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Organic Steez

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Article
Becca
Organic Steez

What are the characteristics of those who exist in our current age of recess and downtrodden economic plight? Is style as important in times like these?
And where does good style end, and bad taste begin?

On “The Great Cunt Hunt” and the prevalent discovery of
"The Next Generation Of Swine”.

As The Good Doctor once wrote:

"Huge brains, small necks, weak muscles and fat wallets - these are the dominant physical characteristics of the '80's..."

The Generation of Swine.
(Thompson, 1985)

But what of the noughties? What are the characteristics of those who exist in our current age of recess and downtrodden economic plight?

Is style as important in times like these?

And where does good style end, and bad taste begin?

On the "Cunt Hunt" as I crudely put, I already had a fair idea of the kind of characteristics I was on the lookout for.
"Vacuous Arseholes" – as my flatmate remarked recently, when a quiet pint on a Friday turned into a freak-show. They were looking at us.
They may be male or female - I'm not discriminating against either gender.
I'm discriminating against everyone.
They own an iphone. They wear the latest trainers. If they are female they're probably wearing far too much make-up. If they're a bloke then they probably wear a side parting.
They follow trends. They do not make them because it is safer that way.
They swill until they are sick on themselves, then they take a picture on their iphone of their mate who has just been sick on himself.
But it is not puke stained trainers that I am interested in. Good style is an attitude, and these cunts have it bad.

"They swill until they are sick on themselves, and then they take a picture on their iphone of their mate who has just been sick on himself."

My chosen hunting ground was at the second edition of "Simple Things" festival in Bristol, Sunday 6th May. A tasty selection, albeit clumsily curated line up (Squarepusher on just before Caribou, and with no time to walk between venues) that consisted of those mentioned and amongst others: Nathan Fake, Lunice and R & S Records' Lone.
With artists such as these playing you would have to be relatively "in the know" in terms of your music taste to want to partake in the festivities on a level any greater then having a fat rave, losing your iphone and being sick on yourself. (Or would you?) I wondered... could I be attending a festival with the musical elite? How would this affect my search?
Thankfully, The Cunts were out in force. I spied one guy so inebriated he had that glazed-over look of blind anger in his eyes. A look I myself recognise all too easily. Though judging by his somewhat brutish physique I imagine that look rarely leaves him. He was being dragged away from the courtyard of Lakota by three even more brutish bouncers when I found him, and as I looked on I thought surely that must be it for this poor swine.

"As I looked on I thought surely that must be it for this poor swine."

Yet sure enough, in the middle of the dance floor fast encroaching 4am on Monday morning, and the end of the festival - there he was. Now wearing a black eye, purple and swollen. So completely off his head he was blind unto himself. Even the anger had left him. Swaying clumsily from side to side, arms flaying. I wasn't sure whether to feel sorry or proud for the brute. That still he remained. A cunt.

A cunt, amongst a sea of other cunts dancing. With the occasional elitist who stood still so not to get dirt on his or her trainers.

And so it would appear that this vacuous, unholy swarm have perhaps only replaced “The Generation of Swine” that Hunter S. wrote of in the eighties.
A reincarnation as “The Next Generation of Swine”:

Huge brains, small necks, weak muscles and fat wallets…” And iphones.

I am certainly not one to exclude myself from this next generation.
How could I? For it takes a cunt to know one. Hence from within the depth of my bitter tirade (and my acid trip) I realised I was looking at myself. The only real cunt there was me.
The Hunter hunted.

See you next time.

Becca