It is said that if you live in London you are never more than ten feet from a rat; the proximity to a rudeboy is probably the same, if not less. It’s impossible to walk the streets of any major city in the UK without seeing these zombified dolts skulking about with a look on their face that combines disgust and perplexity – like they have just been told where babies come from. They appear to have nothing but complete contempt for everything around them and, unsurprisingly, terrify almost everyone over the age of 40. If you’re a middle-class teenager heavily into UK hip-hop and want to piss off your very pleasant parents, read below to find out how to get the look – but please don’t try and fake the accent.

Some people dream of making a difference, some dream of foreign lands, some dream of a life less lived. If you’re a metrosexual failed professional footballer from the home counties you dream of getting on that tube one day at Gants Hill and heading to the bright lights of London to work in a department store so you can get a 30% staff discount on your Versace Y-fronts.

The two-week English summer is upon us and what better place to spend it than London’s hippest scorched-grass catwalk, London Fields (especially the section nearest Broadway Market, affectionately know as cunts’ corner)? Stroll through the park any time after midday on the weekend and you’ll find yourself in what looks like the opening scene from Apocalypse Now, with the napalm (unfortunately) substituted for the smoke coming from the myriad disposable BBQs plopped on the grass. Through the grey haze you’ll see packs of top-drawer cretins in Ray-Bans splayed out on the grass like horny peacocks, trying to catch the eye of a potential mate as they scorch their leathery faces. No matter how sunny it is, most of the men (who all claim to be either band managers or video directors) will be dressed in tight dark jeans and smart shoes – the exact opposite of what’s comfortable for a day in the park. Elsewhere, you’ll find fashion bloggers snapping pictures of young girls who look like they had a nervous breakdown midway through a shopping trip at a vintage clothing shop. The park starts the day looking like the Monday after Glastonbury and goes downhill as the hours pass. Forget the crack squirrels of Brixton, here you’ll find smug, obnoxious pigeons flapping around with their heads stuck in the cocaine wraps left behind by the day’s visitors. Read below for a breakdown of the typical look.

I remember, in 2005, seeing people queuing for days and days outside the Bape shop in the West End to buy an overpriced hoodie that Pharrell Williams once wore in a video. The hoodie in question was disgusting – it was some type of red camouflage number with a hood that was shaped like a shark. But the appearance of the garment was of very little importance to the people who wanted to buy it; what they wanted was the kudos of owning a rare item of streetwear clothing that had been endorsed by someone famous.

You’re nobody in east London these days unless you’re in an art collective. These gaggles of “artists” – who have names that make absolutely no sense, like Golden Mirage or Neon Futurism – skulk around like twee Malcolm McLarens, thinking they’re part of a decade-defining movement, when all they’re doing is putting on exhibitions with grown men who draw pictures of stuff like an alien playing a guitar. Although their look is quite understated, they are very easy to spot since they all have the appearance of someone who has been dressed by their parents for a day trip to see their grandfather in the countryside in the spring. Read below to find out how to get the look while it’s hot.

In the past year there has been a greasy tsunami of leather jacket-clad 20-something men in east London dressing like they’ve come of age in mid-80s LA and heavy metal has just exploded. Read below how to get the look while it’s still hot.