The impetus for Granfield’s journey from mere ‘halfster’ to ‘ultimatehipster’ is somewhat tenuous. HipsterMattic begins with a break-up; the author’s ex-girlfriend insists that ‘you don’t seem to know who you are’. What soon becomes evident is that the ensuing quest for self-discovery consists entirely of events that merely transpire in an effort to pitch the book itself. While this wouldn’t necessarily present a problem, were the intention not left conspicuously unacknowledged, the tale becomes an assemblage of contrivances that are difficult to accept in the absence of any ultimate reason for occurring. One example: Granfield consumes twelve coffees in one sitting (the toxicity level necessitates 120), purely because ‘Hipsters love their coffee’; not to mention an ironic tattoo he will now be sporting ad infinitum. For a generation reared almost exclusively on irony, this is simply the self-conscious form we can expect the age’s burgeoning memoirs to adopt.

Lifestyle television-like premises aside, Granfield’s observations about hipster culture are often acerbic and entertaining: among them the notion that growing a beard can constitute a legitimate hobby and that beige chinos are probably ‘on the verge of making an ironic comeback’. Readers would be best advised to adopt a wait-and-see approach towards the latter.