The one where a girl does a Masonic dance in Tam's hot tub

10am. I’m due in Santa Monica. I race down the freeway. I was hoping to meet a friend for lunch but, surprise surprise, he doesn’t pick up the phone. So… I walked on the beach alone and contemplated HOW LUCKY I AM to be here in LA and enjoying relaxing on the beach. I stepped into the sea. Oooh, look at me, I’m so free, I’m walking in the sea. Woo. I got bored. It took me ten minutes. My head was racing. Shouldn’t I be doing something else, shouldn’t I be writing? Shouldn’t I be DOING SOMETHING? I’m not too good at this downtime thing. Never have been. My head just can’t relax. I think I’m going to learn meditation or something because this is meant to be my break and I’m going ‘where to next, what can I do, why am I on my own on the beach….’ Calm down love.

Tamara rings. Her friend Rick is coming to her BBQ party tonight and needs picking up. So… back to the Four Seasons (Ben and Tamsin left this morning) and meet Rick. We’ve not met before but we have friends in common.

We drive over the hill for the half hour drive. His mother’s a QPR fan so I think he’s okay. Anyway, it’s a bonding trip and we chat away. We get to Tam’s. She’s got the nicest place – big pool, nice BBQ – it’s all amazing. Oh. And there's a hot tub. Really nice. I'm into the hot tub thing. Now that works for me.

One of Tam’s flat mates has got us all VIP passes to some concert at the Staples Centre. I’m tempted but… Rick’s in shorts, Tam’s in the hot tub, Gina can’t be bothered and I’m fine just where we are. Sweet boy though. Moved here from Amarillo, Texas. Got a dog. A small one. Called it Johnny Cash. Started walking it. Met people. And got a job as someone’s assistant (aka Bitch). He hated me calling it ‘bitch’. He kept going he’s my friend… he’s my friend. My point? He’s your boss and you’re his bitch… He’ll learn. Still, I’m impressed that Johnny Cash worked out for him.

By 9pm we’re all in the hot tub. Nice. Then… this girl. Ms J. Don’t know her. Don’t want to know her. She’s hammered. She hit that turning point. I want to thump her. Rick wants to thump her. Jeremy wants to bang her. And god knows what Jason thinks. She told us all about bonding with girls at her boarding school and did her Masonic dance she learned at school. It involved some dancing moves while waving her arms around. It was a bit scary. She'd had a few beers.... let's say... nevertheless... it wasn't what I really needed. Great dance though. I feel I learned a lot.

Following the dance, she then dived into the freezing main swimming pool and just lay in the cold water. Insane. It was cold watching her. Time to go. But it was all good fun. Rick and I make our escape. But now. I’m hungry. So we stopped off at Mel’s Diner for a late night munch.

Tam calls. Ms J’s boyfriend had turned up. Turns out I know exactly who he is and he deserves her. He was in the final series of Dream Team, the amazing Sky One TV show that I was employed on as a script writer. The only TV show I've been employed as a script writer on in fact. Indeed. Yes. I have given that man words. He has spoken my lines.

Oh and Ms J's costume. It was like a bad porn film job. White. With a black bit that you can remove, which she did. Always nice to see a girl’s nipples and bush on a first meeting. And she had the panda eyes where the make up had rubbed all over her face as she got crazier and crazier. I felt sorry for Tam, who had to eventually kick her out at 2am. Urgh.

Anyway, Rick and I are safe. We’re the other side of the hill. Away from the nonsense. I take Rick back to the Four Seasons and head on home.

The Following Day...
10am. I’m at Nico’s. He’s not up yet. WAKE UP. And, later, we go off to the Chateau for lunch with Roof, Patrick, Sacha and Andrew. A nice lunch. I like the Chateau – even though they fucked up my order. By now it was 2pm. People had things to do and, unlike last week, it looked like I wasn’t going to be spending the afternoon with Roof. Instead… I had a press junket to go to. Hopefully.... hopefully... Mr X won't ring so I can just sneak in this job. Fingers crossed.


By 3pm I’m ensconced at the Sofitel hotel interviewing the cast of My Name is Earl. So. Junkets. Noam + four foreign journalists sitting in a hotel room in LA. The ‘talent’ comes in with two publicists, at least – the more publicists the more important they are – and we ask questions. Ten minutes per member of the cast. . You fire questions at them and battle with the other journalists to get your moment in the spotlight. That’s how some people might work. Not me. Oh no.

First of all. Get to know the other journalists. They are your friends. Not your enemies. Find out what people need from the talent. We need to work our time. So. Maybe someone works for a magazine like Vogue. They might want to know their view on fashion or trends. Fuck it. Let ‘em go with it. It’s not like I need the interview. However, with the main talent, it’s harder. We all want a slice. Some people are working for TV mags while others need ‘lifestyle’ pieces so have to ask about babies, boyfriends/girlfriends, homelife and the usual stuff you read in a magazine.

Still, it's fun being in a hotel, watching the world go by from the Penthouse. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. Thank God Mr X’s in NYC, my blackberry hardly bleeped for at least seven hours.

Bleep. Spoke to soon. But it’s only a quick request to find out something to do in the morning. Bleep. Ended. Bed. Yay.

The one where Noam goes to Paramount

I’m up at 3am again. Panicking.

By 7.30am I started to drive over to Moorpark. Beep. Beep. The blackberry… can I go over to the Paramount lot and meet Mr X to sort out his Bluetooth in his car… So I headed to Lulu’s café, ordered an omelette and rang my mother to catch up with her. I was excited about going to Paramount. I emailed Xxxxxx, the assistant at Paramount, to put me on the list. A studio. Yay. I got there half an hour early. I’m not on the list. Eek. This is not good. The Paramount assistant isn't there either. This is not good.

Then. Mr X's co-writer on this project, turns up… he’s not on the list either. Great. I go into power mode. Sorted. Mr X, thankfully, is running late, which gives me a chance to make sure everything's okay for his arrival. You can't fuck up in Hollywood. You just can't. Even if it's not your fault it's your fault - that's the law. The law in Hollywood anyway.

After I got in, I decided to take a few pictures. As you do. Before I headed to the office where Mr X was having his meeting. The assistant was frosty. She removed me from the reception area as I looked untidy. I didn't look so bad. But... her boss didn't know who I was thus I presented a problem. They put me in a side room... out of sight so out of mind. Though I did start chatting to an intern, who was photocopying in the room next to me. Then. Mr X arrived, he graciously introduced me to Mr Paramount with a really generous intro before giving me the keys to his car and I was off...

While on the lot I bumped into the office intern. He had a cart. A cart! Like a golf buggy so he drove me around. I loved it! Couldn’t remember his name and felt bad when he said ‘bye Noam’ after he dropped me off. He’ll go far. I, on the other hand? God knows.

I fixed the car - which I was really proud of. I mean. Bluetooth. Cars. Phones. Technology. Seriously. This wasn't easy stuff. I was configuring things on a car that didn't even need a key to start it. I don't mean to sound like a plum, but, honestly, this kind of thing is usually beyond me. I returned the key to the uppity assistant and walked back round the lot. It wasn't easy. I have to say.

After leaving the lot, grudgingly, I raced back to Culver City to the office to sort out more stuff. Meetings, double checking meetings but the mood outside. It was one of … weirdness.

I'm writing this about November... and... back in November in LA it was voting day. One of the most historic days, probably, of the Century so far in America... People kept coming up to me on the street going ‘have you voted… it’s close… you gotta vote…’ I kept saying ‘but I’m English’.

The most political things I’ve ever done in my life are as follows a) voted in the UK elections in some of the most Tory boroughs ever. Even though what's the point? b) dragged on marches from ages 7-12 to go to the Soviet embassies to protest about them not letting Jews out of the country: ‘one two three four, open up the iron door. Five six seven eight let the people emigrate’. C) and most recently? When seeing gays holding up their ‘honk if you’re against prop eight’ signs… I’ve honked. I felt wonderfully involved. Look at me. I’m in politics now. I honked my horn. That’s it. So… to have this election fever? I couldn’t get involved. I feel bad. But I’ve not been here long enough. It's been two weeks. If that. Brown vs Cameron. That I get. That I know. This? I know NOTHING. Sorry. I feel horribly ignorant. I'm too wrapped in my own LA bubble right now that I don't even know where I am...

I went to Larchmont to meet Justin and his girlfriend. Kirsten. She wants me to co-write her book. Money up front. Easy prospect. I’m tempted. Nice to see Justin again, we’ve been playing scrabulous and word scraper now on a daily basis since I met him last March. This was probably the second or third time we’ve met, first time away from others, but having spent months im’ing I feel I know him. And he’s trying to give me a friendly kick up the arse with my career. He also offered me work as a script writer on a reality show. All good. Amazing even.

I raced back across Hollywood as I had a meeting at 8pm. And then, a friend found me and tried to drag me to the Abbey where he was meeting his friend Ivan. It was all go in the Abbey. Big gay bar. Lots of rainbow flags. Squealing. Excitement. Cheers. I was too tired.

Tam rang. Her party was a bit shit. She didn’t know anyone so was heading up to her friend Ms L’s. I joined her. Scraped up the car in the car park, ouch, and headed up into the hills to visit Lena, her parents, a hetero or two, and some gays. As it was all, mainly, Brits, it was quite a relief. Love Ms L’s parents. I spoke to John, her dad, about Stan Ternant and Peter Jackson… He’s from Huddersfield. I’ve been there. Seen the Terriers. That's Huddersfield FC. Played with the dogs and realised, I’m shattered. Really shattered and I’ve got to drive home. People are honking their horns all over West Hollywood. I’m falling asleep at the wheel.

Wednesday November 5th

Bonfire night. No fireworks or Guys in LA. They don’t have a clue. I love Bonfire Night. Head up to Moor Park at 9am and see Dan O’Meara. A friend. Nice to see him, we talk about his film, his prospects, his life and a bit of my life, my prospects and the world at large. A text from JFS, he’s moving back to the UK next week but we’re meeting for coffee in Los Feliz on Friday. It’ll be nice to see someone from home and he’s doing so well out here. Still shattered.

While talking to Dan, my crackberry goes off. ‘Sorry the meeting’s cancelled today, are we meeting next Monday at 11am?’ WTF? I don’t know the name but I know the meeting. It starts in 50 minutes and Mr X will already be on the road. I call ‘young jim’ – that’s seriously his name.
Oops. He made a mistake. Wanker. Utter wanker. I call someone else to double check, after all, I’d confirmed this meeting the day before. ‘He’s new. I’m sorry. He didn’t know’. Two minutes later. ‘beep beep’. He’s apologising. Cross communication. I’ll fucking say. I was about to get the chop there for his error.

Talking to Dan again when ‘ring ring’… It’s Mr X. He wants to know who someone is. Thank god for the Crackberry. I give a name and company. Dan’s impressed. I’ve been here two weeks and I’m multitasking with a crackberry sounding all efficient. It’s frightening though, the fear of not wanted to fuck up. I’m back in ‘Devil Wears Prada’ fears.

Off to the office again. Culver City awaits. My back, however, is slipping away. Thank fuck for Liz and Lisa’s birthday present. I book a massage tomorrow. Can’t wait. Cannot wait.

And then, the madness, the crackberry. Meetings. Confirmations. Texting someone only known as by a nickname who doesn't have an email address - just a phone.

Then… something nice. Mr X asks me about a singer. I check him out. I’m asked my opinion. We agree. He tells me his idea. I agree. It could work. I send Mr X the links to the singer’s myspace page and videos. Mr X likes him. I like him. Mr X asks me to set up a meeting with him.

I feel so powerful. Look at me. I google, use imdbpro.com and sure enough, within ten minutes I’m Mr X's right hand woman setting up a meeting. I love these bits of the job. Where I feel I might be changing someone’s life. Or setting up some kind of deal. I really enjoy it. It just seems exciting.

Then I make the call. They tell me they’ll return.

I send an email:

Hi xxxxxx,

Re the message I left earlier this afternoon, I'm writing on behalf of director Mr X (insert names of film here).

"Mr X would like to set up a meeting with yourself and your client xxxxxx to discuss an idea for a film project that would involve xxxxx and his music.

Please contact me on xxx xxx xxxx so we can put something together."

Two minutes later. It’s the man.

Ten minutes later. The man and I are friends. The man and Mr X are meeting up in Santa Monica before his big studio meeting. And I feel I rock. I feel like I’m at the beginning of a project that might run. And that’s what I came here for. And that’s why I’m enjoying my job. Today.

I leave the office and head over to Western and Lemon Grove to meet Jolyon. He’s a friend of rock Dave – who painted my flat in London and redid my bathrooms. Anyway, Jolyon’s a DJ.

I got lost in Lemon Grove. I went up the wrong street. Apparently I’m in some kind of crack alley but I didn’t know, so ended up asking some crack-smoking local for directions. He has no idea where he is. Let alone me. I call Jolyon for the fifth time in ten minutes.

I’m on the wrong side of Western. The wrong Lemon Grove. The wrong everything.

We eventually head off to the 101 café. And then, by 10pm, he has to leave, he’s working at midnight doing his DJ thing and, meanwhile, I’m shattered. Still, nice to meet someone new.

Shattered I head off to bed.