In alphabetical order:
India D’Arthenay-Adams – glows with inner light, like a 5’10” incandescent bulb. Selwyn helped preside over her development from wayward, vegetarian teenager to responsible, carnivorous Mother of two (surrogate mother of multitudes). He averted his ecclesiastical gaze, however, during the naked communal swimming in Bovina. She has never felt the urge to venture into his booth for Confession, neither received his Absolution. Was present at his second child’s homebirth, during which he kept his boxers on in the inflatable pool, Praise the Lord. Ask her to say ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore’, but stand back.
Emily Anderson – is emblematic of the tragic loss of those old nurses uniforms; the naughty nunnish ones with the white pinafore and paper hat, the fob watch and perkily suggestive rectal thermometer. A luminous, willowy oasis of kindness and decency, Emily should be compulsorily present at one’s bedside when emerging from the anaesthetic after that awkward inguinal hernia procedure: with a plastic basin of warm, soapy water and the words ‘It’s time for your evening sponge-bath, Mr Lovely’.
Ali Asplund – third generation redhead Laplander, daughter of The Great Santini and original publisher of the Swedish edition of Health & Efficiency. Peripatetic art buyer, we’ve worked with her everywhere, from the soup of Ogilvy to the nuts of Saatchi. Soft, sweet, with tones of Armagnac and a firm toffee interior. Thrillingly, web URL’s render her Alias Plund. Her glittery gloves can be used to grope strangers in bars.
Lisa Candela – successor to Joe DeSalvo in the Bovina/Bell End open-marriage; infamous neo-hippie photographer, white witch Lisa Candela brings a soupçon of mid-90’s Stevie Nicks to the End, albeit minus the black lace shawl with the cigarette burns and the aroma of cat pee. Given three shots of Hornitos, will do a line-perfect rendition of Jane Seymour’s Solitaire tarot scene from Live And Let Die, complete with turning over The Lovers, the shocked intake of breath and inevitable succumbing to Roger Moore.
Laia Cortes – rumoured to be the undiscovered Infanta of Peru, slinky ancestor of Atahualpa, she is worshipped with smouldering sage and El Condor Pasa on the pan pipes at Sacsayhuaman, and half a bottle of $12 Rioja at Bell End. Part Pocahontas, part Eva Perón, part Maud Gonne; Laia was the seminal Girl From Ipanema on rollerblades, causing traffic accidents in SoHo in the 90’s. Nobody offends waitresses with the aplomb of Laia, with her mortifying indifference-contempt cocktail.
Pia Dehne – is blonde, slender, German and easily chilled. Deeply New York in a Nico sort of way, she has of late brought a bratkartoffel of Düsseldorf to the Catskills, both with her Leni Riefenstahl-like love of classic backstroke and the barking of Teutonic commands at the porcupines during pre-dawn drills on the pommel horse. Her delightful art was always reliably steeped in the breasts and genitals of friends, but has of late transgressed into stick insects and camouflage. Is married to sometime nude model Mark Ohe, who is a Total Bellender.
Joe DeSalvo – cinematographer, first of the Bovina Brethren to gain Bellender status. He knows the damp handshake, the wiggly middle digit and the bliss of burrowing into Curious George’s musty folds. Joe was culled from the cast of Do The Right Thing, Moonstruck and The 40-Year-Old Virgin, whipped up in blender then left to set in a cool dark space before being unleashed upon the world on the bench-seat of a vintage Land Rover.
Jessica Fiore – youthful doyenne of the Ogilvy art buying collective and frequent attendee at the legendary Marlows; the dyspeptic dinners that birthed the concept of Bell End. We might have tried to kiss her at the christmas thing at Frankies, but failed. Hails from within staggering distance.
Constance Giamo – early stalking candidate for Selwyn in the days when Mott Street looked like the set of Absolute Beginners; faintly lupine Constance held court behind the bar of Café Gitane, shorn of hair, gracefully occupying the high ground between disinterest and contemptuousness, before parading home with a great dane three-quarters her size. Such a long, loving, complicated journey since; yet still her high-school nickname causes a thrill below the diaphragm.
Sara Glick – smouldering pre-Raphaelite ninja, she arrives ever-so-slightly damp and smelling thrillingly of the dojo. Part Millais The Bridesmaid, part Millais Iphingenia, but who the fuck is the cerebrally palsied ginger in the leopardskin skirt? And while we’re on the subject, did someone just set fire to a skunk? Sara’s informative blog, glicktips, offers practical advice on how to give one’s pubes body without unsightly wetness or clumping.