I Moved to London and Can Confirm: 90% of Men Here Are Just Like Felix from ‘Too Much’

When I moved to London in my late twenties, I wasn’t delusional enough to expect Mr. Darcy. Unlike Jess in Too Much (and probably Lena Dunham, the IRL inspiration behind her), I’d actually been to London. I grew up in British schools and felt fluent in cheeky, charming lad banter. It’s less hand-twitching, more “alright, luv?”

Still, I was wildly unprepared for the harsh reality that British schoolboys are the Easy Mode of an impossible game. A cheeky snog with Tom/Dick/Harry behind the school sheds was not enough training for the emotional minefield that is London men. It didn’t prepare me for dating in this cold, grey city — or for the many, many Felix-types lurking within it.

*spoilers for Too Much ahead!*

Meet Felix, He Is Low-Key The Worst

Image Credit: Netflix

We meet Felix the same way we meet all trash men in London: at the pub. He’s doing a terrible set with his band, and Jess is instantly enchanted. She’s barely gotten off the plane, but instead of a Party in the USA, it’s more of a depressive indie EP launch in south London.

Felix brushes off his last situationship, accompanies Jess home, then weirdly rebuffs her advances. He leaves, listens to music through corded headphones (these men hate AirPods), then changes his mind and decides to return… only to find Jess mid-disaster, literally being hosed down by paramedics after setting herself on fire via candle. I blame the nightgown — it belonged in Little House on the Prairie, not Vauxhall.

What follows is a Jess and Felix love affair that’s as salty-sweet as chips with vinegar. The romantic weight of baked beans on toast with a slice of cheese. (Not even grated. Not even grilled, love.) They have all-night sex marathons, which would be hot, if not for the Paddington commentary and looming 8 a.m. work call. They attend dinner parties just to scream at each other in the street. Jess meets an alarming number of his exes. She also takes way too much ketamine one time — no comment.

It’s painfully, quintessentially British. Too Much is the anti–Emily in Paris. While that show delusionally romanticizes Parisian life and French men (per my one French friend), Too Much is a David Attenborough–level documentary on dating indie boys in London. It’s so real, it’s giving me a phantom UTI.

London Dating Culture: A Crash Course

Before any British men come crawling into my DMs to say “Not all men!” — babe, I know. I’m obviously talking about 90% of men in their 20s and 30s who exist on Hinge or within a 1-mile radius of a pub with warm pints and bad lighting. If you’re in the 10%, congrats. Sleep well. Or go to therapy.

Let’s break it down:

• The boys are fit, but emotionally feral. I’m cursed to be into British guys, and it’s my Greek-tragedy-level flaw. Someone find the myth where the sirens have mullets and play guitar badly.
• Dating apps are bleak; eye contact at the pub = marriage proposal. Hinge is where hope goes to die. Pub eye contact is as binding as a civil partnership.
• Everyone’s in a situationship they refuse to define. Also, everyone has a roster. Londoners will grind through 60-hour work weeks and casually date four people while launching a zine about microplastics. Priorities.
• A man will buy you a pint, call you “babe,” disappear to Spain for two weeks, then text “U up?” when he’s back. And that might be the closest thing you get to actual commitment.
• They will say, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” then ghost before your yeast infection clears.
• And unfortunately, “Good girl” in a British accent will undo all your emotional boundaries. They know what they’re doing. It’s an unfair evolutionary advantage.
• You will fall in love with someone on the Tube. You will never speak. You will think about it for two years. This is a canon event.

How To Date Felix-types in London And Survive

Image Credit: Netflix

Let’s be clear: Jess is the exception, not the rule. And I’m not even sure she is an exception — she just commits harder than the rest of us to her walking red flag in Dr. Martens. You’re not going to “fix” a Felix. Don’t even try.

Instead, here’s advice from real-life girlies who survived their own London indie boys:

“If they invite you to their flatmate’s gig, don’t go. He went straight for the boob grab without kissing me, then ditched me for a house party.” — Olivia*, 26

“Get off Hinge. Delete the apps. Don’t bother with singles events as the single man there knows his power. Beg your friends to set you up with a decent person who owns real furniture.” — Alice*, 31

“Don’t message them more than once a day. They’ll say you’re ‘suffocating’ them. Honestly, don’t message them at all.” — Melissa*, 28

“My friends became concerned and set two rules: they’re not allowed to know how to play guitar, and they need to be on LinkedIn. So far, this seems to be helping things.” — Chelsea*, 26

“If he’s clearly posh but insists he’s not, RUN.” — Kate*, 24

(*Names changed for their dignity and sanity)

The Felix epidemic isn’t limited to musicians, though, statistically, the overlap is concerning. You know that TikTok song that won’t leave your head? “I did the butcher, I did the baker, I did the home and the family maker.” Well, my London dating version would be “I did the musician, I did the comedian, I did the actor, and I did the finance bro who says he’s different.”

They all have a copy of Norwegian Wood they can’t summarize. They carry a tote bag from a film festival. They’re not on social media… yet somehow, always watching your stories. They’ll emotionally dump on you in the middle of the night, then ghost when you need support. They won’t drink Starbucks but will trek to a coffee shack in Hackney with no electricity. They “can’t imagine their life without you,” but somehow, also can’t make space for you.

Every City Has Its Version Of Felix

Image Credit: Netflix

Every city has its version of Felix. The Felix who texts you deep confessions at 2 a.m. then forgets you exist by brunch. The Felix who wears nail polish and misogyny. The Felix who writes you a love song but won’t introduce you to his friends. Want proof? Go on a five-date sample size across five boroughs. See if even one man:

• Owns a bed frame
• Has therapy receipts
• Texts you back within 3–5 business days

You will return with data that confirms this is a pandemic. Screenshot your evidence. Show your group chat. The point is not to escape them — it’s to see them clearly. Jess fell into the rhythm instantly because she knew it. So did I. And if you’ve ever dated someone who insists they have “emotional depth,” you probably will too.

The truth is: you’re not “too much.” You’re too good for men who are emotionally unavailable in thrifted jumpers. Fall in love on the Tube. Get your heart broken on a night bus. And write about it. At the very least, it’s giving memoir material.

And yes, I will still fall for a smirked “you alright?” — but at least now, I know what’s coming. And that’s the first step.