Beverly Hills hit us like a naff old cloth. We’d had to move from our little Spanish paradise in Laurel Canyon for a week as the owners were hosting their friends wedding party. So we had consulted airbnb again, my boyfriend was keen to stay in Beverly Hills and I had imagined Beverly Hills was Miami, and everyone there was Eddie Murphy – so I don’t know why I wasn’t more averse to staying there.
We found a place with 5 stars for a little more than we were paying here, with a pool – classy, in a tacky way.

On our way down there we received a text from the owner, let’s call him Chad, imploring us to let him know if there was anything that he could do to make sure he got 5 stars, as he relied on it. Ok Chad, chill out a bit.

We cruised down the street where we were staying and arrived at a pink bungalow with flamingoes scattered about the small lawn and an American flag gagging for a breeze. I burst out laughing and started taking pictures like a spiteful little teenager. But it was like a John Waters dream house, plus I can show you what it looks like now ….

Lovely ....

Lovely ….

Mmm ...

Mmm …

Chad was out when we arrived so we stepped inside the gated pool area where we were staying, to find a bone yard of sun loungers, hundreds of them, laying in wait for some party, some joy that was only ever going to happen in the ‘70s and will now, never happen. Also, it turned out the pool was rotting and around it were statues of Joseph and Mary, staring at a baby Jesus. There were a few li-los floating around the stagnant pool, occasionally colliding with some maniacal plastic ducks wearing shades.


We stepped inside the “pool house studio”. It turned out, we had 1/5 of the pool house photographed. The room was miniscule, fragile and decorated in turquoise by a psychopath. Floral paintings covered in some strange gel goo, turquoise branches sprouting behind the kitchen cabinet next to the bed of horrors with a pillow reading “home is wherever you are”. I did not like this notion currently. Off to the bathroom – oh Chad. You installed gigantic red brothel lights in the ceiling, that when activated radiate so much heat you can feel your skin prickle, and when you look in the mirror you look like a child of the corn. The shower was beige tiles. The kitchen was a microwave and a minute fridge situated in the closet. Lovely.

We decide we need to leave and hit the streets, we bump in to Chad on our way out. He is cowering in his silver car doing Christ knows what. In his photo he looked like a 7ft clean-shaven jock, in reality he is 5ft, sweating savagely, a humiliated shade of purple, bearded and be-capped. Instagram is a strange beast.

“Oh hey guys, you like the place?”

I’m currently standing next to his collection of ashtrays, wiggling surfer men and dying cactuses.

“Yeah, it’s great.”

Always avoid conflict if possible, I am learning.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to ensure 5 stars.”


Why don’t you quit with the 5star thing Chad? Why are you piling on the pressure? Is it because you know that although quoted as on “Millionaire’s row baby” I’d rather be sleeping in that shed the guy on The Fast Show comes out of and says “This week I’ve mostly been …”. I start feeling anxious. He does not deserve five stars, but if we rate him badly, he rates us badly. WHY ARE WE TRAPPED IN THIS MORAL HELL?? It’s not good for my anxiety. Neither is all that blue.

We walk out expecting millionaires’ road or row or whatever it is, to be filled with classy cafes, expensive clothes shops maybe even the illusive “corner shop” found in England. But no, Beverly Hills is just a few Mobils, a couple of banks, some more ominous grey empty banks, some dry cleaners and a coffee shop.
Rodeo Drive is Sloan Street in the way that it has an entire street full of shops that I stopped wanting to go in past the age of 14 – you heard me Chanel. Rodeo also has a nice Italian ram packed with fake boobs and posers and really good food, served by traditional Italian-Mexicans.
There were also the La Brea tar pits – molten pits of tar that were unfortunately gated, who knows what might’ve happened if they weren’t.

Our main ambition while staying at Chad’s was to spend as little time as possible there, so my improvisation course at The Groundlings starting on the second day we arrived was rather timely, and fun. That took up two days a week, for the other few days we wandered around outside.
While wondering round Beverly Hills I noticed that at around 4.40/5pm it always seems to get a little cooler, the sky clouds slightly and the wind shakes the palm trees as if summoning a storm. This is when the crows of Beverly Hills come out, when the streets are mysteriously empty and the light a little less vivid than a few minutes a go. They crow and swoop and the whole thing gets generally spooky, which is when we would head back to our psychopath pad and watch The X Files to drown out the surrounding horror.

The horror finally ended on a very happy Monday morning and we moved to a haven in Venice the same afternoon where we had a whole house, a beautiful warm bungalow, bigger than we needed with a huge kitchen that made you feel like a fucking success, and a bush full of humming birds just in case you didn’t feel fucking magnificent enough. Fuck this place was great. I sunned myself and read Sylvia Plath and was generally inert for a while. Then wrote a poem about being inert and melodramatic, I think that was all I achieved in Venice.

If you look close enough you can see a humming bird ....

If you look close enough you can see a humming bird …. or maybe it’s a big black bee, but hummingbirds are basically the same size so use your imagination.

Then it was back to Laurel Canyon  where our lovely landlady was lovely and had fresh towels and lovely vibes for us.
The next day we were off to Joshua tree. OR were we going to watch the Maywether Pacaio (I can’t be bothered to find out how to spell their names) fight? I had tried, vaguely, to get us tickets to the impossibly and ridiculously overpriced fight – I think tickets were going for like $17,000 or something, like the price of a banana going up to $1 billion dollars in Zimbabwe. Except a banana is probably more useful.
Anyway, I had tried vaguely and failed definitely at getting us tickets, but my boyfriend was still keen to watch the fight at a bar called ‘Roccos’ – this was looking all the more possible as his uncle’s girlfriend had had an audition and already moved the trip once.
I was pretty convinced I wanted to see Joshua tree, not the Mani Pacio fight. Not that I was averse to the Paquiao fight – I had been willing to fight either one of them had it got us tickets. But seems as both those little lady boys couldn’t handle sidling up to this beast machine, the option of watching it on a flat screen with lots of people I don’t know and possibly don’t like, and alcohol, just wasn’t doing it for me. Not above camping out and lookin’ at bugs n’ stuff. I love bugs n’ stuff.
Fortunately for my bugs n’ stuff we were off to Joshua Tree! Hurrah! And only a couple of hours late as my boyfriend had sent our address while we were staying in Venice, now though, a film crew were staying there and we were up in Laurel Canyon (a nice 40 minute drive) as his uncle and girlfriend found out when they had a chat with the film crew.

But against all odds we got in the car and set off towards NATURE. THE WILD. THE GREAT OUTDOORS, the “wicky wicky wild wild west” as Will Smith once put it. I find myself genuinely craving to just go to the countryside and lie on the ground, I think more and more people are (not necessarily craving the ground contact I am but..), we’re realizing these cities we’ve built ourselves are little cages where we can be watched and controlled, and with the development of the internet where we are also watched and controlled, we might as well make the most of it and use it to make living in the countryside feasible rather than it just being another system within a system. Use it, use it goddamnit! Use it for your benefit, the benefit of your life not your tenuous social connections. This aside, I just find I need enough grass between myself and another person to be able to make mistakes, and nature is much more forgiving of those I find.

We drove down the hot highways out of LA – it was a heat wave that weekend, hitting about 100 degrees in the desert (who knows what that means but it sounds more impressive than centigrade.) We drove past Palm Springs with its 80s surfer writing and vestiges of plastic cups, metallic tattoos, cheap crochet tops and man bangles bought for this seasons Coachella. But we kept driving, and driving, and driving. The landscape slowly descending into exactly what I had been hoping for – desert. The first time I’ve been in a desert. We drove past the last Oasis towns of burger shacks and entered the National Park.
Now, when my brain is alert before my mouth I try to make the most of it and avoid looking like an idiot; so I kept it to myself that I thought ‘Joshua Tree’ National Park had a focal point of one very special Joshua Tree.
As we whizzed passed hundreds of trees stuck in sort of malfunctioning robot positions I overheard these were Joshua Trees. And from this I deduced there must not just be one giant one – it was funny how my level of interest in these malfunctioning robot trees peaked slightly when I realised they were what I had been looking for and so were basically famous.

Tell me that doesn't look like a malfunctioning robot ....

Tell me that doesn’t look like a malfunctioning robot ….

We stopped in Joshua Tree to have a beer, which I drank to feel the part, and sit on a large rock. By this time it was late afternoon and having discovered the camping site inside the park was closed, we needed to drive further off towards Cottonwood Mountains to find a place to camp.



It took about an hour and a half to drive through the park and come out the other side and by this time it was dusk – so we just decided to plonk ourselves on an area outside the park and hope we didn’t get eaten by bears or red necks.

FYI girls: bears are NOT attracted by your periods – it’s just more BS (bs look how American I am) that has been shoved in your brain to make you feel guilty for being yourself. Run wild. Be free, whatever time of the month. Bears will still eat you though. So still watch out for that.

Having set up our tent with surprising success, even with my involvement, we sat down to drink beers and light fires, a fire.
As the darkness swaddled us in to our little area, it really did start to feel wild, you could hear things rustling, the promise of a Brown Recluse just millimeters from your toes but you can’t see it so it’s almost like there’s nothing there.
I decided I fancied drinking some whiskey seems as I was in the desert. I don’t really like whisky it just felt like the right thing to do, so I drank it and didn’t listen to much of the conversation, just pretended I was some very successful male American writer back in the ‘50s. So I had a good time.

Sausages were cooked and I cant remember what else, I had a bun and some nuts. It all got blurry. Then I remember getting up in the middle of the night, the desert was floodlit by the moon, and I could see my way to go to the loo completely clearly, clear enough to see a little kangaroo rat sprint out of my way. Kangaroo Rats are the best animals on the planet – here is a picture that I did not take:


The next morning we woke early as we started cooking inside our tents from around 5am. So we lit a fire – to help the sun roast our organs – cooked some breakfast and hung out in the desert for as long as our hangovers would let us. I wandered around for a bit and found the coolest thing I’ve ever found – a desert crystal. Now known as ‘the lucky crystal’ for no other reason than I found it.

Yes thank you my fingernails are lovely x

Yes thank you my fingernails are lovely x

Not too much has happened since our return, work has had to take a front seat for a bit as even though its pretty cool to ‘drop out’ here, and you can wear all the clothes you used to wear when you weren’t homeless and still look trendy, I’d rather not. Not when I just got a lucky crystal.

Tonight I’m off to Warner Bros Studios to watch the filming of a new sit com the husband of a lady in my improv class is directing. Excited is not the right word as I don’t like leaving the house, but it should be interesting.
I don’t want to get my hopes up but I reckon if I act like I’m the most important person in the room and just pitch my unfinished sit com right in the middle of rehearsals, you could be talking to a very successful lady by the end of the evening – if you chose to call me.

Or I’ll just stay very quite, and get even quieter when people talk to me and wish I would complete at least one project in my life.

Who knows.

More soon. Stay excellent x

Oh and ps. Someone made a mockery of me while I slept. Here’s a picture of it:


LA Lesions …

Hello, I’m here. Hollywood, Los Angeles, named after me, maybe even by me. Historians just don’t know and I can’t remember.

I’ve been wanting to come here for years, for years before that, I thought I was better than America, but during those years I also thought those ‘Delphi’ hummus dips you get in every corner shop in London were quite good when actually now I realise they are revolting. I knew nothing.

Why or how we got here in the end is not important, plus I can’t be arsed to talk about it, so it’s not important as far as I’m concerned; and the flight, the flight isn’t worth repeating, for many reasons. Except I met a very nice girl reading Jurassic Park. So blown away by how nice she was I found myself volunteering for the Salvation Army in order to somehow make up for my lack of niceness. She did actually email me, I emailed her back, but now she hasn’t replied. Maybe she saw my blog? Struggling poets and dramatic fiends probably don’t make the best Samaritans … or that’s what they think. We actually make the best Samaritans. I’ll start my own Salvation Army – the ‘The Compassionate and Confused Rescue Team For Lost Souls and The Hurt’. If I had the money I would do something like that. It’s getting boring how little we care about people who aren’t us. Watching all these poor ill homeless people here, walking around uncared for by anyone. It’s truly awful.

But anyway back to happy LA. So, we land, it’s hot, I grab a Gatorade – it’s huge. I immediately decide I absolutely love America, then I look at the size of the chocolate here, and decide I’m moving.


The taxi to Laurel Canyon is basically all the money I have until I am paid by The Fashion Overlords. The meter just keeps going up, there is no roof on this meter! It’s been turned up to 11, it has it’s own mind and it is taking all of my bartering papers.

We escape the money monster and arrive at our beautiful little place in Laurel Canyon, did I mention? We’re in Laurel Canyon. The sun smattering us through the leaves, the outdoor courtyard waiting to greet us, the beautiful Spanish cottage, the toilet that fails to flush and is held together with part of someone’s necklace; all is as it should be.  It is decided this place is definitely cool when a casually placed Laurel Canyon music book on the bedside table with a foreword from Ray Manzarek is spotted. I already knew this place was cool, I tipped off Manzarek.

I keep this untrue information to myself and we settle in to the first night with American news and take away pizza, mine is vegetarian (my pizza), with a pesto (????) dressing, the pesto is made of mayonnaise and green food colouring. Make up your own mind about my pizza.

Sunday seemed like a fine day to head down to the beach, so forgetting the grace of über, we hemorrhage some more money in a taxi down there.  I got up at 6am, by now it’s almost 9am and we hit a beautiful art deco hotel called ‘ The Georgian’ or something to that effect. Bagel and cream cheese arrives, and we leave shortly afterwards. I spent most of my time there watching upper class American families drink bucks fizz and talk politics. It’s just like a Woody Allen movie, except not funny, just vaguely threatening. So just like a Woody Allen movie. Or maybe I’ve drunk too much coffee. There isn’t an upper class in America?

No one can threaten you.

We sit on the beach and watch a seagull eat some sort of unidentified jelly stingray thing, and then meander down to Venice strip. I am thirsty. People thought I had diabetes because I drank so much water (proud to say I’m now tested and I do not have diabetes, another win for my metabolism). Anyway, I’m thirsty, there’s no cute cafes selling frappucino raspberry slushies which is what I’m always in the mood for here but does not seem to exist. What there was was some bar with a guy with one leg asking us for ID and basically insinuating anyone planning on entering this bar needed to be a total legend, or have one leg.  I didn’t have my ID but did manage to recite my date of birth correctly, I failed however to deduce when I graduated college, or high school, or something, I think I said 2008, which is not at all correct but he lets me in.

I hit some lemonade pretty hard, the sun hits me harder, I can’t remember where we were trying to get to, I’m not even sure we knew, but we had to get there soon. I persuaded my partner not to finish his beer, for fear of becoming dehydrating under this blazing sun. Paranoid, he agreed and we left. The lemonade didn’t last long, and soon I was hot and thirsty again and now I could tell I was getting burnt. The sun is hot here, really proper scorchio hot. I’d been in England so long I’d forgotten that the sun is actually a flaming ball of molten fire particles exploding like nobody’s business and sending it’s fire rays down to my poor defenseless English shoulders.

Feeling vaguely faint I was distracted by a ukulele playing, I turn around and a man with curly black hair is beaming, strumming a ukulele on a Segway, leading a group of tourists (I think American tourists, I’m good at guessing nationalities) all on their segways down the loony fiesta that is Venice beach. They float past me, all mad, all smiling, and as some ecstatic cyclists drift past them as they drift past me and some restaurant is playing classical music and I’m going hypoglycemic I think, “this is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

We find a place that sells edible food. There are a strange couple of guys next to us, one older and Mexican, one young, sinister, friendly, redneck, and also maybe evil – giving off weird, drunk, shit vibes next to us and talking about his digestive tract too much, and then things that had or had not come out of it, as I try and eat my mezze platter. 

Then I hear them talking about us, they think were famous. I’ve been speaking to other friends here and it seems if you are British and wearing sunglasses, you’re famous. Fine by me. The sinister younger guy starts talking to us, I initially mistake curiosity for friendliness and think I have misjudged him, then he starts talking about moving here and just sleeping with another girl every night so he doesn’t have to pay rent and I decide, no I was right. The guy IS the creeps. My skin is crawling off of me remembering him. Oh and I forgot to mention he was also drooling a lot, and part of his miserable aura was the vibration of the end of a bender. Hideous creature. No point trying to find the light.

I pay, we leave. Like fucking legends. People are playing volleyball, women are complaining that their dogs cant go in to restaurants, men are dressed in green medical suits offering out some sort of Marijuana advice. I do not need any advice.

We wander for miles to find a Whole Foods. Miles, hours, seriously hours. A homeless guy starts shouting at some trendy kids walking in front of us, he’s bored and wants a reaction, the kids not giving it to him. Then the homeless guy takes the piss out of the kid’s “goofy ass hat”, the kid responds with “yeah, like your goofy ass life.” Which actually, as a come back is pretty funny but probably a little close to the bone, the homeless guy gets weird and starts some imaginary mutilation as he fades out of ear shot and I realise I’m burnt to a crisp, my boyfriends feet are exploding inside his trainers and I have a thirst that has started acting like a vacuum, stealing any moisture from inside my mouth to quench its thirst, leaving me looking as if I’d been trying to teach granny to suck lemons. And then, 2 hours after setting off, we find a Whole Foods. We buy a funk load of prawns and some asparagus, not much else useful, and head back to our sweet casa to Barbeque the living daylights out of these sea beasts. We feast on their flesh by candle light and drink ‘Cerveza del Pafico’ beers, I’d like to say in to the early hours but I pass out at 10.

I rise at 6am and feel fantastic. I drink enormous amounts of coffee, I sit outside, I nurse my red skin, I moisturize, I try and do some work, I bathe, I read, I try and do some work, I cook porridge with almond milk and feel incredibly satisfied by how healthy I am, dappled in lovely sunlight. I try and do some work, my boyfriend goes off to college, I draw a parrot and an eagle, I cook chicken soup, I lock the door, I put on Friends, I look at the clock, it’s 22.06, my boyfriend will be home soon, I have to let him in the gate with the beeper, oh and unlock the … I fall asleep. I bloody fall asleep. The next thing I know I am jumping to the door, I am at the door and opening it before I’m awake. I know something not awesome is going down, I can sense it, I let my boyfriend in smiling and NOPE.

Major fuck up Fitton, your boyfriend has been trapped outside on the street for 20 minutes, he scaled the fence risking an armed unit, to get to the door to find it locked. Fitton you did not respond to persisted knocking. You were as unconscious as fuck. Your boyfriend then went to the glass window to check you were in, alive, you were, you were asleep smiling, like a smug angel. Enraged, he banged on the glass, you did not wake up, you carried on smiling. He banged on the glass harder and smashed the window – you still did not wake up.

Unable to process this information at the time, I just poured a bowl of chicken soup as a peace offering, attempted to put some strands of loo roll on my partners bleeding hands as he talked of disaster and went back to sleep. And slept like a baby.

Who knows what happens for a few days, probably not much. I do some work, read, sleep, eat. I meet my friend in Soho House, which is not the open brick the Brit frequenter might be used to. Ever so trendy you enter through a car park … fine. If I must. The place is in a glass tower of aspiration, over-looking Beverly Hills. Vertigo entices you with every pane. We sit on the balcony and have a green juice, which I think is clover juice but apparently that’s just the brand. I’m disappointed and eat a croissant, the jam is fantastic. We stare at the traffic and chat softly. I’m tired and in awe. People behind us are talking of money, millions, and the Indian film market. I’m really glad I’m not with them. We order another coffee and stare at the scene for a bit longer, then leave.

We went to a Lakers game and ate a McDonalds, we ate Mexican food and Harry Potter chocolates that tasted like shit at Universal City Walk and  I sat by the pool at Chateau Martmont to meet another British girl moving here, made a new friend, drank a margarita in the afternoon – the results of which were fantastic. British men sat at the loungers next to the pool as we sat in the corner, grabbing the last of the light. The men laughed and chatted and smoked heartily, as if they were in some Old Boys Club in the 1800’s.


My boyfriend’s uncle took us to the Angeles Mountains and forest, which had the newest grass I’d ever seen and giant pine cones five times the size of your face – don’t pick them up to compare how big they are to your face though, as they are covered in Black Widow webs – so I learned. Anyway, as you can see I got very in the spirit of things up there.

Bendy roads like you wouldn’t believe up to the mountains, and people take these roads that are essentially just lethal corners like they’re in dodgems – with some imaginary security rail holing them on to the course. And then you have the reminders that this is not the case, there is no rail guys. As we wandered down one of the roads to the forest there were remnants of cars flying over canyons, broken trees, red glass smashed on the ground, papers strewn everywhere. Exam results, rules, instructions. All headed for the breeze.

The days feel longer here, chocolates bigger, there’s less resistance so you seem to have more time and it’s always sunny so life is just one big holiday – so long as you’re a freelancer working from home, getting work. I imagine as soon as I had to work in an office in LA my perspective would change quite dramatically, but for the reality I have created, I like LA.

America, welcome to me. Happy to be here.

Fitting in nicely ....

Fitting in nicely ….