Friday, 17 June 2011
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Let's hug it out, bitch
Today The Champion and I decided to indulge in a little light stalking and tripped and fell onto the set of Entourage on location at The Roosevelt.
This of course provided extensive comedy value not so much watching the filming itself, but watching every trust-fund-Z-Lister who had nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon (aka the extras) as they lolled around the pool hoping someone would notice them and make them famous. Someone was watching them, but it just happened to be us, and we were grading people out of ten on shaggability rather than talent. Maybe I should go into casting?
Lechery aside, here are some of our most poignant revelations:
1. No men in Los Angeles have any hair on their chest. Not one. Where did all the real men go?
2. Everybody has a tattoo. (But could somebody please explain to me why you would get a map of NANTUCKET in orange, green and yellow tattooed onto your back?!?!? - here's a throwaway WTF to you sir)
3. Still on tattoos, either the Tramp Stamp's making a comeback, the girls have GREAT plastic surgeons and they got them when they were in fashion circa the early 90's, or they are just dumb. No, we wouldn't hit it.
4. A well-defined six pack is like great gift-wrapping on a shit present, tell me the last time you read a book made out of paper and then we can talk.
5. You could tell I'm not from LA because, apart from the fact that my tits don't require scaffolding and are all my own, I was the only one that dived head first into the pool. I know, your hair's the money shot...
Anyway, there is a grave risk that we might be coming to a television near you soon, so watch out. To assist, you need to look for a delectable hairy chest next to an inverted blonde bucking the trend and lying the wrong way up the sun longer with her legs draped in the air. You can tell it's me because I am the only person reading a book, in an Agent Provocateur one-piece, of course.
This of course provided extensive comedy value not so much watching the filming itself, but watching every trust-fund-Z-Lister who had nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon (aka the extras) as they lolled around the pool hoping someone would notice them and make them famous. Someone was watching them, but it just happened to be us, and we were grading people out of ten on shaggability rather than talent. Maybe I should go into casting?
Lechery aside, here are some of our most poignant revelations:
1. No men in Los Angeles have any hair on their chest. Not one. Where did all the real men go?
2. Everybody has a tattoo. (But could somebody please explain to me why you would get a map of NANTUCKET in orange, green and yellow tattooed onto your back?!?!? - here's a throwaway WTF to you sir)
3. Still on tattoos, either the Tramp Stamp's making a comeback, the girls have GREAT plastic surgeons and they got them when they were in fashion circa the early 90's, or they are just dumb. No, we wouldn't hit it.
4. A well-defined six pack is like great gift-wrapping on a shit present, tell me the last time you read a book made out of paper and then we can talk.
5. You could tell I'm not from LA because, apart from the fact that my tits don't require scaffolding and are all my own, I was the only one that dived head first into the pool. I know, your hair's the money shot...
Anyway, there is a grave risk that we might be coming to a television near you soon, so watch out. To assist, you need to look for a delectable hairy chest next to an inverted blonde bucking the trend and lying the wrong way up the sun longer with her legs draped in the air. You can tell it's me because I am the only person reading a book, in an Agent Provocateur one-piece, of course.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Welcome to America, go big or get the fuck out Part III (Part II, The Sequel)
Unlike the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise (please, no more), this is the gift that just keeps on giving...
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Pro Bono Gigolo
Oh, what LA fuckery befalls me now?
Really, today is just the last hoorah in a weekend of many shades of wrong with a strong dash of what the fuck (situation: normal).
It all began with the arrival of Ireland's Finest from New York. Given our past history of collectively tormenting Parisians, uneventful wasn't going to be this weekend's strong suit. Luckily for the rest of Los Angeles the desert contained us for most of Saturday, so it wasn't really until we struck out Downtown on Sunday that things started to head south.
Sunday evening was Supper Club, at which we had the pleasure of dining opposite: Rabbit and Ping-Ping. No. Really. These are their actual names. I know this because after I had been asked to open the champagne (oh for a man that has skills...), I felt I had sufficient moral highground (here's how I was instructed to do it in Paris; yes, ten-points for pretentious twattery but I'm not named after the key ingredient for a stew) to just come out with it and ask if these were their actual names. Apparently they are...
And lest we forget 'Anything with a Heartbeat' Wales, who, no relation to the Prince Of, had hands that were extremely dextrous given how fat the fingers that dangled off of them. He added a whole new dimension to the expression 'backs to the wall'.
And so, we arrive at today. Things were just on the regular: a little light lunch at the Chat opposite a famous director and his dog who was actually sitting on a chair at the table, as if prepared to dine (FYI the armchair the dog had was of way superior class to the bench his agent was relegated to perching on. I'm just saying...), was followed by a digestive stroll down Melrose, until a hand thrust me this:
Yes, today is the day that I got offered free sex by a gigolo. And not just any old gigolo. A gigolo riding a bicycle. Living the dream folks, living the dream...
Really, today is just the last hoorah in a weekend of many shades of wrong with a strong dash of what the fuck (situation: normal).
It all began with the arrival of Ireland's Finest from New York. Given our past history of collectively tormenting Parisians, uneventful wasn't going to be this weekend's strong suit. Luckily for the rest of Los Angeles the desert contained us for most of Saturday, so it wasn't really until we struck out Downtown on Sunday that things started to head south.
Sunday evening was Supper Club, at which we had the pleasure of dining opposite: Rabbit and Ping-Ping. No. Really. These are their actual names. I know this because after I had been asked to open the champagne (oh for a man that has skills...), I felt I had sufficient moral highground (here's how I was instructed to do it in Paris; yes, ten-points for pretentious twattery but I'm not named after the key ingredient for a stew) to just come out with it and ask if these were their actual names. Apparently they are...
And lest we forget 'Anything with a Heartbeat' Wales, who, no relation to the Prince Of, had hands that were extremely dextrous given how fat the fingers that dangled off of them. He added a whole new dimension to the expression 'backs to the wall'.
And so, we arrive at today. Things were just on the regular: a little light lunch at the Chat opposite a famous director and his dog who was actually sitting on a chair at the table, as if prepared to dine (FYI the armchair the dog had was of way superior class to the bench his agent was relegated to perching on. I'm just saying...), was followed by a digestive stroll down Melrose, until a hand thrust me this:
Sunday, 29 May 2011
And We're Making a Movie!
We have already discussed how the Future Director has a touch of the George Lucas' about her, so it will be no surprise to you to see the following tale of a spaceman on an alien planet, as filmed in the Yucca Valley yesterday. Once again I was sous-bitch to the FD. I'm just grateful there weren't any dogs...
Thursday, 26 May 2011
My life as directed by Todd Phillips...
Whilst luxuriating in the Hollywood Hills last Friday my eyes grazed over the sight of the hot-tub. And immediately this quote from Old School came to mind:
"We are going to get so much ass here, it's going to be sick. I'm talking like crazy boy band ass."
It was like dick soup, and nobody bar the ladies had come equipped with a swimsuit, so with all those white Calvin Klein undies it was like a wet t-shirt competition for cougars. I say cougars because when you are having a conversation (I said, conversation) with somebody born in the nineties it is not only the fact that they have not had the experiences your additional couple (or thereabouts, ahem...) years on the planet have afforded you, but the fact that they are not legally allowed to have those experiences yet... Which is something I commented on to The Yank earlier today. It's like Old School in reverse she said. I coughed uncomfortably. But really, I have to admit that on occasions my life does feel like it's being directed by Todd Phillips, I mean, she and I took down Vegas (in a year that the hot-tubbers were still in middle school...) and the only thing missing was the tiger in the bathroom. But that's a whole other story...
Thursday, 19 May 2011
A Bad Case of the Europes...
I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's because it's raining non-stop in California. But this is not the deal I signed up for.
This is:
So, I suppose you could say, I have a bad case of the Euorpes. It's hot there. Things are happening. Songs are written about springtime in Paris for a reason...
Anyway, in a bid to recreate some of what I left behind, I found myself drawn to a small Paris-chic bistro. All is well in the land of The Euro:
Or so you think, until you look left...
Yes, that's right Ladies and Gentlemen, you can have your citron pressé and er, suck it up...
It then struck me, like it does so many things, that in fact, even at the (allegedly) hottest locations in Venice, you need to embrace the car park as a verified vista. As if eating in a supermarket was not enough.
When I called America out on this, someone I respect told me it was normal.
To the victor belong the spoils...
This is:
So, I suppose you could say, I have a bad case of the Euorpes. It's hot there. Things are happening. Songs are written about springtime in Paris for a reason...
Anyway, in a bid to recreate some of what I left behind, I found myself drawn to a small Paris-chic bistro. All is well in the land of The Euro:
It then struck me, like it does so many things, that in fact, even at the (allegedly) hottest locations in Venice, you need to embrace the car park as a verified vista. As if eating in a supermarket was not enough.
To the victor belong the spoils...
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