In alphabetical order:
Andrew Hetherington – was an early exponent of the neo-Irish hair renaissance, with the lots on the bottom, none on top look, giving an immediate, disquieting impression of having his head on upside down. Stalwart provider of all things ‘across the channel’, involving layovers at Myers of Keswick for Hob Knobs, Curlywurlys, Branston Pickle, Walnut Whips and, of course, that Hetherington classic; his very own Spotted Dick. Watch him prepare it at Bell End with lashings of Bird’s Custard. We defy your gorge not to rise.
Rob Howard – is gleaming. Beams of light emanate from eyes like limpid pools. Teeth like pearls. Body scrubbed to pink perfection and possibly lightly scented. Something citrusy with a floral nose. Might dose you with Aperol, might sell you a bible. Exercise and granola ensure his bowels move like a Swiss watch. Catskills Canadian with frequent Bell End tendencies.
Dean Kaufman – think Simon Templar with notes of Tim Dalton’s Bond, ever-so-slightly grizzled and accessorized with some kind of Japanese version of a Baby Bjorn that no other fucker has heard of, in taupe. Brooklyn native. Ex-eponymously egomaniacal Dean Street, now just girly Park Slope. Example: used to drive an old Jaguar, now drives a Volvo. Imagine if 007 had actually married Pussy Galore then settled down on President Street to pore over the prospectuses of Berkeley Carroll and Brooklyn Friends.
Henrik Knudsen – descended from a long line of Danish royalty, all Queens. Lives in a glittering ice-palace high above Clerkenwell – not unlike the CS Lewis’s White Witch – but calls Bell End his New York home. Middle name Thorup translates loosely as Pees Pants When Drunk. Is the only known human ever to have enjoyed Scandinavian Free Jazz and was asked by Simpson to take over from Ashford after the latter’s recent untimely demise.
Mark Mahaney – the earthly rendering of Hindu Deity Ganesha with the trunk neatly packed away (does he coil it round his leg?). Always engenders the cocking of eyebrows at Bell End when he enters riding a mouse. A baritone pillar of measure, calm and sobriety; like Ray LaMontagne popped a quaalude. Has come a long way since the glue-huffing, gag-ball-and-harness days. Tender husband, father and yogi, likes his yolks runny and a good Krishna Das party mix.
Micheal McLaughlin – one of 34 children of Rhode Island Catholics; all boys. Came to Brooklyn in the tool-belt of a longshoreman, a throwback to the days when WH Auden diddled sailors on the glistening cobbles of Middagh Street. Lived long decades above the Cammareri Bakery, still watches Moonstruck and weeps. Sings alto in the Bell End Male Voice Choir and welcomes fingers in his cassock. His Pie Jesu descant can break whisky tumblers.
Noah Sheldon – pale, etiolated and gossamer voiced, Noah slips in from Shanghai like a ghostly choirboy, his cassock and surplice glowing gauzily in the morning sunlight. The softly-softly manner conceals a steely, opportunistic eye for the prize. Being persuaded by Noah is rather like being licked by a cat. He also scratches the furniture, coughs up hairballs and shits in a box. We are considering having him neutered.
Jake Stangel – known in the corridors and lavatories of Bell End as The Enigma. Still suckling on the teets of the wolves that raised him, yet simultaneously overturning commercial photography’s moneychangers’ tables, screeching ‘My Temple should be a House of Prayer!’ in his best Ted Neely castrato. Lives in a zipped up surf board bag on the roof-rack of 1994 Subaru Outback outside San Francisco. Eats eucalyptus leaves and acorns and reminds people a bit of Kate Bush.
Alex Tehrani – Persia’s finest, shot through the barrel of the Northern California Free Love Movement. Was Brooklyn before Brooklyn was Brooklyn, then Topanga via Berlin and Guatemala. Currently rebirthing himself as a latterday Lady of the Canyon, with scantily clad yoga, kissing the Sunset Pig and Helter Skelter style killing rampages. A perfect stablemate, he coined the recipe and mans the Vita-mix for the communal Bell End colonics.
Guido Vitti – brings a bracing dose of Boston blue-collar pragmatism to the proceedings, with his ‘it’s all well and good getting blind Bell End drunk with everybody at Ogilvy, but not if they are rendered unable to remember your (or their own) name the next morning’ mantra. Lean, clean, fit and ready, Guido is an arrow of no-shit efficiency humming in the agency quiver. Arrives with a bludgeon of blunt-instrument vernacular, such as wicked pissa and dumb as a bag of hammers.