He’s not your husband: 11 types of Newcastle boys you’ll meet in Freshers’ Week

Your definitive guide to the Newcastle men you should probably blacklist…but will fall for anyway

42 minutes ago

Alexandra Friend | Opinion

Freshers’ Week is looming, and that means the possibility of crushes, new love, and many men on the prowl for their next victim. Here’s a guide to 11 types of men you’re likely to meet in Newcastle, all of whom will seem charming, different, and will probably tell you that he’s “not usually like this.”

The Tup Tup trawler

It’s past 2am, the lights are low, and his standards are lower. He’s alone and treating the dance floor like it’s Hinge with a bonus smoking area.

It’s a well-known phenomenon – he’s already made his rounds, approached half the girls in there, and is now working his way through the remaining options with the determination of a man who refuses to go home empty-handed.

Important note: Keep your friends close before the fisherman casts his net.

The rugby boy in chinos

He’ll be spotted every Wednesday without fail, smelling faintly of Lynx Africa and with a spilled drink down his shirt. He’ll say “boys” every third word, and will tell you you’re “not like other girls” as if it’s a compliment, before vanishing into Market Shaker with three identical men in the same outfit.

If he’s a social sec, sprint ASAP!

The situationship speed run

Freshers’ Week has a special talent for turning a stranger into your boyfriend in under 72 hours.

It’s a classic case of being love-bombed: He’ll be calling you “wifey” by Wednesday, introducing you to the boys by Thursday, and discussing your hypothetical future children by Friday. When Sunday rolls around, he’s disappeared and left you wondering whether you hallucinated the entire relationship.

Then, just when you’ve accepted that you will never see him again, he reappears in week six with a “you up?” text, like a dreadful recurrence of Freshers’ Flu.

It’s like a romance on a seven-day free trial, and you’ve forgotten to cancel the subscription.

The ‘I live in Jesmond’ evangelist

He refers to Jesmond as though it’s Monaco and he owns the property. In reality, he’s splitting rent six ways and surviving on plain pasta paired with £2 red pints from Bar Blanc.

This red flag transcends into something deeper. Not only are you facing the walk of shame, but you now must sneak past his housemates, who already know everything about you and everything that happened last night… you’ll be avoiding this group for the rest of term. Good luck x

Your flatmate #FLATCEST

No. Just no.

It might seem like a good idea at the time. You’re both single, you already spend every day together and you’ve somehow overshared the most intimate and disgusting details of your lives – bowel movements, your most humiliating moments – and yet, inexplicably, there is still sexual tension.

Suddenly, the kitchen feels romantic. Never mind the overflowing bin, the unidentified substance on the hob, or the fact that the fridge smells like something has died.

These are the people you’re supposed to form genuine friendships with: The people who will see you at your absolute worst, lend you washing-up liquid and witness you barely stomaching a bowl of cereal at 4pm in yesterday’s outfit after spending the previous four hours aggressively throwing up.

Because when it inevitably ends badly, there is no graceful exit. You still have 20 weeks of tenancy left, the recycling needs taking out, and you’re going to have to make eye contact over the toaster every morning while pretending you definitely don’t remember what happened in the kitchen on Wednesday.

The enlightened manchild

Three blue VKs deep and suddenly he’s explaining the meaning of life, misquoting classic literature, and calling it his “mindset.” He’ll then look at you like he’s just delivered the closing argument of a god-awful men’s podcast.

For the particularly unlucky, the conversation quickly evolves into a trauma portfolio, where he’ll tell you his entire life story, his ex’s name, his attachment style, his stance on therapy, and his mum’s opinions on all of the above.

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You came for a drink, but now you’ve left with more baggage (his) than the reclaim belt at terminal 5 of Heathrow. Don’t mistake this for his emotional maturity – he desperately needs a therapist.

The boy who’s ‘off socials’

He’ll say this like he’s transcended modern society, that he’s above it all and better than the algorithm. He might add that he doesn’t support Meta or Mark Zuckerberg, if he’s deep into the lie.

He does have socials; it’s just that he has a girlfriend back home.

The ghost of school popularity

He was a big fish in a very small pond, and now university has introduced him to an ocean, and he’s still swimming like he owns it.

His peak was year 13, but unfortunately for everyone involved, he’s still on the victory lap. He’ll tell you what school he went to within 30 seconds, casually mentions being rugby captain before you’ve asked, and sometimes produces photographic evidence of his old sports team.

Emotionally, he’s still 17, but socially, he hasn’t quite realised nobody cares anymore.

The Mario & Luigi costume boys

It’s a staple costume of the walking red flags, and is anything but iconic. They’ll be loud and sweaty, and will be aggressively shouting over a remix no one asked for.

They have an ego masked as confidence, and they call the kebab shop owner “bossman,” whilst said “bossman” tries to avoid eye-contact the entire time.

The Freshers’ Flu superspreader

He’s gasping for air between each cough but still leaning in for a kiss. Yuck. He’s also the reason the entire flat is bedridden before lectures have even started and the architect of your academic downfall. You’ll never be attending a 9am again after this, and good luck to your sleep schedule.

He’s defo not boyfriend material, and he’s the reason hand sanitiser exists.

‘On my gap yah…’

Let’s finish with the overprivileged gap year prick. Every conversation somehow leads back to Thailand. You mention Newcastle’s rain? Thailand. You order a curry? Thailand. There’s a puddle in Jesmond Dene? Apparently, it’s giving him “serious Southeast Asian energy.”

He wears a battered-looking bangle on his wrist that he insists he bought from a tiny village in Cambodia after “connecting with the locals.” I’m fairly sure I saw the exact same one in a corner store on my all-inclusive holiday to Majorca…

He’ll tell you travelling “really changed him,” despite returning home to a Range Rover and a trust fund.

You probably didn’t even ask about his gap year, but hé found a way to tell you anyway.