In my first year at Oxford, posh boys were my snobby, smug, quarter-zip-loving kryptonite. I expected to see them here, meet them, and probably detest them. By the end of my first term, a pair of blonde curtains flopping towards me was enough to let me know I was in trouble.
Countless conversations with friends have made it clear that I am far from the only one. Many of us, it seems, occasionally find our politics on a direct collision course with our hormones. What is this curious sexual fascination with our tailcoat-clad classmates?
Where did it come from and why did I find myself awoken on yet another Sunday morning by the disquieting tones of a home-counties accent? So why was I still compelled to put myself in this compromising position? Clearly, I did not come up with this on my own. Thankfully, partial blame can be laid on the sick and twisted agendas of commercial cinema.
Considering on-screen depictions of Oxford lifeβfrom Saltburn to Maurice to even hideously The Riot Club βit seems they are not complete without a dashing leading man with a razor-sharp jawline and a name that would sound right with a regnal number after it.
I thought about all the posh heart throbs I was exposed to as a young, impressionable, hormonal teenage girlβAlex Pettifyer in Wild Child , Hugh Grant in pretty much everything. It seemed films had sold me on the desirability of this dashing posh boy, privilege incarnate. This is not, however, a completely satisfying explanation in and of itself.
