Men Beware. This is the first part in a series of posts unzipping menswear clichés and exposing the stereotypes lurking below. Leanne Cloudsdale, John William and Pearl Ashton Geering report… Sorry dudes

I can’t stand: The Posh Boy
By Leanne Cloudsdale

Even the gentrified streets of east London aren’t posh enough for these mummy’s boys. You’ll spot the odd one, now and again at a private view on Vyner Street, “I went to school with one of the artists”, but once the clock strikes midnight, they’re hailing a black cab back to Fulham. Don’t be fooled by those salmon pink socks girls – that’s not UNIQLO, it’s Asprey. The boundaries have blurred over the past 18 months, and on a dark night it’s sometimes hard to spot the difference between a lost toff and a graphic designer. Take heed of the following tips however, and you’ll never need panic again when exchanging phone numbers outside Shoreditch House.

Let’s start with trousers. From womb to tomb, the pantalon of choice fits into two strict categories: the chunky chino and the jumbo cord. The Ocado delivered diet goes straight to the hips, and those oversized derrières really need ample, comfy coverage. Freedom of movement is key for these well fed Percys – one never knows when you might have to mount a quad bike or straddle daddy’s horse. Jacket wise, if the Barbour fits, hell they’ll wear it. Not so long since, the Orvis hunting jacket had a valid part to play in weekend wear, but with Jack Wills bursting out on our high streets, the silhouette has changed. Once the staple for folk rock gods such as Neil Young, we’ve now got barrel chested hedge fund orphans swanning about in pastel seersucker.

When it comes to shirts and jumpers, only Ralph will do, “if it’s good enough for Wills and Harry”. Besides, everyone knows his patterns are cut with the American portion size in mind, and on this side of the pond they are perfect for second helpings of Mother Dear’s Eton Mess. Regardless of sex or social class, shoes are the windows to the soul, and so for these fumbling, floppy haired cads, only suede will do. Whether Cole Haan penny loafers, worn sockless to show off tanned ankles, “fantastic week in Corsica with Chloe”, or a sturdy pair of Crockett & Jones brogues – these overgrown toddlers never stray from tried and tested equations.

Seasonal ref: For AW11, various incarnations of the Posh Boy (P.B.) walked the runways of London, Paris and Milan (in New York it’s “Prep” and that’s a whole different ballgame. Literally… you’d never catch a proper posh boy playing Baseball. Over here we call that Rounders and only nellies play Rounders.) Vivienne Westwood’s somewhat pastiche P.B. had a distinct homoerotic whiff of the boys’ dorms, whilst LCF MA designer Louise Simmonds put her Posh Boys in gold brocades and fur trims. Her shrunken evening jackets were a little Lord Fauntleroy, whilst the dramatic fur panelled “dress” coats (literally coats that were dresses… for men) would have secured a personal order in every colour from Liberace.

Must Have: Aside from a macaroon shade jumbo corduroy or bobbly cricket jumper; a ruddy complexion, baby fine hair worn in a fluffy comb over, and gout.