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“In the city theres a thousand faces all shining bright, And each one of those faces is under 25! “

By Dave Kenny

 

Or so Paul Weller said before he became some beaut running around the New forest in a loin cloth for a Style Council sleeve. But it did get me thinking about my own age. Now going on into my late twenties and I’ve got to look at the facts that im not exactly a youth anymore. Which kind of saddens me. Not because I’m terrified of the inevitable approach of the big 3-Oh as some whoppers are probably going to keep on telling me for the next few years but because I missed out on having my own youth culture of my own. Whilst some had mods, rockers, skinheads, punk, northern soul, warehouse parties etc etc What did I have? Coldplay and the f##king Kooks? Wise up.

 

But then looking back, I always did feel a bit out of sync with everyone else in my demographic. The noughties, the decade of believing anything FHM told you. Shocking state of affairs really. Even the name seems like some sort of focus group, committee decided marketing name. “Welcome to The Noughties. Its young, fresh, modern, urban, cool and best of all, sounds a bit like Naughty.” Sadly many took the bait. I seemed to be surrounding by clueless types who thought Robbie Williams was cool And I know other decades were full of whoppers as well but at least there seemed to be an alternative, an underground to seek refuge in. Yet I live in the age where Girls Aloud sang “Sound of the Underground” without a hint of Irony. They’re about as underground as your average 747.

 

However it did get me thinking about the things I never did and hopefully I didn’t make too much of a tit out myself. Then again there is still a year and a half left of this decade so something might happen.

But, hey, I shouldn’t dwell on it too much. So I didn’t go fighting rockers along beach fronts on bank holidays, spend all night gurning at Shoom or become king of the terraces in my Hi-Tech Silver Shadows, at least I never had a spice boy haircut.

 

 

Things I never done during the Noughties

 

  1. Had a Toni & Guys special.

 

I must have missed a meeting but somehow becoming a hairdresser, not a barber but a hairdresser mind, has become a manly occupation. And having a haircut named after part of London is apparently the “In” thing to do. The Hoxton Finn, The Barnet barnet, The Camden Twat. Now I’m not trying to say that silly haircuts were the preserve of the Noughties, but there is a difference between gelling your hair into a slick back or a home bleaching and spending 50 quid to have a consulatation with Anton who suggested you should get a Shoreditch Mong which will cost you another 60 quid but don’t worry you’ll get a free head massage from the 17 year old trainee, you sexual deviant.

 

 

 

 

  1. Voted on Big Brother

 

Or any other reality TV show for that matter, because frankly in the great scheme of things IT DOESN’T MATTER!!! The only time I would ever text in or press the red button is if it would lead to the release of a pack of rabid hounds, who had been starved half mad, into the house. If they survived that then they deserve their 70 grand cheque.

 

  1. Bought into the whole Metrosexuality con

 

Ohh Fat Frankie Lampard waxes his armpits. Oooh men wearing eyeliner.

Ooooh men straightening their hair.  Oooooooh, could you all go away and die please and we’ll use the money you vain tarts use to preen yourself on something more useful instead.

 

  1. Been to a Starbucks.

 

Once had a conversation with one of those boring people who insist on telling you how sodding Green they are and how they are “sooooo against globalisation and have watched Supersize me like 30 times,” all the while he was drinking a Starbucks coffee. Its like the posh kid from Eton who got nicked at the May Day riots in London a few years back for smashin up a MacDonalds. Or the fact Banksy is a public schoolboy. What also bugs me is how they don’t stick to their own little Wi-Fied up caffeine speakeasies, tip tapping away on their laptops in an attempt to seem important. We now have to put up with coffee bores who insist on making queues at Greggs longer than necessary by ordering a double mocca, chocca, frig-a-chino with soya milk and hazlenuts at ten to eight in the morning. Behave yourself, I’m trying to buy a steak slice before I go to work.

 

  1. Joined Bebo

 

Or as it should really be known, Bebophile. Social networking for sexual predators.

End of story.

 

  1. Wore a trackie top with the name of a fictitious  US Mid-West Univeristy on it

 

We’ve all seen them. People walking around with a zip up trackie top with some crap like Michigan State Cougars ’79 or Boston French Ticklers ‘77 blazoned across the chest. What the hell does that mean?? I know that it means. What it means is that you’re bird chooses you’re clothes for you, you GAP clad automaton. Here’s an idea, get your girlfriends handbag, have a rummaged around inside until you find your testicles and go and buy something a bit smarter, you’re almost 30 you scruff.

 

  1. Enjoyed the music of Robbie Williams

 

The mere sight of this object gets me into a ranting rage. If I was to ever meet him I would set his face on fire and then put it out with a golf shoe, and then repeat the process ad nauseam. He’s not the entertainer, he’s a prick. Look at when Take That made a come back with their Morrisons-hawking anthem Shine and were getting the dubious honour of Brit awards etc. This no mark is so desperate for attention that he would elicit pity from people by booking himself into rehab for… Caffeine addiction.  Oooh, I drink too much red bull and espressos, give me some sympathy please.

 

Robbie here is some advice for you. Dry your eyes, get your glad rags on, get yourself down the docks and get yourself a big strapping stoker from the coast of Kuala Lumpar and you’ll feel a whole lot better.

 

  1. Worn a scarf indoors

 

My mate is in a couple of bands which means over the years I have been in and around the local music venues to lend my support. And I have seen what has to be one of the most arsey fashion styles in a while, wearing a scarf indoors. I’ve seen them with their Shoreditch mong haircuts, t-shirts that are a little too tight and bootcut jeans. And to top it all off they are wearing aviator shades and a scarf. If its cold enough to be wearing a scarf then may I suggest putting on a jumper, or possibly a jacket. The secret of staying warm is layers.

 

  1. Sat and watched an episode of Sex and The City in order to get my Nat King Cole

 

Boyfriends, husband, lovers, backdoor men, and “friends” who live in the hope that one day the object of their affections will get drunk enough and/ or feel sorry enough for them to sleep with them. If any of you have thought that sitting through this will help you’re chances, you should hang your head in shame. This show has to be the zenith of “aspirational” programming which has clogged our airwaves in the noughties. Whilst crap like Footballers wives is easy to dismiss due to it being, well, crap, this comes with an amount of credence which is dangerous. But I’ll ask you this. Why would I want the women in my life to aspire to be anything like those Harpies on that show. Vapid, self obsessed, vain etc etc need I go on?

“But Dave, it completely revolutionised how many women are portrayed on TV. Women who were usually cast as sex object are now the ones talking about the sex, bladebladeblah…”

No it didn’t. All this nonsense was created by a rather skilled marketing executive who had the difficult brief of selling the exploits of over privileged, over sexed Manhattan socialites to the world. Let’s look at the facts. All the women in that show are obsessed with shoes and clothes and all the women in that show constantly talk about men. Oh yeah, I see how they’ve revolutionised TV by changing absolutely nothing. So now they put some low level soft porn smut in and I’m meant to be shocked. Come to some of the boozers round my gaff. The barmaids say things that would make Caligula blush never mind that bird out of Mannequin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Read Harry Potter

 

Lets get this straight. That is a children’s book you are reading. And buying the adults copy without the cartoon pictures on the cover doesn’t make it any better. The thing that bugs me is that its just people buying what their told to buy. “Oh yes, I heard it on GMTV and This Morning that many grown ups read this gash so its perfectly okay”. And I particularly hate people who advertise the fact they read Harry Potter by reading it on the bus to work.  I have not worked out how I am going to combat this yet but have thought of two plans. Plan A, the next time somebody pulls out a couple of Harry Potter and the Homoerotic subtext (think about it. He hits puberty, discovers he’s “different” from everyone else and doesn’t have to live in the “closet” under the stairs anymore) I will sit right next to them and pull out a copy of Spot the Dog. Or Plan B, I will pull out a couple of Razzle and calmly explain that since there are reading a children’s book, my reading material has to be of a highly adult nature to level things out.

 

 

 




 

 

 


 

 

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