Let us make one thing crystal clear: we are not speaking of the contemporary hipster. While jazz-jumpin’ chaps from the mid-twentieth century were sometimes referred to as ‘hipsters’, we are going to use the term ‘hep cat’ to distinguish this stylish breed from their bearded millennial counterparts. Chaps who favour the forties may be perfectly … Keep Reading
This fellow, who happens to hail from New Zealand, probably thinks he is terribly louche and debonair in a smoking jacket. He is, in fact, wearing a dressing gown and strikes the sort of pose one would expect from Mr. Vinnicent Jones while relaxing on the set of one of his appalling motion pictures.
Richard Pye’s accompanying missive read: “I submit this picture of my self relaxing at home over Christmas. Am I a Chap?” Without getting too spiritual, a picture of your “self” would hopefully not contain an unnecessary (and unattractive) plastic pipe and a cravat that is the wrong size for you. And it you are “relaxing at Christmas”, where is everybody else, and why are you hiding in a poorly-lit basement? I think perhaps you have unwittingly revealed your true self, after all. But you have not revealed, or concealed, a Chap.
“Is my acquaintance, Philip John, chap or not?” asks Nick Brickett. One could equally pose the question: if a perfectly ordinary-looking man who hasn’t shaved for a week places a stethoscope around his neck, does that make him a doctor?
Everything about this creepy man is horrific, from the way he stores his things in plastic boxes to the way he has thrown a half eaten apple on the floor. Living with him must be a combination of utter tedium and constant static electric shocks from his synthetic soft furnishings and his clothes.