There’s something about those gangs of posh hipster-Brit girls that populate the social pages of British glossy magazines that I read at the hairdresser. You know, Tatler and Harpers, et al that exist solely for AND because of these posh-totty-slags. Now we must distinguish between these girls and their polar opposites, the social phenomenon that is the WAG. As is my wont, I’ll use a handy pictorial comparison:

 
Left: Daisy Lowe & Peaches Geldof
Right: Someone named Cheryl Tweedie and Posh (Queen of the WAGs)
Thanks to Google Images for letting me steal your images.

Anyway, I mean the fabulous girls who travel in packs and seem to be constantly out drinking and wearing crazy/ fab outfits and falling in the gutters outside London hotspots whilst chain-smoking. These faux-boho-hobo princesses are invariably the offspring of models and rockstars and seem to always possess a wardrobe that consists of items they describe as “just some old thing I stole from mum when she was thin and famous.”

They’re always in the right place at the right time and are ALWAYS best friends with Kate Moss/ Agyness/ Lily Allen. Some of them even have careers as model/ actress/ DJ/ school students, you know, when they take a time-out from full time public debauchery/ attending the opening of a door. In fact, Peaches Geldof was even the face of Dotti for a minute there, such is the height of fame she has already attained.

Ok I shouldn’t be rude. I love them. They have the clothes I want and the lifestyle I attempt but have nary the connections or tabloid interest to achieve either. My love for them is purely aspirational though, I mean the truth is it’d be a full-time career to look that dishevelled and quite frankly I can’t see myself getting up off the couch to do much else except forage for another bottle of rose most nights of the week. Oh wait and I didn’t inherit the innate ability to create fashion and social zeitgeist, merely the penchant for trackies and a healthy appreciation for pub steak.
Oh  British aristobrats. I think that if we met one day we could be friends… or at least get drunk and wear stilettos and fall down in the gutter somewhere.