There they go, like walking statues - bold, bright and never underdressed. They are the nation’s peacocks, always ready with a jaunty “Good Morning!” and well-cut jacket. We all know them.  Some of us strive to be them. And why so? Put quite simply: because they reject the cultural homogeneity of our age. They are our own Beau Brummells. They reject careerism and the petty pre-occupations of the everyday, instead stretching to create another better, more eccentric world, one bright waistcoat at a time. And for that, we love them. Here we present our Penhaligon's guide to dandies – and where to spot them.

There he goes, striding across Gloucestershire like a tweed-clad missile. He wears a waistcoat so golden it looks like it should be in the bank of England, and he feels undressed without his walking crook. On Sundays the cravat gets its weekly showing, and he effects a hat – bowler or trilby – at the county show. In the privacy of his own garden, he might try on his old boater. Socks and garters are de rigeur when out shooting. Knew Camilla Parker-Bowles when she was a girl. Hates town.

Found wearing... Quercus for a ramble wreathed in basil and lemon.

You’ll find him propping up the bar at the Academy Club most nights of the week, gin and tonic in hand, flinging epigrams like they are tennis balls. He favours loud suits, from good tailors on The Row and has a liking for Theo Fennel jewellery. He wrote a few books in the nineties and noughties and was briefly Times Literary editor. He met his wife at Oxford, and she has a name which ends in “a” – is it Perdita? Or, no, Annunciata? Amelia, perhaps? – and a private income which comes in handy for the G&Ts.

Found with...  a Juniper Sling in hand. Teasing angelica and black pepper.

Whatever the month, whatever the occasion, come hell or high water, the artist is in a Loro piano wool polo-neck. The colour may change but he never flinches when it comes to material and make. He claims it is one less decision for him to make in the morning; it is actually because he thinks it looks slimming. He moves with sleek impunity from gallery to gallery, scrutinising, clinking glasses and enjoying being much admired. He is a cool customer and is a founding member of the Groucho. Travels from his flat in Clerkenwell to Soho in black cabs alone. Has a much younger girlfriend. Did very nice in YBA boom, thank you very much.

Found wearing... Elisabethan Rose doused in hazelnut leaf and vetiver. 

He moves slowly and has something of the dignified turtle about him. But then, why rush? He has all the time and little obligation. His world is contained in those few illustrious square miles around St James’s. He inherited his set in Albany from his father, who inherited it from his bachelor uncle, which is handy as it is so close to his club on Pall Mall. It is White’s most days and the Beef Steak when he is in the mood. He favours Rules over the Ritz and is never happier than when venison is in season and there is a good claret on the table. He used to wear a bowler but now feels it is a step too far. He is fond of his trilby and still keeps to old rules about not wearing brown shoes in town. Likes a tie pin; never married.

Found wearing... Opus 1870, wrapped in incense and invigorating yuzu.