London is, in so many ways, the same old playground for its Bright Young Things as it was for the dandy poets, painters and photographers of the Twenties and Thirties. They can still leapfrog through Selfridges, have treasure hunts across town, attend circus-themed parties and use petrol to set fire to the Thames. With the exception of the latter, it is no stretch to imagine the city’s golden girls and guys finding a great deal of joy in all of the above today: fuelled by drinks, ‘party accoutrements’ and general debauchery that never have and never will go out of vogue.
What has changed is who gets a shot at joining this merry gang of glass-skinned, party-hopping, ‘look at you!’ shouting socialites — with their respective side hustles, still of poetry writing, painting and photographing, but also of modelling, party hosting and influencing — in the first place. I was asked to congregate the cream of the let’s-meet-at-the-Saatchi-private-view-and-go-from-there-yeah crop with a week’s notice, and fired off invites for a Thursday evening accompanied by the company card. One photographer, two photography assistants and nine devastatingly attractive kids you’ve probably never heard of (but might well know their parents’ names) came together. What could possibly go wrong?
ACT I: AESTHETES ASSEMBLE
We meet in the upstairs, members-only sector of the storied brassiere, Langan’s in Green Park, once privy to your Elizabeth Taylors, Princess Margarets and Mick Jaggers (‘members-only’ is little more than a camp tagline — this crowd can actually spend all week in members’ clubs, and be the proud member of none). The room has been sexed up in a 2021 refurbishment, with voluptuous, red lacquer ceilings and matching garish, velvet walls. At 6pm, the first three guests arrive: Wolf Gillespie, Allegra Handelsman and Robin Hunter Blake. No introductions are needed.
Wolf, a rugged model signed to Kate Moss’ agency, has his father, Primal Scream singer Bobby Gillespie’s tousled, shoulder-length locks and hints of his mother, fashion stylist and long-time Alexander McQueen collaborator Katy England’s face. He is a little quieter and more delicate in person than he might like to suggest online. He and Allegra, the block-fringed, rouge-lipped daughter of property developer Harry Handelsman, catch up. Her 21st birthday, which was held in the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel owned by her father, was actually Bright Young Things themed. ‘I named the night’s signature cocktail “Star F***er”,’ she says.
Times their Instagram followers by their parents’ net worth. The higher the number, the cooler they are
Both are set to finish their degrees, from Goldsmiths and Queen Mary, respectively, in two months. ‘What are you going to do with yours?’ Wolf asks. ‘It’s a lens for my writing,’ says Allegra, who is a poet and short story writer. And with his PPE? ‘I would like to be prime minster,’ he says. ‘But it does seem like a lot of work.’
Robin, in the corner, is of another era. He has a shaved head, sharp jaw and convincingly old world style. His black, velvet slippers have golden tassels, worn with a pin-collared shirt, necktie and a grey, tailored overcoat. He has begun to get traction with his photographs, the best of which are bewitching, black-and-white portraits. Many capture his close friend Rocco Ritchie (son of Madonna and Guy Ritchie), who will make a flash appearance in just a few hours’ time.
What does it take to make it as a young person in London? Wolf has the short, and only semi-ironic, answer: ‘To know if someone is cool you simply times their Instagram followers by their parents’ net worth. The higher the number, the cooler the person.’
Famous parents and smart social media accounts are two of the big six status markers for the vanguard, to which I will add: incredible beauty (always), a personality to keep a room entertained (less pressure on everyone else), a famous partner (the recent ‘nepo’ debate has only intensified this) and great creative talent (success, for now, remains sexy). Have two or more of these, and the likelihood is you’re in — or choosing to opt out.
ACT II: THE SOCIAL CLIMB
More arrivals. The Flag Twins: Peckham-raised Ghanaian brothers with identical faces, each handsome enough to make anyone lose their train of thought. With a Gucci catwalk show under their belts, they’re on the up. And gee-hee wizz, do they have personality. Their words, ‘Eyy!’, ‘I’m chillllling, man!’, ‘It’s all Fendi, baby!’, zing across the room, and everyone doubles their volume. ‘Look at you!’ Model Izzy Richmond explodes through double doors in a dolphin splashed, JW Anderson top. ‘Look at YOU! You look gorge!’ she fires back.
This little mouse that roared is fresh into the group, and juggling fashion studies at Brighton University with the new-found rush that comes with being Lennon Gallagher’s — body double of father, Oasis’s Liam Gallagher — new girlfriend. ‘I’m straddling two worlds,’ she says.
I named the signature cocktail fir my 21st Birthday party ‘Star F***er’
‘I’m so proud of you two, the faces of Adidas!’ she pings to the twins, who are back from LA having posed for the brand with actress Jenna Ortega, of Netflix’s Wednesday fame. Ortega is notoriously frosty. ‘Did you get her laughing?’ Izzy asks. ‘Laughing!’ they wail. ‘We got that girl dancing.’ Finally, and fashionably late, come the last of the fashion set: plus-size model on the rise James Corbin, who has been photographed for Valentino and by Tim Walker, and writer and artist Bee Beardsworth, who has been on the circuit the longest here. ‘Wow, they really are Bright Young Things,’ Bee says of the rest. ‘They’re literally bouncing.’ Photographs are taken — ‘Look at you! You look gorge!’ — before everyone runs past The Ritz and begins clambering up the Eros sculpture in Piccadilly Circus. Confidence was never going to be an issue — most here have the personality facet of the big six down. There was a relishing of the moment, as tourists gathered to see what in the flashing lights and strappy tops was going on.
ACT III: SERIOUS PLEASURES
Observant readers will have counted only eight of the promised nine characters are with us. Mid-shot, to the sound of squealing, Tom Burkitt rolls in. Arms outstretched, he launches into the pack and slaps Wolf and Robin’s hands. The man about town, in a full pin-striped velvet suit, is late because he is throwing a party on Oxford Street. It is a digital exhibition opening at the W1 Curates gallery, and he cuffs green wristbands on everyone before leading them gaggle-pied-piper style through Soho. ‘It’s like being a teacher on a school trip,’ says our photographer. Inside, Tom waltzes to the bar, grabs two bottles of white and as many glasses that will fit in his dainty hand. The New Romantics club runner and legend of Eighties London, Philip Sallon, appears in an admiral coat and, quite uncannily, savours having his photograph taken with the group. It is not hard to imagine him being very similar to them at 22.
9.30pm arrives, which is sticky. Panic flashes on foreheads, Uber apps come out, and the rush to show face at branded events before they close at 10 is on. Izzy and Bee have to go to a Givenchy perfume launch. ‘What’s the attraction to it all?’ I ask Bee as she leaves. ‘London has the European sensibility of hedonism with the English need to break out of repressive mundanity, so there’s always somewhere to let loose,’ she says. The twins head to a dinner. Everyone is reconvening at Sketch — the egg-looed bar and restaurant, decidedly five years ago — at 10.15pm. It’s a special occasion: Allegra will be performing a satirical short story.
It’s heaving, the security guards don’t want to let Lennon, who’s just turned up, in (he does go in, of course, and snogs Izzy on cue), and the crowd talk over Allegra’s reading. ‘I’ve never had that before,’ she says exiting the stage. ‘Let’s go.’
And so the time has come. ‘All roads usually end at Chiltern, Thursday to Saturday,’ Tom tells me outside. ‘The evening usually starts taking shape around midnight,’ Robin confirms. ‘Once the troops have been gathered it is inevitable that one or all of us will make our way there.’
The exclusive Marylebone hotel and bar, known as London’s pub for the 0.01 per cent, is usually impossible to get into — even for some of those with us. But not tonight. Allegra’s father was the developer, which guarantees entry, and she even promises we can get some usually banned photographs inside.
Among chatter, Rocco Ritchie has appeared on a neon green Lime bike. Hold him up to the big six and Rocco possesses something of a London hall pass: the parents, the artistic talent, the looks and, to a select few, the personality. He is an enigma to outsiders, but settled among this group — Tom and Robin are good friends. They can’t convince him to join, though, and we watch as he wobbles on two wheels deeper into Mayfair.
EPILOGUE
Outside the Chiltern, Allegra is offering up some wisdom. ‘It feels like everyone’s spent the last couple of years making up for lost time, almost every week there’s a themed party or a friend’s creative event,’ she says. There are rules to stay sane. ‘You need to understand that, to a certain extent, London nightlife is a theatre and everyone’s playing a role. It means you won’t take it all to deeply.’
The staff here are, perhaps inevitably, spooked by the camera crew. They are allowed in, but in minutes muscled men are showing the team the door. It’s pictures outside, then — more realistic, as most have spent nights waiting outside dropping names to the maître d’ to no avail.
With the twins swinging Izzy around on the pebbled street, it is James who points out tennis champion Serena Williams staring over with an expression that says, ‘Look at you! You look drunk…’ before disappearing inside. Her friends, Edward Enninful, the editor of British Vogue, and Emma Thynn, Marchioness of Bath, are waiting. ‘It’s the uncertainty of what you may find that keeps London interesting,’ quips Robin.
The photographer goes home and the others dash up and down navy blue and gold-slicked elevators from the smoking area, to the bathrooms, to get a £25 gin and tonic, to the dancefloor. A cycle that continues until around 2.30am. That is when the text comes through: ‘Meet us at room 22.’ And it is there, in a sofa-splayed suite of Chiltern, that Thursday nights always finish — and you will see the Friday morning sun begin to rise.
