Welcome to London

London is a quintessential fashion capital. Though we don’t have the edgy cool of New York, the elegant chic of Paris or the classic luxury of Milan, we have quirkiness and an extraordinary propensity to seek originality, using every sartorial tool in the box to illustrate exactly who we are, consciously or not. What we have, unique to London, are more distinctive fashion districts than you can shake a stick at. In Paris you have the right bank, and the left. New York: uptown and downtown. In London we have sartorial subsets that range from Chelsea to Camden, Shoreditch to Shepherd’s Bush, Portobello to Primrose Hill.

For those who are strangers to London, I will seek to elucidate the signatures of two of our most ubiquitous fashion sets: Chelsea and Hoxton. The point is not to identify yourself with either of them – heaven forbid! – just be armed with the knowledge that they both exist, in various degrees of extremity, and you have my permission to sniff smugly at their generic conformism: a crime that a true London fashionista would never commit.

Chelsea

Commonly known as Sloanes, after the Chelsea hub of Sloane Square, this lot, with their Ugg boots and Barbour jackets in tow, have managed to disperse themselves up and down the country, which is fairly unfortunate for the rest of us.

The look: Inspired by the greener pastures outside of the M25, this is what happens when the middle classes of the Home Counties move to London.

The girls: She seemingly hasn’t quite gotten over the loss of her pony and so tries to emulate that muddy, blustered look of a long day of dressage with matted hair (it’s actually highlighted by a very expensive hairdresser in Mayfair, and has had that messiness carefully created by a well-refined blend of various sprays, lotions and potions) and smudged eyeliner. The daily uniform is tights, Uggs, denim and a jumper emblazoned with either their school or sport of choice. Worse specimens wear pyjama bottoms, and favour a Puffa gilet to the more traditional coat in the winter months. Don’t forget the pashmina.

The boys: Flip-flops, whatever the weather, is a classic hallmark. Combine these with a wardrobe composed of Jack Wills and Abercrombie/Hollister. His collar is always turned up and contrary to his true country counterpart, his hair is long and side-swept; a true country bumpkin keeps his hair short and functional, not needing to run his hand through it every 5 minutes, to maintain that perfect side parting.

Where to find them: Listen out for shouts of “Arabella!” or “Tarquin!” outside any of Mahiki, Boujis or The Brompton Club.

What happens when they grow up? Nothing good. David Cameron and Kate Middleton. I know.

HOXTON

Welcome to East London. A land where individualism has run so rampant that it has managed to blur itself into a sea of hipsters bound by their rejection of all things mainstream.

The look: a better journalist than I once said that hipsterism “fetishises the authentic” elements of the “fringe movements of the post-war era – beat, hippie, punk, grunge and regurgitates it with a winking inauthenticity” – harsh words. All fashion is some kind of regurgitation and the London brand of hipster just tries too bloody hard.

The girls: androgynous haircut, floral minidress, grandma’s old cardi, ripped tights, plus/minus American Apparel accessories and non-prescription thick-rimmed glasses. She is usually dragging on a cigarette whose brand you’ve never heard of. They’re foreign, apparently. She loathes to admit that mummy and daddy are actually the owners of her Hoxton studio flat and that though she pulls pints at the local, her allowance drops in on the first of every month.

The boys: The classic white-boy afro. You know what I’m talking about. Trousers perpetually tucked into boots. His jumpers are too small and he wears woolly hats on sunny days and sunglasses in the rain. He also got thrush once from wearing his trousers too tight.

Where to find them: Hanging out at the grungiest bars of Dalston and Stoke Newington – Hoxton is too darn mainstream now you see, those pesky finance types are cramping their style and the rent and drinks prices have suddenly shot up. Check out The Moustache Bar and Dalston Superstore – at the very least, the booze is pretty cheap.

What happens when they grow up? They get a normal job. Something sickeningly conformist like advertising or PR.