JON COOPER breaks down the fashion stereotypes of Cambridge: which one are you?

It’s 2015. It’s a big year.

That’s like, two thousand and fifteen years after Jesus was born. A full quinquinnium after the formation of the dreaded Coalition government.

The Tab wants to help you Cantabrigians collate your manufactured personality with your sense of pressure to conform in 2015, multifariously channelled through the refined exhibition of Pembroke’s nonpareil model Jon Cooper. Pick your niche!

Scally-chic: I don’t really belong here

Sometimes you just have to take things back to the working class council estate you didn’t grow up on.

Appropriating a working class subculture resistant to authority and bourgeois fashion is to blur class boundaries and liberate the petty proletarians with benevolent camaraderie, you cry.

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“I was the coolest in my sixth form; now I’m in this place full of try-hard nerds. At least I’m at Fitz.”

The cloister hypebeast

You embody an almost spiritual attachment to post-noughties street wear and unwavering belief in the temporality of style, appropriating what skaters wore – before it stopped being cool – without the requisite skill.

You can’t really afford the next Supreme drop, but that charity shop marble all-over print tee is just too dope. Wavey garms, man.

“Brah, Yung Gud jus dropped the sickest mixtape”

“Brah, Yung Gud jus dropped the sickest mixtape”

Newly Provincial Fashionista

Copies of GQ line your bookshelves, while term-time epiphanies of your own superficially venerated wonder follow as you are chauffeured by rustic “Cambridge friends” on a punt to Grantchester, allowing not a minute to go without a sharply-focused iPhone 6 Instagram opportunity.

Coming to Cambridge over UCL, King’s or ICL was likely your parents’ decision, and you left the dear yuppie zeitgeist you so cherished behind.

“How many May Balls are you going to?”

“How many May Balls are you going to?”

Plain, middle class; still kickin’ it

You genuinely don’t particularly care what you wear; however in order to convey your disinterestedness, you have to be careful what you wear. You cycle tasteful shirts with all buttons done up, pairs of perfectly respectable but slim jeans and if you’re feeling crazy, perhaps some abstract print tees.

You’re screaming to everyone just how modest, parentally acceptable and quietly affluent yet not socially disengaged you really are.

“I am the most vanilla piece of shit you’ve ever seen”

“I am the most vanilla piece of shit you’ve ever seen”

The happy-go-lucky floral fucker

You scornfully envy your dad’s holiday shirts when your family basks up the sun in their Spanish costal villa. Behind your skin-deep joviality and carefreeness is a deeply unhappy self who constantly has to live up to the expectations your floral, saturated garments have engendered in your persona.

Friends come to you looking for a good time; you smile obligingly while incessantly repeating the Lego Movie’s ‘Everything is Awesome’ theme tune in your head, complete with auto-tuning.

Dead inside

Dead inside

This one’s in this season, folks.

  • Not a cunt

    do you even lift?

  • Sick of people like this

    I mean who the fuck does he think he is???

  • Good Taste

    Best Tab article for a full quinquinnium

  • Cat lover

    This article seems just like an excuse for you to post selfies which you think are cute and get attention

    • You need to

      look up the definition of a selfie

  • The vans one

    has some serious bite

  • Albert CAMus

    People fight and die for liberal values and a free press and you choose to write such inane bullshit as this. It’s not amusing, it certainly doesn’t even come close to reality, is it a self parody? If you wish to take the piss out of vapid, vain morons then you’ve done a stellar job.

  • Rochester Rodriguez

    good chat

  • fan

    this is actually v funny. v fourpins. xxx

  • skater

    …that’s nowhere near what skaters wear.

  • Ha!

    Wasn’t expecting to find this funny. I was disappointed – in a good way.

  • Danny Tompkins

    So YOU stole my clothes. And took them to Peterhouse?! Oh, the shame…