Ben Hutchison
Simps are a much-maligned species. Long thought to operate only in the dark underbelly of society, Simps involuntarily came to the forefront of the public psyche in 2020: thank you, TikTok (- Of course we Simps proved to be the masters of our own downfall). One year on from this cultural boom, Simps continue to be the focus of worldwide persecution.
These days, in the naive Gen Z eye, anyone is a Simp. Yet the term that has now become a thoughtless, pejorative insult is at its very core much more nuanced, and much more noble.
I surveyed 100 generic people asking for words to describe a Simp. These were the most popular responses:
Incessant
Tenacious
Obsessive
Creepy
Simp
I then surveyed hordes of Simps, and they responded somewhat differently:
Loyal
Undervalued
Kind
Selfless
Handsome
A marked and frightening difference in perception. The second survey seems a little more accurate, don’t you think? I sure do. A sign that eyes need to be opened globally to combat negative stereotypes.
Offering a girl your jacket: selfless or ‘tenacious’? Exactly. Holding a door open for her: thoughtful or ‘obsessive’? Precisely. Peeling off your skin so she can use it as shelter for the night: ‘Creepy’ or kind? You get my point.
When you need us most, we are there. Always. The Nanny McPhee for disinterested women. The doormat to wipe your muddy espadrilles on. The kleenex to mop your glistening brow. The roll-on deodorant for all seasons. Need I continue?
So what if we listen to Cheerleader when we need motivation; so what if we prefer cool original Doritos to their oppressively hot and spicy siblings; so what if we use Simple hand moisturiser to combat our crippling eczema. Such is the path that we must tread.
If you boil it down, using Simp as a slur is sexist (and Simpist), and suggests an innate anxiety over female authority. So stop calling me a Simp, Mum.
To name but a few famous Simps: A list
The Proclaimers. 500 miles and counting.
Blunt (whose life is brilliant and love is pure.)
The Lumineers (Hey ho – talk about a life mantra)
O. Murs (Proving that fedoras hold a vital place in 21st Century normcore)
Kygo, for laying down the foundations.
Simple Minds. No explanation needed.
I heard about a Simp once, who, out walking with his mistress, saw a puddle up ahead. Instead of letting the lady get her feet splashed, he took off his coat and submerged his body in the water, forming a bridge for her to walk across. Sir Walter Raleigh eat your heart out. People laughed, but that sodden Simp had earned a glimmer of gratitude from the girl. Who’s laughing now.
So, fear not, fellow Simps. The waves of revolution are starting to roll in. The drums of defiance are a beating. Heed my call. Marches biweekly outside Spags.
“What do we want?!” I cry to my legions of typically loyal simps.
“Respect!” They mumble back sheepishly.
“When do we want it?!”
“At some point in the not too distant future!” Comes the unified reply.
Brothers in arms. Comrades fighting the good fight, fighting for the right to serve ceaselessly. Most importantly, we’re loud and proud, and no longer ashamed of who we are.
By
Anon.
The author preferred not to disclose his name for security reasons.
Appendix I: A Simp story…
By Tom Walton
It was a cold Tuesday; a Tuesday when I would revere my very nature. Being a subservient simp I agreed on a 3 mile walk with my superior, who for the purpose of this article must remain nameless. It was snowing. We’d been rambling for not nearly 10 minutes, when Hermione (whoops!) decided Stilettos were not the correct attire for such an outing. Obviously I agreed to swap my favourite Karimmors for the healed monstrosities: I was happy. Hermonie then decided that she was cold. I lent her my jacket. She was still cold. So I lent her my trousers to wear over her mini-skirt. But, still, she was cold. “I’m freezing, she whimpered.” So, I took off my cashmere socks (from the simp’s winter collection, Boden) and handed them over, gleefully. Alas, Hermonie was none the warmer. Suddenly I think I’m getting frostbite – standing prostrate in my singlet, mincing around the snow like an impalpable ostrich. Forgive my high register, I had several Iron Brus simply to pluck up enough courage to write this article, so, understandably, I’m feeling rather vibrant, if you’ll excuse my French. Eventually, however, I had no other option than to give up my singlet to the incessant Hermoanie – the singlet being the last bastion of a simp’s dignity. So now do I sit here, recovering from Hypothermia, questioning my existence, my worth, my meaning. I then uneasily cast aside my doubts, joyously recalling the worldwide success Simps have had.
