What is it? A one-bedroom studio within another house-share, which would be unusual enough if it didn’t also – and I think I might be the first person to type this sentence, articulate the thought, &c. – have “the horniest stairs in the world” inside of it.
Where is it? Slap bang in the middle of Finsbury Park. It is odd how, in London, certain stations become gravity-forming locus points, where the sheer size and status of the station starts to engulf and reform the surrounding locale, pulling in the streets directly surrounding the station – there is no way housing units can sit so close to rolling train stock, so all the nearby properties are turned into shopfronts (a newsagent that has been there for 40 years, an underwhelming all-day breakfast café, one of those shops that shuts every six months and re-opens again as something new, almost certainly a front for something) and then the station gets bigger, looms ever larger, so all of the streets beyond those get sucked in to the grimy logistics of it, ever feeding the beast – streets that just function as major bus routes, pubs that open as late at the tube runs and kebab houses an hour beyond that, tram sheds gurgling and clonking all night, a taxi dispatch unit that always has a guy shouting outside it – and this flat is right in the sweet spot of that: three full streets away from an Oyster card reader, and yet, somehow tied up with the huffing, puffing, bellowing machine that is “Finsbury Park Station”.
What is there to do locally? That said, I fucking love Finsbury Park, because it has everything: Rowan’s! That crap bagel shop! One-hundred-million off-brand Nando’s! An actual Nando’s! A long slow walk from the Emirates back to the station! Everyone who was in the Emirates 15 minutes ago trudging home in the same slow slog! You are just in a wad of unmoving Arsenal fans! They are all mad at Granit Xhaka for some reason! They are all saying how “we should have won” but “we didn’t win”! Half-and-half scarves going cheap and burger vans boiling washing up liquid on their grills! It is 11 o’clock at night and once again our only viable left-back has somehow managed to get injured! A police horse stands in the middle of what is essentially a “kettle by choice”! Houses nearby the stadium weakly try to serve hotdogs through the window of their front room! None of the pubs are open, so I’m just locked here now! A blocks-wide morass of misery! Someone starts a Tottenham chant but no one really picks it up robustly enough, so a man has essentially just shouted “WHO DO WE HATE?” to himself and now has to walk home with the knowledge of that failure! I have to walk to Finsbury Park just to get the bus to my house! It’s nearly midnight! I clamber home finally! “How was the game?” my girlfriend asks! It was fucking shit!
Alright, how much are they asking? £850 pcm.
I could mess around here, and keep you away from the horny stairs, but you came here for horny stairs and I don’t want to stop you from seeing the horny stairs. Here are the horny stairs:
What’s the horniest component of your house? I am struggling to think, in mine. I suppose the shower could be perceived as horny, as you are most regularly naked in it, and it can be the location for sex (the bed can obviously be the location for sex, too, but because it is the most common location for sex, it sort of takes the sheen of sexiness off it: having sex in a shower is more unusual, and therefore more thrilling and illicit and naughty, than just having sex in a bed), but I don’t think the space itself is overtly horny. We probably have one of them vases banging around that has breasts for some reason. But other than that, I don’t think there’s anything horny about my house. We don’t even have one of those old-school door windows that looks like it’s had a tit pressed into it.
So we have to approach the stairs philosophically: what? (stairs in the shape of a woman, sort of, but with a dumptruck ass and a tit that is so sculpted it has an MDF nipple cut out of it) how? (someone had to either conceive of and commission the stairs-with-tits, or conceive of and then build their own tit-stairs, all of which I assume they did because – I don’t know? Did BT cut off their internet access so they could no longer watch pornography online? What dark facet of the human condition is being expressed by cutting the cartoonish shape of a woman out of composite wood and making your stairs out of it?) where? (in Finsbury Park, for some reason, but more specifically in a house that has no other decoration, at all, let alone decoration that would feed into a wider erotic theme: the stairs-with-tits is the only decorative flourish this entire house even has, which possibly makes it more insane: if at least one other piece of furniture was contorted to have tits on it, maybe I would understand the stair-tits, but it does not and therefore I do not) when? (in a time when God abandoned us) why? (we will never know why. We will never know why. We will never know why those stairs have tits).
Did someone make the stairs to jack off to, for instance? That seems outlandish, even for tit-stairs: curvaceous and bodacious though the tit-stairs undoubtedly are, I think it’d still be difficult – even for, say, someone with a specific kink for horny stairs – to get a bolt off to this one. I also wonder exactly at what point during the tit-stair assembly did the person making them really Commit To The Bit: the tit-stairs have the same energy as getting a bad tattoo on an overseas stag-do for a laugh, but those are normally 40-minute affairs, fuelled by days of drinking and six other lads with red-raw tans egging the recipient on. The tit-stairs were made slowly, carefully, and with more intention than that.
I am a man and I have a mind and I have the capacity for empathy to try to understand where others are coming from: I still, in every simulation I run about this, cannot imagine how and why someone put tits on their stairs. We all exist somewhere on a spectrum between “FUNNY” and “SEXY”. This shoots for both, and somehow achieves neither.
And, again: the rest of the flat is so bland that the decision to add the flourish of putting tits on the stairs within it seems even more unutterably bizarre. You have: a plain white front room with an insanely uncomfortable-looking ruby-red vinyl sofa in it and a single red shelf to match. You have a minute fridge–freezer combo crushed beneath the stairs and without, really, space within to chill anything. You have absolutely no storage options, so everything the current occupant owns is just out, including the decorative Lego Hogwarts they have hovering above the front room.
The bed itself is situated on a mezzanine floor with no real headspace and a fixed (again: red) headboard rigid to the wall behind it, and some sort of sliding door storage you can just about get to if you move the entire TV out of the way of it. The kitchen has what I can only describe as a “sky shelf” for all the pots and pans. The bathroom seems to have one, too. Who added tits to this equation? Was it to add value, or to take it away?
£850 is kind of alright, to have a very tiny balcony and access to an unkempt garden, but is it really worth living cluttered amongst every single thing you own and stared at, constantly, by a breasty set of stairs? The London property market just took a dark, horny turn. You should be as unsettled by this as I am.