The Man Who Turned Snobbery Into a Dish Rag

The ultimate power move? It’s coming from a man who has decorated palaces and yet chose to deliver his social fatwa via something designed to wipe dishes. “It’s absolutely brilliant,” whispers a Mayfair hostess, who asked to remain anonymous lest her scented candles (common!) and succulents (frightfully common!) be discovered. “Nicky has managed to make people spend fifty quid on a tea towel that might tell them they themselves are common. It’s like paying someone to slap you with a silk glove—and we’re all queuing up for the privilege.”

To the uninitiated American observer, the list reads like it was generated by an AI trained exclusively on copies of Tatler magazine and fever dreams from Downton Abbey. “What,” asks one puzzled New Yorker, “could possibly be wrong with hydrangeas? They’re literally just . . . flowers.” Oh, you sweet summer child—clearly, you haven’t developed the necessary aristocratic tinnitus to hear their vulgar screaming.

Each year, Haslam’s list—now in its sixth iteration—evolves like a sophisticated game of social Russian roulette. One moment, you’re feeling superior about having prosciutto melone and adding almond milk to your coffee only to discover with horror that your favourite lunch has just been added to the index of social sins. It’s like The Purge for the Tatler set—you never know what social crime might be next.

The true genius lies in how impossible it is to argue with any of it. Say, “I disagree with Nicky Haslam” in certain London circles, and watch as people slowly back away, clutching their pearls (which are probably common too, unless they’re family heirlooms with a tragic backstory involving at least one exiled royal).

“The best part,” notes a Chelsea art dealer who frames her tea towels rather than risk them touching actual dishes, “is watching people mentally scan the list for their own faux pas. You can practically see them making mental notes: ‘Must stop listening to Bach’ while desperately hoping no one remembers their coffee tables are groaning with books on decoration.’”

Haslam himself seems to float above it all, a sort of Mary Poppins of social judgment—practically perfect in every way, dispensing harsh truths with a spoonful of cotton-linen blend. 

But here’s the thing: what makes these tea towels truly brilliant isn’t their social commentary at all. When you really look at what Haslam is declaring “common,” what you’re actually seeing is a masterfully curated list of life’s most exquisite irritations, presented with such style that we’re all suddenly nodding along, thinking “Yes, actually, it IS incredibly annoying when people say, ‘The elephant in the room,’ or ‘What does that come with?’”

In the end, Haslam hasn’t just created a social guide—he’s given us permission to admit that some things are just inexplicably, universally grating. And, perhaps most brilliantly, by putting his proclamations on tea towels, he’s created the perfect trap: Is it more common to use them to actually dry dishes, or to frame them as art? Either way, you’re probably doing it wrong, darling.

And yet, we can’t get enough. Each new edition sells out faster than you can say “en suite bathroom” (common on both counts). It’s as if Haslam has tapped into the British upper class’s favorite activity: competitive self-flagellation disguised as superiority.

The ultimate irony? The tea towels have become so popular that their very ubiquity might make them . . . common. But don’t dare say that out loud—it’s probably on next year’s list.