A Brit in LA
Photographer: Rebecca Zephyr Thomas
Model: Iris Owen
Words by Iris Owen
Howdy Y’all!
Yes. I said it. Howdy y’all. I am now officially one of them. One of those British girls who moves to LA and starts calling trousers pants, says things like “GO DODGERS!” with no idea if that’s baseball or basketball (or men’s underwear?), adds Biscoff vanilla pumpkin sugar nut creamer into every coffee I make, and spends hours chatting to people I pass on the sidewalk. Oh—and I say sidewalk. As a child, I was obsessed with any movie portraying the ‘American Dream’ and by that, I don’t mean the American Dream of hard work and upward mobility. I mean my American Dream: big sunglasses, bejewelled flip phones, super blonde hair, a pink locker at UCLA, a sexy little convertible, a crispy vocal fry, and a massive pool you can relax by with a jug of iced tea. The classic Hollywood princess. Less The Breakfast Club, more Wild Child. I think these movies could also be the culprit behind my obsession with Juicy Couture. Since an early age, I’ve idolized the dystopian celebrity fantasy of exiting a Starbucks in a matching velour tracksuit, wearing gigantic sunglasses that cover 95% of your face, and hiding from the paparazzi. It’s been my dream to have a wardrobe full of Juicy Couture and to be outrageously famous. One dream is complete.
Person of the Year: Adam Sandler
Song of the Year: Beverly Hills by Weezer
Food of the year: Taco Bell Flavoured vape (not food, but boy oh boy)
It is a true honour to be Britain's largest Juicy Couture collector. With over 100 tracksuits in my collection, a rare Juicy surfboard, board games such as Clue? and Monopoly, dog clothes, babywear, and all things miscellaneous, I have it all.
Teachers in school said I would amount to nothing, and that obsessively buying velour tracksuits would never get me anywhere. Joke’s on them now, isn’t it?
Kids—if you are listening—don't focus on exams. Hyper-fixate on a brand you like and spend 15 years’ worth of money on their items, and you too can be like me.
I’ve also had a burning desire to be famous since around the age of three. This may explain why I refer to myself as ‘London’s Most Famous Not-Famous Person’. I’ll take what I can get.
Living in Los Angeles is ideal for strutting around in a full apple green Juicy tracksuit pretending to be famous. However, the non-glamourous part that
doesn’t quite mirror my ‘Paris Hilton-esque’ life is that I cannot drive, nor afford endless Ubers. This means I either walk everywhere or take the bus. One afternoon, during my almost daily hike to the Hollywood souvenir stores, I stood in dog crap whilst wearing my silver flip flops from Target. I’m a very optimistic girl and thought, ‘there’s still an extremely small chance this is chocolate mousse.’ When the odor hit, so did reality. I washed my feet in the public toilet next to the Chinese Theatre.
I spent two hours and $250 in one of those souvenir stores the other day. Have you heard the speculation that tourist shops are fronts for money laundering or drug operations? They're not. They are ALL funded by me. Me and my insane obsession with tat and crap. I got a fake license plate that says 'Porn Star', a pink zebra print mug with 'California's Party Princess' printed on the side, and some other shite that will probably fall apart in my suitcase.
See America? You should make me a citizen. All I do is support your economy!! If you’re related to me, expect your Christmas gift to be a mini Oscar saying Best Uncle, whether or not you are my uncle.
Dating in LA has been a real rollercoaster. One guy literally took me on a rollercoaster. Well, he bought me an annual pass to Universal Studios, which was actually very generous. I never saw him again, but I went to Universal almost every week. Moe's Tavern became my local pub.
I also dated a 65year-old for a bit, who took me for caviar and then proposed. My verdict? Caviar is trash! Next time a pensioner offers you some, don't bother. Do you know what's far better for a slice of the price? Those balls they put in bubble tea. Go put some of them on a mini pancake with cream cheese. Oh, and I declined the engagement ring.
My most 'American' date was to Chili'sa classic bar & grill chain where you can get a margarita, chips and salsa, a burger, and fries all for $10.99. He paid. What a gent! His friends texted him on a group chat whilst we were eating, asking why the hell he took a girl to Chili’s for the first date, to which he replied truthfully, “She wanted to go, man. She’s British.”
He was a skater boy. She said, "Can you take me to Chili's boy?"
On our second date, he took me to Ikea, where I helped him pick out a new bed frame and rug. We then drove to a dive bar in the valley, watched a real live car chase on television, played songs on a juke box, and kissed in the back of his pick-up truck under the stars. No—I made that last bit up—we did kiss, but I don't know if there were any stars or even a pick-up truck. I was drunk.
Nectarine's LA survival tips:
- If a stranger asks you to help him remove a large growth on his back, don't hang around long enough to see what he's talking about. Just trust me on that one.
- Chateau Marmont dress code allows Juicy tracksuits. You're fine. - CVS is easy to steal lip gloss from.
- Don't go home with a guy called 'The Shiz'. Again, just trust me on that one. - The Scientologists aren't your friends, no matter how lonely you get.
- Best smoothie in the world? Green Dream from Kreation.
- Trader Joe's Mediterranean Falafel Wrap isn't as good as the tuna one.
I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream, a cardigan, and 33kg of overweight baggage—literal and emotional. I may not be a star yet, but I am 100% a Hollywood Cutie (it says so on my keychain).