The Office Man
Good humour and dignity are two things lacking in this poor wretches life. For he is quite prepared to stand in front of the water-cooler and recite, with vigour and an array of comedic voice changes, the jokes from the previous evening's episode of 'The Thin Blue Line'.
The smirk is an unsuccessful attempt to hide his inner turmoil.
Sartorial elegance for this man consists of little more than the wish to wear sports clothing whilst attending happy hour at some vinegar-sprayed local.
Clutching a pack of Rothmans and cell phone with one sovereign-digited hand, he intermittently feeds himself peanuts and turns the sporting pages of his red-top newspaper with the other.
Finally, he drives home to watch 'Late Night with Richard Littlejohn' on cable.
Yes, that is a man.
Much like old soldiers, Goths never actually die - they simply fade away. But unlike old soldiers, they actually tend to re-appear again, just when you've forgotton about them - and are therefore more like cockroaches.
With their ashen faces and purple frills, 'The Goths' appeal is not so much Byronic, as an innate ability to remind you of the forgotten old people in your life.
Unfamiliarity with the ways of the woman has led this man to seek out other areas of self-expression.
Now, he has traded in all the things his mother has taught him, for a signed photograph of William Shatner and a pair of outsized, rubber ears.
The well-thumbed Klingon phrase-book in his pocket highlights the sickening depths to which the Star Trek cult can take hold.
No stranger to the photo-booth, this one. He can spend up to four hours a day pouting at his own reflection.
But you're more likely to find this pretentious young pup, sitting on a train struggling with the preface of some lesser-known Penguin classic. The outward facade of poise and dignity is then customarily betrayed by his mother calling on his mobile phone, asking what time he'll be home for tea.
Above all others, these men should be shunned.
Of course, The scientists should be praised for their contributions to making this crazy world a better - and easier - place for us all to live in. This is because, when it comes to art of picking up ladies, they are impossibly inept.
All those sums and calculations that whizz around their robotic heads, whilst affording them a little saviour-faire in the realm of the white coat and test tube, tend to kill any domestic conversation stone dead. In order to draw attention away from their scientific tendencies, The Scientist's conversation will inevitably drift into discussion of the dreams they experienced the previous evening.
He's a dirty fellow. The soap his mother bought him for him last Christmas has been used so few times that the brand name still remains embossed, for all to see. He attempts to cover up his bedroom's ghastly funk with joss sticks - to little avail.
The desperate craving for 'Cutter's Choice' and 'Stone's Ginger Wine' drags him from the house once a week. But when bigger men push into the queue in front of him, it goes unchallenged.
In order to relax after this ordeal, he slopes off home in order to play unpleasantly complicated guitar riffs, whilst mugging furiously into the mirror.
Look at the sparkle in those eyes.
This limp-wristed glamour-puss, is a master of the dancefloor, where his bandy legs become a blur within seconds. His exciting dress sense and gallant over-enthusiasm make him a must at any party.
However, much like the mighty cheetah, his initial burst of energy leaves him spent within the course of an hour. Finding himself no longer a valuable party asset comes hard to The European, and he recklessly sinks any remaining alcholpops.
Since 'The European' is a flighty and emotional creature at the best of times, this is often to the peril of all remaining party-goers.
It's Saturday night and in provicial towns up and down the nation preparations are under way. Buckled shoes are being buffed to mirror sheen, close-cropped hair is being assiduously pasted to scalps and from each three-bed semi, the musky stench of Hilfiger rises into the evening sky.
Such is the lot of Regular Joe. As he steps out with his chosen selection of identikit friends to prowl "the strip", he feels to the very core of his heart that he's right. About everything.
One thing's for sure, some pancaked harpy is gonna get a rough handling tonight!
Born without that most important of human capacities: the ability to see the world through other people's eyes. Our man could either have gone one of two ways, the route of the cold-hearted psychopath or the plain buffonery of the big fat party animal.
His is almost certainly the fetid armpit you will end up smothered by at any given concert. Who would guess this fellow would have such diverse musical tastes or so fine an array of colourful singlets. More power to him.