BRIGHTON has been named the most hipster city in the world. This is based on Google searches, which measures words and phrases being searched.

We top the chart when people type in “veganism, beard, craft beer, avocado and podcast”. Who the hell searches for “beard” or “avocado”?

Mr Google should perhaps have come to visit our sticky seaside before announcing his top choice. Surely, we should be crowned for “hen parties gone wrong” or “most militant seagulls” or even “friendliest homeless people”.

I don’t have a beard, (just the odd whisker), I’m not a vegan, I don’t drink craft beer, am allergic to avocado and listen to Absolute FM.

The words “hipster” and “podcast” didn’t used to exist. Nor did avocados or vegans come to think of it. I never saw one until I, ah, yes. Until I moved to Brighton. Fine, I’ll concede that, I suppose.

Beards have always been around. Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head oi! (to be sung to the tune of “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts”).

They used to be grown to keep men warm when spearing animals in snowy climates wearing nothing but fur.

Now bearded men stand politely next to one another in Waitrose squeezing avocados. If they both happen to go for the same one at the same time, they simultaneously apologise profusely, use the word “man” a lot and compliment one another on the hamsters attached to their faces.

“What oil do you use on that, man, it smells great.”

“Avocado oil actually. I was just buying some for a new batch.” Then they both laugh “har, har, har” and say, “let’s go for a craft beer”, then tootle off together in short trousers like they are expecting a flood.

Now beards are a pretentious statement about individuality. They get combed and oiled and both sexes get all flustered in their sweet-scented presence.

Meanwhile, women are still having to obsessively hair-remove to resemble giant silky babies.

Imagine if we grew and groomed our lady beards? It’s one rule for one person and a different for the next.

The ham-burglar who battered down Burger King’s door and pushed over a manager to get to the Whoppers wasn’t a hipster. High on “spice” he told the supervisor he was “dead” after calling the police. It’s not all tree hugging, and henna hair dye down here.

A mass brawl broke out outside The Grand last week, after an Ultra MMA fight night, held to raise money for cancer research. No avocados in sight. Just pumped up pineapples in skinny suits feeling a bit tasty. The security guard said there were blood and broken noses everywhere. The MMA fighters said it showed “proper disrespect”.

Meanwhile, a lad promised to “down” a station staff member when he was caught boarding a train without a ticket. He told another staff member he was asking for a slap. “I’ll put you to sleep bruv” he promised. He didn’t, and in court said, “I was a bit drunk at the time and apologise.”

I think the internet is to blame. People start to believe they are slightly tougher than they are, and momentarily forget they are not playing a computer game or leaving a comment online. They are in real life.

I get asked regularly, through comments on my column, to shut my mouth and end my life, but when I go out and about in Brighton with my “twenty-years-out-of-date” big hair, no one has ever confronted me on the street. No one has lobbed avocados at me or drawn me a map to Beachy Head as promised. All I’ve ever had is “I recognise you” or “my nan likes your column”.

Seems we are not as tough or as confident as we like to make out.

When the husband grows a beard, he’s not trying to a hipster, he’s just too knackered to shave. I call him Rusty Copperpot until he goes and gets it hacked off by a Turkish man who waxes his ears at the same time.

We are not fans of grooming. It’s rare we are all washed, shaved, and wearing socks and pants at the same time. One of us will always be missing something.

We are the family who go swimming with one towel and two pairs of tangled goggles, costumes still festering in the bottom of the bag from last time. We are the family who argue loudly about who packed the swimming bag while in the changing room, drop our clothes on the wet, verruca-infested floor and queue for the slide for an hour, only to decide we’ve changed our minds at the top.

It’s higher then it looks. Plus, I don’t like to get my barnet wet. It’s my trademark.