because all my friends were trying it. I’d grown up with a father who was a smoker. There was one guy who was puffing away on a Marlboro Red thinking he looked really cool. Apart from that type of cigarette being really fucking strong, it also proved he didn’t know what he was doing because they were the most advertised brand ever. I took a lit cigarette from between his fingers as we lay on the grass and took a drag.
I started coughing and spluttering straight away and had to hand it back quickly. I didn’t like the taste. I definitely didn’t like the smell. I thought, ‘Well, Kelly, you’re not going to be a smoker.’
I’d pretty much come to the conclusion quite early on that Beverly Hills was not real life. Well, not to me, anyway. There are great things to do there and the sun is always shining. But LA is a fantasy life. The streets are lined with massive mansions all sitting amongst immaculate gardens with a bunch of fancy cars in the driveway. It’s all about: ‘Look how much money I have. Look at how successful I am.’
I mean, how can it be real when the local shops are Gucci and Prada? That’s not life. Where’s the Tesco? Where’s the corner shop? I saw it for what it was in those early days and tried to concentrate on the fun stuff.
T HE first summer we spent in LA was an absolute blast. I mean look, we got in the car, drove for five minutes and we were at Rodeo Drive; the shopping street Julia Roberts made more famous in Pretty Woman . There’s every designer shop you can think of from Mulberry to Ralph Lauren. I used to love visiting that street and laughing at all the women with stretched, plastic-surgery-enhanced faces – I call them Vegas Face. It means they’ve had bad plastic surgery. There’d be whole bunch of them struggling with their millions of bags courtesy of their husbands’ credit cards.
There were fun places for teenagers to go to. My mum would always take me for a cheeseburger at Carney’s Express, which was a diner on a disused train sitting at the edge of Sunset Boulevard, the street that runs through Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.
People would carry dogs under their arms with little designer outfits on with matching collars. I couldn’t believe they had shops that actually specialised in doggy clothes. I’d never seen anything like it. My mum used to take usto the Beverly Center, which is a massive shopping mall on about eight different levels on the edge of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. I’d never been to such a huge place. Inside were Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s, which are well-known department stores in America. There were shops that I’d never heard of like Banana Republic, which sounded like a political fruit.
The sun was always shining in LA so my mum bought a convertible car. Uncle Tony would drive us everywhere. My dad can’t drive. Well, he can, but he hasn’t passed his test. He always used to drive around Welders when we lived there.
When we first moved to LA it was all fun, fun, fun times. Uncle Tony would drive me, Jack and Dad along Sunset Boulevard. Dad and I used to sit in the back and Jack would be in the front. My dad would chuck stink bombs through the doors of the shops. They’d roll in and land at the feet of the women buying their designer clothes. They’d look down and pull the funniest faces or run out. We’d be sitting in the car pissing ourselves laughing. Or Jack would have a squirt gun hidden by his feet. My dad would be looking for people to squirt and then he’d shout: ‘Now, Jack! Now, Jack.’ Jack would whip out his gun and squirt some innocent woman out shopping.
Living in LA was cool. But some crazy shit was also starting to happen too, which is just typical of my family. One day Jack, Mum, Aimee and I were eating at a deli in Beverly Hills. This man started calling my mum a ‘nigger fucker’. He was standing about a couple of yards away from us in the LA sunshine screaming, ‘You’re a nigger fucker.’
I started coughing and spluttering straight away and had to hand it back quickly. I didn’t like the taste. I definitely didn’t like the smell. I thought, ‘Well, Kelly, you’re not going to be a smoker.’
I’d pretty much come to the conclusion quite early on that Beverly Hills was not real life. Well, not to me, anyway. There are great things to do there and the sun is always shining. But LA is a fantasy life. The streets are lined with massive mansions all sitting amongst immaculate gardens with a bunch of fancy cars in the driveway. It’s all about: ‘Look how much money I have. Look at how successful I am.’
I mean, how can it be real when the local shops are Gucci and Prada? That’s not life. Where’s the Tesco? Where’s the corner shop? I saw it for what it was in those early days and tried to concentrate on the fun stuff.
T HE first summer we spent in LA was an absolute blast. I mean look, we got in the car, drove for five minutes and we were at Rodeo Drive; the shopping street Julia Roberts made more famous in Pretty Woman . There’s every designer shop you can think of from Mulberry to Ralph Lauren. I used to love visiting that street and laughing at all the women with stretched, plastic-surgery-enhanced faces – I call them Vegas Face. It means they’ve had bad plastic surgery. There’d be whole bunch of them struggling with their millions of bags courtesy of their husbands’ credit cards.
There were fun places for teenagers to go to. My mum would always take me for a cheeseburger at Carney’s Express, which was a diner on a disused train sitting at the edge of Sunset Boulevard, the street that runs through Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.
People would carry dogs under their arms with little designer outfits on with matching collars. I couldn’t believe they had shops that actually specialised in doggy clothes. I’d never seen anything like it. My mum used to take usto the Beverly Center, which is a massive shopping mall on about eight different levels on the edge of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. I’d never been to such a huge place. Inside were Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s, which are well-known department stores in America. There were shops that I’d never heard of like Banana Republic, which sounded like a political fruit.
The sun was always shining in LA so my mum bought a convertible car. Uncle Tony would drive us everywhere. My dad can’t drive. Well, he can, but he hasn’t passed his test. He always used to drive around Welders when we lived there.
When we first moved to LA it was all fun, fun, fun times. Uncle Tony would drive me, Jack and Dad along Sunset Boulevard. Dad and I used to sit in the back and Jack would be in the front. My dad would chuck stink bombs through the doors of the shops. They’d roll in and land at the feet of the women buying their designer clothes. They’d look down and pull the funniest faces or run out. We’d be sitting in the car pissing ourselves laughing. Or Jack would have a squirt gun hidden by his feet. My dad would be looking for people to squirt and then he’d shout: ‘Now, Jack! Now, Jack.’ Jack would whip out his gun and squirt some innocent woman out shopping.
Living in LA was cool. But some crazy shit was also starting to happen too, which is just typical of my family. One day Jack, Mum, Aimee and I were eating at a deli in Beverly Hills. This man started calling my mum a ‘nigger fucker’. He was standing about a couple of yards away from us in the LA sunshine screaming, ‘You’re a nigger fucker.’
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