My sister and her friends were watching the conclusion of Arthur Fery’s third round tiebreaker with Aperol-laced bated breath. Curiously enough, the match had already finished. Finally Fery began to speak: ‘oh thank God, he’s posh’, exclaimed one friend. Fery is this summer’s heartthrob, and a major coup for those who thought the posh boy had had their day. There’s been requisite time between the Hugh Grant heyday that it’s become novel and cool again; Leo Woodall laid some strong groundwork in 2024’s One Day, but it took Wimbledon’s Centre Court to cement the return.
I think the heatwave has a lot to do with it. It awakens the blood memory of the handsome new colonial official shaking up the staid imperial country club, setting the local wives’ hearts aflutter, and making the old guard grumble. Where better to display one’s mettle than in tennis whites on a grass court in front of the Queen?
Fery’s brand of posh boy seems to be the latest variant: more Clapham than Chelsea. One of the biggest tells is his friend in the box with a Stella Artois baseball cap: beer memorabilia is a major Clapham signifier. Throw in a mullet, ear piercing, and suspiciously shiny signet ring (the Stowe trinity) and bingo. If you’re in search of the phenotype, you can do no better than going to the smoking area of Clapham nightclub Inferno’s of a weekend.
