It’s 1.35 on a Saturday afternoon, the air is crisp and stinks of weed, and several bemused members of the Metropolitan Police are keeping watchful guard. In the south west corner of Soho Square, about 120 young people in chunky boots and long coats film on their iPhones as a bright blue megaphone announces “Harry number two”. The specimen in question stands atop a modest podium. He’s bleach blond, wearing an ochre knit, holding his sunglasses – a nice-looking, well-dressed boy, sure. But what matters here is, does he look like Harry Styles?
Not remotely, if you ask me. But at London’s premier Harry Styles lookalike competition, at which a series of regrettable decisions have led me to spend my lunchtime, that does not appear to be a barrier for the 12 contestants hoping to win 50 quid. Nor, it seems, for the crowd of mostly female, mostly Gen-Z-looking crowd to scream with delight at each of the Harrys – of all genders – they are presented with.
In 2010, long before the feather boas and the mesh and the sequin dungarees and all the nipples, a 16-year-old boy from Holmes Chapel in Cheshire swaggered onto the X Factor audition stage in an All Saints T-shirt, a baggy grey cardi and a skinny scarf. He was a shoo-in as soon as he told Cowell and co about the bestselling items at his Saturday job in a bakery, and when he got going on the Stevie Wonder – well, that was it. He was irresistible. Cheeky. Humble. Like your friend’s fit brother or your brother’s fit friend. In other words: the whole package.
Sensation and superstardom have come since, and Styles has matured into a 30-year-old camp icon more likely to be found in plumage than lace-up worker boots. But today, where prizes will be awarded for best hair, best style, best smile, and worst lookalike (who gets four cans of lager), I am glad to see that teenager has not been forgotten. He’s here, and so is a guy in a red cardigan-blazer (quite Princess Di), someone in a blue velvet suit (quite Elton John), someone in a brown suit, someone in a green suit, someone in an argyll knit, someone in a headscarf and a coat with gingham hearts emblazoned across the chest, several pairs of sunglasses, and someone holding up a watermelon and a bag of sugar.
It is very silly. And though organised with the objective of cheering people up, it is also an event entirely confected for the sole purpose of going viral, following New York’s recent Timothée Chalamet competition and Dublin’s Paul Mescal one. Based on the mix of accents in the crowd and the number of phones in the air, the audience appears to be TikTok and tourists. Nobody seems to have sincerely got their hopes up that Styles himself might copy Chalamet and Mescal and show up (his former bandmate Liam Payne’s funeral is this week), though there are especially loud screams for the competitor in mask, beanie and hoodie, whose face is shielded. Could it be him? I glance at the police, who do not look troubled.
How did we let things get here? When I look at Styles, Mescal and Chalamet, each of them looks like a generically attractive, brown-haired bloke. If you asked me to describe what Styles looked like from memory I don’t know what I’d say. Floppy hair? Angular chin? Strong eyebrows? Knowing smirk? As white male rock star aesthetics go, Elvis Presley, Elton John and Freddie Mercury are classics for a reason.
I ask a fan. Rachel, 31, is a “day one” Directioner who recently spent several hours deleting inappropriate historic tweets about Harry Styles before starting a new job. She’s here because she saw it advertised on Instagram. “I thought it would be funny and though it was unlikely, if there was a 0.5 per cent chance of him turning up then I couldn’t miss it.”
Can she explain the endurance of Styles’s appeal to me? “I think part of it at the beginning was that he did look like someone you went to school with. The fit one – but attainable. So you could fantasise. He looks less attainable now.” Why’s that? “He’s got fitter. More eccentric. More superstar.” Do you think the eccentricity has made him more fit? “Not for me personally. But campness and being closer to your feminine side has become a lot more attractive. Look at Paul Mescal in his skin-tight cardigan on Graham Norton. People love it.”
Back to the competition, which is over within about 45 minutes. I’ve got to hand it to the winner Oscar Journeaux: chain necklace, scarf, leather jacket, unruly hair – this is peak One Direction Harry; as he beams down at the women below it’s like being back in 2012. No, I wouldn’t do a double take if he took to the karaoke mic for “Story of My Life”, but he’s got the boyish smile nailed. He’s also in a band, and is putting his £50 towards a new guitar pedal.
But just like when I saw One Direction at the O2 back in 2013 on the Take Me Home tour, it’s a struggle to get close to him. There are too many people trying to get him in their TikToks or asking him to pose with their energy drinks. I’m scared I’ll be taken out by a handheld tripod or – worse – appear in the background of a viral video.
So I pounce upon an also-ran. Andy Bradley is one of many competitors embracing the inclusive spirit of the event. Other participants have proven that race and gender will not prevent one’s inner Harry from shining through; Bradley is not willing to let his age stand in his way. He gets an honourable mention and is dubbed “Daddy Harry” by the crowd. He’s 36.
“I wasn’t expecting to be called ‘daddy’ today,” he tells me. “But I’m not insulted. I’ve been called worse, like ‘Gollum’.” He’s looking understated – jeans, cream jumper, brown collar poking out, a bit too preppy for the Harry I know, though the slick bouffant is a clear nod – but hasn’t wandered in by chance. He does lookalike work on the side. “My main one is Jude Law, but I get Harry if I curl my hair”.
Another Harry lurks on the grass, looking on. Ben Prudence, 27, has travelled in from Essex in a brown suit, pink knit and pearls – he has captured the femininity of solo Styles very well and has a very fluffy quiff. How did he find the experience? “Horrifying and exciting in equal measure”. He gets told he looks like Harry Styles at least once a week, but what does he think? “I don’t know anymore,” he says, looking exhausted.
I’m not quite as old as Daddy Harry, but I know how he feels. Being here stopped feeling dignified half an hour ago. I set off towards Oxford Street, behind someone carrying a Harry Styles cardboard cutout, wondering if I am any closer to describing what Harry Styles looks like, and overhear one of the coppers excitedly telling his colleagues there’s someone at Pret round the corner who looks exactly like Harry Styles who had no idea about the competition. Was it him? Surely not. “What did he look like?” someone asks. “Ermmm…”