Shitsville Ranch is my glorious abode. An utterly splendid split level mid-century modern house slathered wall to wall in appalling Seventies kitsch, it was gifted by my famous fat father to my mother as a kind of tax dodge.
In days gone by home was a glorious sea-fronted Deco villa, where I lived with my finnicketty bitch of a peacock Sebastian; both the Deco villa and Sebastian came to an appalling end in fire. Read More
Pepto Pink and the Shitsville Aesthetic
Discover the joys of decorating with Barbie pink and Henri Rousseau-style jungle green accents. Read More
The Shitsville Family
Previously the ranch was home to my triptych of ancient aunts, before I put them on a zeppelin to Palm Springs as a punishment for leaving biscuit crumbs between the cushions of my glorious mid-century modern sofa. Read More
I now live peaceably with said sad fat father Archie and my insalubrious third-or-fourth cousin Francis (aka Frankie Shitsville), occasionally receiving visits from the incandescent Nancy Sinatra, such as on the occasion when Archie faked his own death and everyone came on rolling up the hill to celebrate with Jack Daniels and a traditional Texas Bar-B-Que. Read More