Every type of person you’ll meet at UCL
Hipsters are the worst
We are at one of the most diverse universities in the UK, but still, everyone lacks individuality.
The hipster is one of UCL’s most aggravating species. Once the hipster was a nonchalant, bohemian creature, but today, London’s wealthy youth have adopted this fashion. Think less Rasta, more Trust-a-farian.
Indeed this clan seem to breed like rabbits with each new day at UCL bringing yet another topknot and distressed suede jacket, as if the 1970s threw up all over Gower Street.
It’s easy to locate them, too. Simply work your way towards the nearest vintage sale. Far from a cut price flea market for the thrifty student, they are extortionately overpriced bazaars where these undergrads splash daddy’s cash: snapping up oversized denim jackets, soiled tie-dyed shirts and a hoard of antiquated garms. Squeals of “Hugo, this fur coat is a must”, penetrate the air, “only £100, what a steal.”
And of course, iPhone’s are on hand to document this momentous occasion, a flood of selfies assaulting their long suffering Instagram following. Finally cramming their spoils in Louis Vuitton backpacks, they Uber their way to Gaucho for lunch with mummy.
Anybody frequenting campus will be aware of these parasites. UCL grounds are littered with aggravating pamphleteers, flogging everything from grocery delivery to paintballing experiences. Their eagle eyes purvey the surroundings, ready to pounce on poor unsuspecting students.
Dodging them is harder than breaking out of Alcatraz. We’ve all attempted to dodge them: we avoid eye contact, pretend to take a phone call or even change direction, but alas like a lion stalking a gazelle, the pamphleteer always emerges the victor of the hunt.
We are forced to listen as they endeavour to persuade us that forking out £100 on Ikea’s new student range will somehow improve our lives. Unfortunately, however hard you resist, you’ll probably emerge 10 minutes later £70 poorer, and the proud owner of a bespoke dry cleaning subscription.
Spring Week wankers
We all know a few of these. Their voices booming over the lecture hall, just in case those at the back didn’t hear about their round of golf with Richard Branson.
By the beginning of October they are already boasting about which Spring Week placements they’ve bagged. While most of us stumble down Gower Street, still plastered from last night’s Loop, UCL’s suited and booted strut across the quad, briefcase in hand, as if they were already an executive director at Goldman and Sachs. For them winning is not everything, it’s the only thing.
But alas, these individuals and their EFS chums will most likely be running the country or setting our interest rates in a few years, so hold back on the jibes.
If it’s not rent prices or climate change, it’s the evils of capitalism, and these students are always up for a good demonstration. These flag-waving activists prefer to congregate in the quad, draping the portico in banners adorned with slogans lambasting corporate greed or the Torys’ most recent welfare cuts.
Our resentment is borne from the feeling of guilt they leave with us mere mortals. When they come canvasing, we pledge allegiance to their cause, even promising to wave a banner or two in solidarity at the next demonstration. But when it comes down to it, Netflix is far more appealing than trudging the streets of London on a blistering November morning, no matter how much of an imbecile David Cameron might be.
The try hards
You know the type. You’re sitting in a lecture, half listening, when a whiney voice from somewhere to your left pierces the lecturer’s drone. What follows is a barely comprehensible string of sentences by the same person who asks the same ridiculous questions every single week.
They’ll usually continue to challenge the lecturer over and over again, a discussion which continues in to seminars despite the fact nobody else cares. You can guarantee they’ve done all the extra readings, attended all the talks you ignore emails about and go to the lecturers office hours so regularly they become good friends.
The daddy’s girl
These girls love jetting off to New York for the weekend, taking impromptu spa days and sipping wine in the house mummy and daddy bought “as an investment”. They’re usually devastatingly attractive – as if there wasn’t enough going for them already – and hit Mayfair each week completely sober for a few Insta pics.
The boys exist, but they’re much harder to find. They’ll host a soirée in their West-end homes and chat about how much they love the Camembert/Pinot Noir combination. They’ll wear blazers to events and know about 10 different tie knots, own about 18 pairs of chinos and buy their lattés in Starbucks, not Gordons.
UCL wouldn’t be the same without them.