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Why your London postcode is completely irrelevant
04 July 2008 - Lee Krawczyk  One of the more irritating aspects of living in London is having to listen to people harp on about how much better their corner of the capital is. It would seem that you can’t sit in a bar today without some skinny-jean-wearing haircut explaining to anyone within earshot that “he couldn’t imagine living anywhere but Hoxton,” - even though he was raised in Peterborough and only moved to East London two months ago.
Fake East Londoners used to be the worst culprits for postcode bragging. Inspired, I like to assume, by Lily Allen; the country’s fashion design graduates, mediocre DJs and would-be photographers (or ‘shelf-stackers’ if you prefer) headed to Shoreditch to sit in pubs still under reconstruction from The Blitz, smoke roll-ups and say things like, “Oh my god. I had to go to Chiswick last week. Can you imagine? South of the river! Total fucking nightmare. Took me five days and the people were SO uncool. They actually wore clean clothes. Amazing!”
No sooner had the residents of ‘trendy EC2’ started to grate though, the so-called ‘Camden Caners’ emerged and gave the residents of NW1 a reason to start bragging. Amy Winehouse, Russell Brand, Peaches Geldof and Razorlight apparently made Camden ‘cool’, even though they actually lived in Primrose Hill (which differs slightly from Camden ‘proper’ as the streets are not paved with dog shit and needles.) So now we have trainee accountants moving to Camden and saying things like, “The vibe in Camden is totally me,” and pretending they were “devastated” when The Hawley Arms burned down. In reality though, they’re slightly fearful of being stabbed in the face whilst walking to Tesco’s and probably regret spending 400K on a one-bedroom flat 20 yards from a crack-den.
Incidentally, the last time I was in Camden a fifteen year-old girl flashed her vagina at me then offered to sell me drugs. As sales pitches go, it was pretty off-putting. It did sum-up Camden for me in one mentally scaring image though.
It’s unjust, however, to suggest that the resident’s of EC2 and NW1 are the only culprits of postcode bragging. The ‘posho’s’ of SW15 are as equally guilty – as too are the Antipodeans living in South West London. Of which there are roughly 10 billion. Where I live in Wandsworth Town (wedged neatly between Putney and Clapham Junction) there is a strange mix of collar-up, public school educated rugger-buggers and flip-flop wearing, lager-gargling Antipodes. Both groups postcode-brag in their own unique way.
The faux-posh kids from Surrey say things like, “So, ya. Met a girl from West Ham once. Lovely little strumpet. Sucked like a Hoover. It could never have worked though. Her dad was a plumber. Of course the whole area was hideous. I couldn’t find a pair of chinos there for love nor money.” They adore living in South West London because it’s “close to “Twickers” and because half the shops in Richmond and Fulham sell salmon-pink shirts for £300 each.
The Antipodeans who flock to Putney, Clapham Junction and Earls Court are the worst postcode braggers alive. This is largely because they brag about their postcodes back home – gleefully explaining why London is “rank” compared to Sydney, Auckland and Cape Town. This is very much against the spirit of postcode bragging as you at least have to pretend you’re a die-hard local.
 I’m always astounded by the popularity of Walkabout pubs in London though, especially the one by Putney Bridge. You’re not even allowed in there unless you’re wearing beads and pair of Oakley’s. I once managed to sneak in to ask the bartender if they were showing the FA Cup Final. “Sorry maaaaaaart,” he replied, “It’s the Perth Dingo’s Vs the Adelaide Wildcats in the Aussie footie. We’re not having YOUR poncey game on in here.” Priceless.
Finally, the residents of Notting Hill (W11) are expert postcode braggers, even though you can take a simple wrong turn off a quaint, boutique-filled side street and up in a gang war on a 1970s council estate. This happened to me at the carnival last summer and for a brief moment I actually thought I was in an episode of Life on Mars.
So really, you may think it’s clever to be biased towards your local area, but remember, for every half-mile of trendy bars, warehouse apartments and tree-lined boulevards, there’s a fifteen year old drug dealer willing to show you her lovebox, just waiting around the corner.
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