The Art of the St Andrews Finance Bro

You’ve probably seen them. Whether it be the postgraduate room in the Main Library, the Central Bar, or the local Pret, they’re difficult to miss. If the Patagonia gilets, Barbour jackets, quarter-zips, and leather briefcases don’t give them away, the deep chorus of German being spoken might: these are the so-called ‘finance bros’ of St Andrews.

Don’t get me wrong, I give them this label affectionately, not derogatorily, and it is my sincere hope that these finance bros wear it — and their uniforms — with pride. 

Walking down Market Street feels like a fashion show: an art at which this particular group of students excels. Indeed, the streets of St Andrews are perhaps one of the better arenas where one can observe not only how aesthetically inclined the student body seems to be, but also how the many distinct niches of St Andrews students seem to visually differentiate themselves. 

Everyone is prone to varying degrees and expressions of homogeneity, especially at small universities such as this one. We often think of insular spaces as promoters of conformity, and this holds true, to some extent, but here at St Andrews, I have found this is not always the case. The University, of course, has a well-established reputation for being a sanctuary of poshness and privilege: a recipe not exactly conducive to social diversity. Still, within this realm, variation exists; you just have to know where to look.

If St Andrews is itself a microcosm (albeit one that, at times, appears to be estranged from reality to a troubling degree), then the infinite microcosms that exist within it are an even more peculiar phenomenon. One can encounter the archetypal finance bro just as easily as, say, the slightly alternative literature or art history student at virtually any university. We, as university students, are attuned to noticing certain visual cues in the way one dresses or presents oneself as indicators of, among other things, one’s chosen field of study. St Andrews, in particular, is a space that seems to lend itself simultaneously to conformity and self-expression.

The finance bros of St Andrews, for instance, stand out. This is, in part, because you can often find them and their luxury accoutrements spread out across one of the long tables in the postgrad room, loudly comparing pictures of the designer watches they want to buy. While I may have trouble envisioning myself in twenty or 30 years, as I listen to the stream of unbroken, polysyllabic German (this part of the library’s built-in white noise machine), I can see these students very clearly as the fully grown stockbrokers they strive to imitate.

As the old adage goes, dress for the job you want, not the job you have. These words are sacrosanct for a demographic whose degree prerequisites apparently include the aforementioned luxury clothing items and probably a Clay Pigeon membership. While embodiment of the ‘finance bro’ archetype seemingly reduces all individuality into a collective identity, this identity is, indeed, a unique one, even amongst the careful swankiness of St Andrews.

Aside from their palpable attempts at sophistication, the finance bros of St Andrews seem a bit out of place in this quiet, seaside village. But perhaps we all are. We are each drawn to study here for our own reasons: the academic prestige, social reputation, and Oxbridge or Ivy League rejection. Some of these may be more commonplace than others. The St Andrews Business School’s Department of Economics, Finance, and Management offers numerous MSc courses, all of which rank highly. The draw is understandable. As is the appeal of a lucrative career.

Still, the ostensible finance bro attire raises a slew of questions. For one, is their uniformity a conscious or unconscious choice? Is it a means of asserting their dominance over St Andrews by offering us a glimpse into their fashionable futures of financial prosperity? I’m not one to judge (clearly), but if I had decades of high-stress 50-hour work weeks to look forward to, I’m sure I’d be tempted to purchase a gilet or two in order to shield myself from the existential weight of my career choices.

In any case, the next time you see an army of tall, gilet-wearing twenty-somethings coming towards you, their leather oxfords treading confidently — yet precariously — over the cobblestones, you’d best be reminded: this is not Market Street; this is Wall Street.

Illustration by Niamh McPartlin