You go to Kent Uni
Sat in the back corner booth of Wetherspoons is a group of boys swirling house white, referring to themselves as the Bullingdon Club.
Wearing un-ironed Ralph shirts and identical pairs of navy boat shoes, these chaps are living under the illusion that an overnight love of Port has transformed the squad into a high-brow elite.
Having not even scraped the entry requirements for Oxford, it’s irrelevant to them that the closest their institution comes to having a mens club is the Real Ale Society. Who cares for traditions when you can order a whole bottle of red for £12 and pretend its vintage for the purpose of social media?
Sweeping the nation, one don lad at a time, is the Riot Club epidemic.
Posing with the Famous Grouse that was nicked from Daddy’s cabinet during the Christmas break, these boys are swapping pulling for pâté and chundering for chinos. No longer satisfied by dirty pint pres, they’re purchasing Co-Op’s finest cheese platters in the hopes it’ll make them seem just that bit more sophisticated.
With laser-quasar being the closest they’ve ever come to a shoot, the pretence of holidaying in the South of France (Disneyland Paris) and having their signet ring passed down through the generations (begged for it at Christmas), is helping these squires remould the uni stereotype.
Gone are the cheeky nights at Nando’s. The pussy patrol is dead. These cufflink wearing bellends would rather have a ten bird roast.
Putting money where their mouths are, they are the boys who’ve paid £100 between them for a table at the club. Raucous as a litter of kittens, the Bullingdon bullshitters will later post countless pictures of their “mad one”, all proudly holding up the one bottle of Moet to share between 10, as though it’s a trophy of wealth and/or non-existent swag.
Void of any female attention throughout the night, the not-so-riotous Riot Club will shrug off this absence by maintaining the belief that the best nights are spent with the boys and just the boys. Oh the tales of debauchery. What girl could appreciate their top banter and love for fine dining anyway?
They think with their dickie-bows instead of their dicks, but is this a step in the right direction for uni legends everywhere? Or will this new trend to recreate the group that some of our Nation’s political leaders once belonged to have a more detrimental effect on the consciousness of the lads?
Who knows. If it means boys will start swapping snapbacks for pocket squares in attempts to look like Douglas Booth, then who cares.