Jenny's reading the current issue of Vogue. She has passed it to me, aghast. Now I'm also aghast. They have a feature on page 211 called “Postcode Dresscode”, in which it is claimed that each district of London is a “unique little village in its own right, populated by its own individual style tribe.” Er, no it isn't. I wonder which styles and areas of London they've chosen to feature? The effortless chic of Winchmore Hill? The sassy but approachable cool of Colliers Wood? The mix'n'match fashion collision of the concourse at Kings Cross Station, perhaps? No, of course not. First up: SW3. Chelsea. Forget the majority of people wandering through Chelsea who look much like the rest of us. Collar those posh birds.

Erin Goodale is a Charity Consultant, who claims that her Diane von Furstenberg dress and Jimmy Choo shoes are “perfect for where I live. I can wear it during the day, then on to cocktails.” Presumably if she is playing touch rugby, or indulging in some apple scrumping, it'll also protect her beautifully tanned body from any scratches and bruises. Another pouting lovely called Amaryllis Macintyre poses in a sultry fashion in another pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. Amaryllis claims to be a “writer”, but the only reference to her that can be found on the internet is here – oh! in another Vogue feature, where she now claims to be a citizen of Mayfair, and describes the eagle on the front of her t-shirt as “unique, as it is my power animal in the practice of meditation.” Oh, to join in with the cocktail bar conversations. “What's your power animal, Rhodri?” “I don't fucking know, Amarrylis, you twonk, maybe a tortoise?” I would dearly love to pour scorn on Amaryllis's writing, but sadly it seems I'll have to wait. And wait. I'm delighted to have doubled her internet search count with this journal entry. If you're reading this, Ms Macintyre, hello! Stop pissing about on the internet, and get writing, dear! Those Chanel bags won't buy themselves!

Let's turn the page. Dagenham East, perhaps? No. EC2. Shoreditch. “Perhaps the most creative area in the city,” drones the editorial, “it gives its girls an out-there edge.” It certainly does. Let's have a look at Zaiba Jabbar, who stands hands-in-pockets in front of some graffiti. “If I can manage to take an outfit through from Friday to Sunday without looking out of place, I've pulled off my Shoreditch look.” Conversely, if I manage to take an outfit through from Friday to Sunday, I've forgotten to change my clothes. What makes Zaiba different? I'll tell you what makes her different. She describes herself – this is her occupation, ok – as a “shape inventor”. Hahaha. “Zaiba?” “Yes?” “Have you come up with any shapes today?” “Yes! A rhombus, a scalene triangle and a square.” “Already got those, I'm afraid, Zaiba. Keep trying. I want something to rival the truncated heptagon on my desk by 6pm. ”

Christ, look who else is on the page. Brix Smith, once guitar player in The Fall. “My look is sophisticated Shoreditch,” she is claimed to have said, while sporting some, er, clothes. Sophie Hunter, who describes herself as an “actress”, has the following words of wisdom on her “look”. “My style is some kind of obscure logic that maps out the apparent chaos of the area.” Really, Sophie. Sophie is wearing a dress and some leggings. All it's mapping out is the location of her legs in relation to her torso. Idiot.

Actresses are abound in Primrose Hill. You can't move for them. Look, Jade Davidson, in jacket & jeans! Look, Lydia Fox! Look, Lauren Gold, who was once a model and appeared in Robbie Williams' “Rock DJ” video, but has now decided to call herself an actress, in order to “progress” “her” “career”. The crowning glory, thought, is Jools Oliver, wife of intrepid school-meal-transformer Jamie, who is captioned “Jools Oliver, Writer.” Writer. I don't know if any of you ever saw her unreadable diary on Jamie Oliver's website. It's a shame it's not there any more, as the unspeakably mundane tales of getting lost in the car with Jamie were a rare treat, reminding us all that the life of someone who has come by immense wealth and privilege, despite having no talent, is just as mundane as our own.

To everyone featuring in Vogue's “Postcode Dresscode” feature, I extend the middle finger of my right hand. I hope whichever slush funds you're using to prop up your poncy lifestyles dry up without warning, and you're all forced to compete on a level playing field with normal people in the UK job market. Oh, how you will fail. Oh, how you will end up in drudgeworthy posts like “Housing Benefit Reclamation Officer.” Oh, and how we will laugh ourselves stupid.