be ashamed of ourselves for being drunk in a beautiful family place like this.  Did you drink my second whiskey bottle?

Brian: I thought it was water. Totes soz.

While Nyree was kneeling down to cut the plastic off my ankle I spotted Gasper with his elderly wife having a picnic on the grass. It just doesn't make sense though, why is he still in white? Maybe Nyree is part of the dream and I’m in Inception? Or maybe Gasper is God and I’m in hell? But in this hell the one person you care about the most doesn’t believe you and gives out to you 24/7 for the rest of eternity?

Brian: Wait! Hold on a second. If what you’re saying is true Nyree then why is he dressed head to toe in white?

Nyree: He’s dressed head to toe in Penny’s. C’mon, you know when you see unfashionable clothes on people you try block it out for the state of your mental health. Which means they usually appear to be dressed in white. It’s a mechanism you’ve developed to combat bad fashion.

Brian: Oh yeah. Good call.

The plastic was cut off my ankle. I was finally free. Relief and... wait... 

And just like that I threw up all over my Du’lamois nuatical tanktop. A mixture of whiskey, cinnamon and the remnants of yesterdays blue cheese crackers with banoffi coffee. Nyree patted my back, she’s sound like that.

Brian: (Sobbing) I’m a fashion fail.

Nyree: You’re not. Nature just bet you but don’t take it to heart, Mother Nature’s an asshole. Like seriously. 

Brian: Thanks bessie. 

Nyree: Let’s go get some more whiskey.

Brian: Good plan! I’ll get a new Du’lamois nuatical tanktop as well. 

And as the afternoon came in, Nyree and I hopped on our fixies and left the family orientated Glendalough for the familiar pastures of Dublin city centre. We got three bottles of whiskey, a bag of tobacco, two Vegan milkshakes and a bag of horse feed cause we’re bad ass like that. We arrived back in the apartment, hit the roof garden and began digging into our shopping. I didn’t give Anved the extra bottle of whiskey, partly because he was right about me being defeated by Mother Nature but mostly because I wanted to pour some on the floor for all the ‘fallin homies’ that nature has claimed over the years. And that was a lot. In fact, a whole bottle’s worth. We smoked cigarettes listening to some Fran Bell poetry on audio tape, approved the 34 following requests on Instagram, tried on my new   Du’lamois nuatical tanktop and all the while, couldn’t shake the feeling that Mother Nature, even in the Irish Wild or anywhere on Earth, was a total bitch. A bitch who shops in TK Maxx.

Vahe Gabrielyan is a hipster from Armenia and he once punched Mother Nature in the face with his fist so hard that she almost went back to the Ice Age. Here's his pics, boom! 

The Carnival guy was a funny shot, the person was dressed like a bushman, had a Polaroid camera, smoked [I believe] Rothmans cigarettes and looked really cross. 

About 12-13 years ago a widely read Russian newspaper, Argumenti i fakti (Arguments and facts) held a photo competition the winner of which was to be a photo of the newspaper being read in the most unlikely spot. This guy in Burj-al -Arab hotel in Dubai was not something extraordinary for Russians and the photo did not win.

On first day in Venice, Hasmik and I saw these guitar players on Saint Marco plazza and the impression was that we were watching a Western or a film on Mexico.

I just like the shot and her cheerful looks.

They did not pay attention and I did not ask. It would have been a shame to distract them.

If the boss wants to do something, many people oblige....

Speakers' Corner, Hyde Park, London. The most 'un-bothered' performers of everywhere.

Speak soon hombres!

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it."

The power of love... fashionable love...

Asking a hipster out is very hard. Here are certain rules that will help. 

If you sound like your interested in them then you’ve got no chance. 

They’ll be over you (not in a sexual way) before you know it. As we’ve said before, never show excitement. Make it seem like meeting up with that hipster whom you fancy could be achieved if you find time to fit them in between your stressful schedule of knitting your latest sheep’s wool cardigan and fixing your Fixie that has, for some strange reason, rusted and broken after you spent all night cycling through the rain listening to Howl by Allen Ginsberg on your iPod. Which by the way, was in a case that made it look like a old skool walkman. 

Don’t use very extensive vocabulary.

Seriously don’t, it’s a CarBomb waiting to happen. Just because you’ve read every beat poet and novel that the Guardian put in their 100 Novels To Read Before You Die list doesn’t mean that you actually speak like you have. No. No. NO. 

So, that same hipster who’s been giving us that funny feeling in our pants is in the same cafe as us? Then my friend, this is what you do. 

You're at separate tables, beside each other.

You: So over this place.

Hot Hipster: Yeah.

Beat. 

You: Heard there’s a cafe down the street. Just opened. No one knows about it.

Hot Hipster: Cool.

You: Totes.

Beat.

Take a sip of your coffee.

You: Ugh, even the coffee here is shit. And like, I know coffee.

Hot Hipster: Yeah, coffee is so cool.

You: One of my favorite things. Part of my life. 

Get up and go to the toilet. Come back in two mins so there is no doubt that it wasn’t a number two, and pack up your belongings. These consist of the novel your reading (Preferably something in a foreign language. Flemish for instance?), your wayfarers, rolling tobacco and an acorn that later you tell the Hot Hipster fell out of a tree that morning and it reminded you of yourself.

You: I’m outta here. They have a Cecelia Ahern novel on the bookcase, for like, the customers to read.

Hot  Hipster: What? Where’s the bookcase?!

You: You can’t see it. I destroyed it. I’m so against bad fiction. 

Hot Hipster: Yeah, so am I.

You: Totes. See you later, I’m off to that cafe.

Beat.

Hot Hipster: Where is it?

You: Suppose I could show you. Whatev’s. 

Hot Hipster: Cool.

You: Totes. 

And just like that, love is born. Like an acorn is born on a tree. Nature. Whatev's. 

Don’t dress for the date.

Even with writing that sentence I’ve made a mistake. It’s not a date. It never is. If someone asks, Oh hey, heard you're meeting so and so later? You say you’ve forgotten about it and are just meeting up with them to test out some ideas for your latest novel. 

Now, the dressing part. You have to dress like that previous statement you said to your overly curious friend is true. No socks allowed. When they ask why? It’s because you and the Native Americans share the same belief that once the foot is covered, so is the soul. Also say that if you had your way you wouldn’t wear shoes at all, you’d just be rocking barefoot 24/7. Or natures soles. See what I did there?

No freshly ironed clothes allowed. I don’t care if your favorite shirt goes with the pants you want to wear, or if that sexy little skirt is creased from being on the floor of your room for too long, do not iron them. The hipster will know. We always know. We can smell the steam residue on the fabric. Simply, the morning of the date (but don’t call it that) spread the piece of creased wardrobe that you want to wear on your kitchen table and place a selection of books all over it. What this will do is slowly take the heavy creases out through the pressure provided while the kitchen table will make the clothes in question smell like you were baking all day. Which hipsters love. Note: The more obscure the book, the better the distressed creases will be. 

No baby faced assassins allowed. Sorry girls, this ones for the men. Do not shave. If you have a beard, keep it. If you have stubble, then shave but ONLY into a mustache. That upper lip will drive that girl hip. And if you have a mustache then only order drinks that will leave it’s remnants on the facial hair in question. Milk, Guinness, Frozen Yogurt. 

Which brings us onto food. 

Meat is not good for the ol’Hipster loins.

When this is successful, which it no doubt will be, you bring the Hot Hipster to the cafe you were talking about. Or if it’s too hard to find an unheard of place that’s right up the top in the cool standard then simply pretend to get distracted halfway there by the sunset, a street busker or a wandering pigeon etc. When you’ve stopped for about a minute or so, simply say that you're pretty hungry, so over that cafe you were on your way to and your gonna go someplace else. 

The Hot Hipster will be bowled over by the fact that you’re over something before even trying it and will be beginning to develop feelings. Bring them to a restaurant that ONLY serves Vegan food. Order whichever meal makes your plate look like it’s just dinner for horses, oats, granules, seeds etc and have a prepared rant about the bourgeoise establishment you currently find yourselves in and how the slave trade is alive and well in modern Ireland. Also try breaking into another language because you forgot that the Hot Hipster only speaks English. The pleb. Hot Hipster, who once was the hottest hipster you ever laid your non-prescription glasses on will be getting so turned on now, will be thinking so much of you and your intelligence that they’ll be thinking this is defo an Instagram moment.

The minute you see that iPhone4 being raised and the Hot Hipster taking a couple of photos of the evening via Instagram it’s pretty much a no brainer. You're gonna score.  

Note: What drink to order? Anything with Elderflower, Westvleteren 12, or the Hipster Hot Pot, which consists of 4 individual espressos poured into one giant mug and a piece of celery on the side. 

The no-pants dance means you still accessorize. 

Now, assuming you’ve followed these simple rules then dinner will fly-by and the Hot Hipster cannot wait to take you home. If on the off chance they want to go back to yousr and you don’t want them to, then simply say your homeless. It’ll turn them on more. 

You get back to theirs, some obscure music is playing, the lights get dim and one thing leads to another and before you know it, naked love is on the cards. No bother. Everyone loves sex and hipsters are no different. But, while the rest of the population will take off all their clothes, hipsters leave some on. Deck shoes: a must. If you want to keep on socks then only knee high. If your wearing glasses, leave them on also, but preferably try switch to your spare ones with no lenses. Scarves, in winter, will drive the Hot Hipster crazy. If you rock it in summer, they’ll want to marry you!

Now what moves to unleash in the bedroom or fold-out bed that you find yourself on. Well why not try the Hipster Shuffle, the Wicker Wombat, the Tallahassee Tussle, the Bronco Charge or the awe inspiring Flannel Fluter. If you don’t know these sexual moves and techniques then reading this has all been in vain and you shouldn’t even ask that Hot Hipster out.

 Contrary to belief, people are not the same all over the world. But cool people are. Example: our beautiful hipster comrade Sohn Supradya Aursudkij who made a video called Stop Global Warming in between hanging out at the local flea markets, cafes and trendy bars. This is a still image from the video. Check it before you wreck it!

 "What if the world's average water level raises to this extent..."

Sohn, we love you, danke tres much!

Here's the link to the whole video, check it out and be amazed:
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36gDZ_28wsw

Speak soon!

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it."