London stereotypes in 2025

Editor's preface: As a mid-thirties London transplant, I took great pleasure in collecting writers' thoughts on London stereotypes in 2025. Image credit goes to Socks House Meeting for the memes accompanying this blog post – as somebody who has stopped using social media, going through this Instagram account made me feel like a stranger in a strange land and a glossary of terms was desperately needed.

We’re all guilty of a stereotype. One writer is an early-thirties single gal living in South London who writes for a living, so obviously she loves spicy margaritas, wears Salomon trainers with any fit, and will be the first on the rooftop of Frank’s Cafe for its opening weekend each May. All these things firmly stick her in the “South London Creative” box. The other writers include Essex and American transplants living in East, and a soon-to-be Shoreditch-on-Sea DFL transplant.

As much as we may hate to admit it, we’re not as individual as we think. Just look at the hyper-local meme pages like Real Housewives of Clapton, Rye Smile, and Socks House Meeting. They perfectly sum up the London experience.

From trying to split the G to Lime biking everywhere to posting the latest trending book to Instagram Stories when the first five pages of the book haven't even been read, it’s hard to have an original thought these days. But we all need a sense of the stereotypes we exhibit and a strong sense of the sardonic. Enjoy the read.

The East Londoner with a miniature whippet

This person’s weekly shop consists of Perelló olives, a loaf of bread from Dusty Knuckle, and a bottle of pet-nat with an arty label.

Their miniature whippet has a jacket rotation almost as good as their owners’ – Carhartt, of course – and it comes with them everywhere, tucked under an arm, from the pub to picnics at London Fields to dining on small plates.

This Londoner will also definitely wear toe shoes if they’re dubbed as the latest trend. (We're talking five individual toes. Tabis are probably considered too “mainstream” now.)

The "South is best" Londoner

Editor's note: This is obviously written by a South Londoner.

A strange old place is South London, from the creatives and the roadmen to the families and pockets of communities who have created a sense of home. It’s a melting pot of amazing – spoken like a true “South is best” Londoner.

South London has more green areas than the rest of London, delicious restaurants that can stay the south's little secret, and everyone is that little bit kinder.

While this writer will always try and tempt people south of the river, she's aware that South Londoners also don’t shut up about how great it is and can’t promise that'll ever stop.

The "South is best" Londoner (Editor's version)

South London does have more green spaces, and great car boot sales, and places to eat, drink, and dance until 5 am (we're looking at you, Carpet Shop), unfortunately, the only problem with South London is the same that East London has: the local who doesn't shut up about it. And in case you weren't aware, South is becoming the new East.

West is the final frontier.

The photographer/stylist/DJ/poet/hyphen-career North Londoner

This North Londoner probably works part-time at a gallery or a coffee shop and has several other non-descript jobs that their mates don’t understand the rest of the time.

Always working on a different project or at a Pilates class mid-morning on a Wednesday, you’re never quite sure how this hyphen-career person makes ends meet. And then they buy a Hampstead house in cash, and you’re left thinking “???”.

The West London girlie

The perfect Barbie blowouts, a hint of Botox so subtle you think it’s just a 27-step skincare routine, and the power dressing – it’s something you can only find out West.

They love a bottomless brunch as much as their Fiat 500, getting through as many bottles of prosecco as humanly possible before venturing just over the river to Pear Tree Café in Battersea Park to see if all of their Hinge matches turned up for Friday Funday. They’re loud and proud and always having more fun than you.

The true Londoner

We get it, you’ve lived here all your life. So have your parents. So have your grandparents. But just because you live on the Central Line, doesn’t mean you live in London; e.g., Theydon Bois.

The other true Londoner: They're probably from South – SW or SE. They get annoyed when somebody asks where they're from because non-Londoners have never heard of their neighbourhood – unless it's Brixton or Peckham.

The Big Four bro

They don’t just work at the Big Four, it could be anything related to finance, tech, or law. Probably living in Earlsfield, they look anywhere between the ages of 21 and 41 – Is mysterious ageing something that earning three figures does to you?

These bros wear quarter zips as a daily uniform, drink beers on City streets at lunchtime, and it’s always gym bulking season.

We all know how they can function on four hours of sleep, but we do wonder if they ever get bored of going to Stockwell’s The Swan every weekend after the rugby.

The part-time Londoners

London seems home to many people who spend half of the year on holiday and you’re not quite sure how they 1) have the annual leave and 2) have the cash to be on the other side of the world for months of the year.

Whether it’s a weekend away in a dreamy Scandi country or perhaps Australia for a month, these people become part-time Londoners. When they are at home, they spend the whole time in the pub saying they wish they were drinking some obscure beer they tried once in Mexico or talking about where they’re off to on their next trip.

They try to sublet the box room in their flat for two weeks at a time, sometimes for double the price. That's probably how they fund their flights.

The I-can't-wait-to-leave-London Londoners

Usually London transplants who couldn't hack it and called it quits, buying a property in Margate because it's the only thing they could afford. Soon they get to be – in the words of Kent locals – DFLs, but it takes forever and an age to have their flat refurbished and they spend the entire time complaining about London to their London mates.

We get it. London is stupid expensive. The sun rises every day. Shut up. Margate is just Shoreditch-on-Sea anyway and you'll never be free of the whippet-toting, vaping, pet-nat-drinking, NTS-listening, Dusty Knuckle-tote-toting ageing raver. Except now the tote bags will say Forts and you'll still be pulling an all-nighter to rave at FOLD just not by choice, it's so you can get the first train home. It's an hour and forty minutes, by the way, because you're too broke to afford the fast train.

The EU Londoner

These EU passport holders haunt metal bars like Helgi's, The Dev, and the Black Heart, and prefer rollies, death metal, hard techno, and almost crashing as they drunk Lime bike their way home at the end of the night. They still think Camden is cool even though nobody else does and they complain about London weather more than Brits. They go home for two weeks every summer and feel like a king paying for things in Euros with their London paycheque and AmEx (unless they're from a Scandi country, then they just feel skint).

Columbia Road flower girlie

Nurtured on a saccharine diet of Richard Curtis films, One Direction, and Downtown Abbey, these flora-hunting Americans (they are always American) have a highly fetishised, pre-watergate notion of London ingrained in them from birth.

You’ll undoubtedly find them on East London’s most picturesque street. They’ll be taking selfies, a bouquet in hand, planning a caption that is some re-calibration of “My Little London Life”. Glint in their eye, they have about a year of parent-sponsored utopia before the cold reality of London sets in. When it does, they’ll swap scrap-book aesthetic Instagram posts for life itself – a Zone 3 shared house, flowers from the Co-op, and seasonal depression offset by the occasional £7 Charlie Bingham ready meal. Now that’s London.

The tourists on their first London trip

They’re on their phone on the street oblivious that it's probably going to be snatched in 0.5 seconds. You find them standing on the left on escalators, on walking tours, and eating at the first restaurant you see when you exit Leicester Square station – Angus Steakhouse.

Meandering around Central, they know nothing about the correct pace to walk, which is obviously one degree slower than a run. Weaving around these groups is like being a professional athlete. Once you’ve lived in London for a minimum of five years, then you can graduate to Olympic-level tryouts. We're proudly Team GB.

Embittered content writers

So, you studied English literature at a Redbrick and your dreams of writing nuanced op-eds on London’s psychogeography are slowly being confronted by the reality of 21st-century living. To soothe these existential sores, you spend your time taking caustic swipes at everyone and anyone you see in the City you’ve become a hostage of. “It’s fine,” you tell yourself, “this is what I wanted. Because I am a writer.” And that novel you’ve been finishing for the best part of your twenties? Give it up.

Victorian ghosts

You were murdered by a man in a trench coat and top hat 140 years ago. So what. The early metropolitan police failed to properly investigate the killing, showing a characteristic reluctance to probe the murderous upper caste which stalked the mean streets of the East End. So you decided to haunt the pubs and chop houses you spent your last miserable hours in. How original.

Really though, is London not crowded enough? Is the rental market not pushing us into ever smaller bedrooms, contesting with a bunch of Australians for the last gulp of mould-infected air? We have to share with ghosts too? We love sickly Dickensian children-looking aesthetics as much as the next events company, but really, it’s time these hangers-on moved on to greener pastures and left the city to the next generation – or start paying their share of rent.

Editor's note: Spot any incorrect information? Or have an article idea for HeadBox.com? Get in touch at submissions@headbox.com