My clothes at university were mocked – people assumed it was fancy dress

I’d won a place on a university taster summer school for ‘gifted and talented students from underprivileged backgrounds’ (Picture: Gary Nunn)

Suited and booted in my tux at my university graduation ball, I felt a measure of pride.

Suddenly, I was beckoned over by some fellow English Literature graduates who were reminiscing on how far we’d come. 

‘We were just talking about you!’ one rather posh woman said to me, and a bunch of other – mostly middle-class – students began stifling laughter. ‘Do you remember what you wore to our first lecture?’

Cringing, I did. It was a matching Reebok tracksuit, two gold chains, and white trainers. It’s how we dressed where I grew up in the working-class town of Chatham, Kent.

‘The tracksuit?’ I asked, blushing. They were in stitches. ‘We thought you’d come in ironic fancy dress as a chav!’ the woman said. 

I shifted uncomfortably in my itchy, stifling tux. In the pit of my stomach, I felt that familiar voice of lifelong imposter syndrome whisper: ‘See? You’ll always be a rough little blagger. You’re a fraud and you’ll never fit into these types of spaces.’

I was the first in my family to attend uni (Picture: Gary Nunn)

However, this time, I was able to overcome that voice. I recognised they didn’t truly mean any harm and, by that point, I was able to laugh along. Although, it was a little snooty of them to laugh at my ‘chavvy’ clothes, it was partly thanks to the support of those peers that I’d made it to graduation.

It was a lesson in not giving up the minute things get tough – especially as a working-class kid stepping into an unfamiliar world where everyone seems to have more than you.

I was the first in my family to attend uni. A year before setting off, I’d won a place on a university taster summer school for ‘gifted and talented students from underprivileged backgrounds’ run by the Sutton Trust, a social mobility charity.

There, I met people just like me, who were no strangers to a Kappa two-piece or Reebok classics, but who probably also got teased and called a ‘massive virgin’ at their comprehensive state school for enjoying doing their homework. The experience persuaded me to apply to do an English undergrad degree at uni, knowing there’d be others like me there.

University didn’t feel like it was for the likes of me (Picture: Gary Nunn)

I arrived at the student halls of the University of Leicester in September 2001, clueless, socially unpolished, nervously excited, and only having recently come out as gay.

I was also skint, and came on the maximum student loan, plus money I’d saved from my part-time call centre job and a tiny bit Dad made me swear would be spent on ‘books only’. Naturally, I spent it all on Fresher’s booze because I felt I needed some drinks to calm my nerves and fit in.

I didn’t understand a word of the initial old English texts we were set on my degree and I failed my first term, scoring 38% on the initial exam. That was when I seriously considered leaving.

University didn’t feel like it was for the likes of me. Some of the other students came from social stratas and households unfamiliar to teenage me, who genuinely thought the poshest thing you could do was upgrade Lambrini to Blossom Hill. 

Things started to turn around for me the more time I spent with my peers, even the really posh ones (Picture: Gary Nunn)

They had cars with full tanks of petrol – both purchased by their parents – while I had a slightly rusty bicycle. They had allowances so they didn’t need to quickly (or ever) find jobs during their degree, as I did. 

Many came from two-parent homes where both Mum and Dad had white collar jobs – I’d been living with my dad on his nightclub bouncer’s wage. Most had state-of-the-art laptops with internet connection, while I had to queue at my university or local library to get online. 

And it seemed like plenty had lived in houses with books on shelves that meant they knew who Proust was. I could’ve told you who’d won Big Brother that year but – it felt like – not too much else.

Thankfully, things started to turn around for me the more time I spent with my peers, even the really posh ones. They helped me understand the old English texts I’d struggled with, loaned me their laptops, or gave me lifts in their cars for the supermarket grocery run.

When told I’d graduated with a First Class Degree, I asked the supervising examiner if they’d made a mistake (Picture: Gary Nunn)

I’d felt left out on the heteronormative Freshers’ Week, but then joined the LGBTQI Society during my second term and found my tribe. Differences in social class mattered less with these peers.

I also got a series of jobs – first in a pub, then in a sports centre – to supplement my full loan, so I could afford to socialise with all my class mates and get to know them better. 

Over the three years of my degree, everything got better. I got used to being around people from different backgrounds – and sticking up for my own when people ridiculed it.

But some imposter syndrome remained – when told I’d graduated with a First Class Degree, I asked the supervising examiner if they’d made a mistake. The bigger achievement though, was my own social growth – I’d learnt what it was like to be around those who are different from you.

By the time of the final graduation ball, I was honestly tearful that it was all over. 

With universities going back this month, I know plenty of people will be feeling the same way I did almost 25 years ago. My advice is to accept it might be different from your expectations and you may feel out of place.

If it feels tough and alien at first, give it six months. Everything deserves this grace period – then if uni still doesn’t feel right for you, maybe it’s time to change your course or your friends.

Unfortunately, if working-class kids don’t feel like they fit in, they’ll leave – especially in today’s cost of living crisis. Recent figures show the UK university dropout rate reached record highs, with a 28% rise over the five years leading to 2023.

Personally, I’m glad I stuck with uni. The experience truly shaped my life by giving me a social education, as well as an academic one.

It’s healthy to have to find a way to get on with people from different backgrounds and social classes. That’s what the real world’s like, especially if you migrate to a big city like London afterwards – as I did.

I learned that what matters at university is the people you spend your time with. Most importantly, I learned that nobody can laugh at you if you laugh at yourself first. 

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