I’m often humoured by hipsters with their tight-legged jeans, thick-rimmed glasses and ironic t-shirts that claim to hate “those fucking hipsters.”

“Ugh, I’m not going there … it’s full of fucking hipsters. I’ll meet you in North­cote instead.”

I don’t mean this to insult anyone, but some of these folk I count as good friends. Having friends with whom you agree on every single point with would become incredibly boring after all.

This led me to start thinking — if I see them as unable to recognise their true hipster nature, what about me? Am I living in the same self-denial? I wear thick-rimmed glasses, hang out in Fitzroy and Collingwood, dabble too much in sarcasm, consider myself to be counter-cultural, and am undeniably lazy.

I make excuses such as being too old or not fashionable enough, but I seem to hang out in the right circles for it to be true. Maybe I am what I’ve hated for all these years. For fuck’s sake—I’m writing this blog post on my iPhone in Bar Open’s beer garden!

My name is Craig Anderson, and I’m afraid that I may be a fucking hipster.