I’ve been in England for a week – most of which I’ve unfortunately spent drenched in my own jetlag sweats, vomiting expired hazelnut yoghurt into bidets. Other than that blip, and the fact that the combination of bidets and poor nail maintenance is something that the people on the mainland seem overly happy to bear, I love Europe. Especially this cold, rainy, dreary place. People in London are so fucking cool I can’t handle it. I seriously mean that. After fleeing New York (my favourite shithole) for Los Angeles, I’ve decided that I love London more than both for many reasons, but mostly it’s people’s shoes.
After working in the fashion industry for so many years I’ve grown complacent to the sight of people wearing the most full-blown crazy shit on a daily basis, so I was very impressed last week when I was in Teddington smoking cigars in a lounge with older men dressed in couture Givenchy suits and the most amazing loafers you’ve ever seen. As I listened to them complain about their asshole sons who keep talking shit about them on Twitter, I couldn’t stop thinking about how amazing they were. And they had a dog with them. A dog was in the lounge. And then I saw one on a pub roof. London: How you get so quaint?
In about eight hours I’m meeting with my first London agency. What a great coincidence that I just happened to get foodborne illness last night and can’t sleep more than four hours at a time. Who knows, maybe this potential agency is into the “flu” look, because I’m borderline Gwyneth Paltrow in Contagion right now. (Here’s betting they will be, looking cracked out seems like a great way to get ahead in the industry over here.)
I’m in the UK for work. After my hellish stint of searching for an agency in LA, I’m hoping to be welcomed by London with open arms. My unconventional looks probably fit in better here than they do in Malibu. You guys like freaky looking chicks, right? None of your models have teeth in the right places and they all have eyes like wells that children have been thrown down. I’m in my element.
The only downside to being in London rather than LA right now is that I’m missing pilot season. Pilot season is basically the busiest three months of the year for aspiring actors, it’s when all the new shows are being comissioned and everyone and their mum (shout out to Dina Lohan) goes to Hollywood to get cast in the next Pretty Little Liars and become famous. I have an amazing manager in LA who’s been helping me turn my modelling life into something I can benefit from, which means something that doesn’t actually involve me being a model. Trust me, it makes sense.
My NY booker has submitted me to a ton of agencies here, including the ones that I have no fucking shot at signing with: IMG, Elite, Storm, etc, where the girls are either Kate Moss or 15. I have a return flight to the States soon but I really hope I can cancel that because the future me has succeeded in modelling here.
Or I’ll just return to the US feeling like a piece of shit failure, which I suppose wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I could always return to pilot season and book a guest role on Two and a Half Men where I play a slutty English waitress who goes home with Ashton Kutcher. The mental anguish that would cause me would be worth it if I got to swan around a TV set pretending to find the age-old, transatlantic trousers-pants conflict fascinating and pronouncing all my “TH” sounds as Fs.
You know I’m not just trying to suck up to you English people so you’ll like me, right? Well I am a bit. Is it working? Because I’m not, and I only have a week left on this godforsaken rock to find gainful employment.