The kids, rulers of their world, are trapped in a state of perpetual adolescence; they call grown-ups 'grups'f Which brings us . . .

and stay with us on this one . . . to a recent, muchdiscussed article in New Yo r k magazine detailing, and we quote, ?the ascendant breed of grown-up who has redefined adulthood as we know it, and killed off the generation gap".

They call them Alt.Yuppies, or Yupsters (yuppie + hipster), or, you guessed it, Grups.

We're talking about the thirty- and fortysomethings . . . and New York city is positively teeming with them . . .

who say no to the notion that 'growing-up' means you have to turn into your parents;

instead, the convergence of obtainable cool and disposable income now means that they choose to remain painfully hip for as long as they damn fancy.

Grups don't wear suits, see . . . they prefer artfully ripped $200 jeans. They listen to Death Cab For Cutie on their iPod nanos . . . all the cool new bands sound like their '80s faves, anyhow.

Grups don't do conventional careers . . .

they freelance and consult, secure in the knowledge that The Man doesn't own their soul. They aren't afraid of having kids, they just refuse to do the Wiggles if they can turn their children onto the Strokes instead.

The '80s and '90s generations have struggled to find their place in the new world, adrift in a posteverything malaise of indecision and uncertainty; now they've found their groove. And, rather handily, created a choice new marketing demographic en route.

Whatever.

FYI: Just in case you think they haven't landed in Ireland yet, score yourself a couple of tickets to this summer's Electric Picnic . . . we're talking Grup central, babe. Go on . . . embrace your inner Grup today.