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A Guide To West London for Beyoncé and Jay Z

The Buzzfeed generation’s answer to Zeus and Hera are moving to SW3.
April 25, 2014, 10:02am

It’s official, ladies and gentlemen. The Buzzfeed generation’s answer to Zeus and Hera are moving to London, presumably so they can feel at peace in the permanent cloud-born gloom, the genesis of the shade Beyoncé is apparently so talented at throwing.

Seriously, does that woman do anything other than throw shade? Beyonce looking at some rice in the supermarket? Oh you best believe that rice has been shaded! Flicking through the Ikea catalogue? Those pages are barely legible any more because they’re under such a thick fog of shade! Their garden will presumably just be covered in a giant parasol because shade shade shade throwing shade and jokes about shade.


As someone from London, why anyone would move to London escapes me. It stinks, it’s full of immigrants from Bournemouth and other drab uni towns, and for most of the year it’s darker than that look Bey gave Michelle on her wedding day! Oh she threw some real clicked-fingers-in-a-Z-formation ubershade that day.

Of course, the world's most famous, most musical and most beloved couple are moving to West London, where all the money and none of the riff raff is. Well, some of West London has riff raff, but who gives a fuck about Perivale? Jay Z probably bought Perivale and plans to store his vast trainers and whiskey collection in the tube station.

But what are they to do when they get here, hmm? How shall they behave to fit into West London’s hoity-toity society? If you’re reading this, guys, I’m here to help you. Print this out, stick it in your back pockets and get ready to ride the wild, wild roller coaster of London’s most sedate, privileged compass point.


I like to think that when Beyonce isn’t side-eying every sentient being on planet earth, she takes some time out to look after her child Blue Ivy. Playing with her, probably singing to her, forming the sort of covalent bond that will last a life time. This has to end here. To be seen with your own child in West London is to be seen with a two-foot marionette of Adolf Hitler. Being seen with your child is a tacit confession that you can’t afford to hire someone else to raise your offspring for you while you cycle and do aqua-aerobics and drink and smoke relentlessly. If Blue Ivy is seen out with her mother and not a nanny of nondescript nationality then her toddler street cred on the murky roads of Ladbroke Grove is at risk. Do the right thing, Beyonce: relinquish responsibility and live a full life all of your own, with unlimited Bloody Marys and a carton of Embassy Red.


If there’s one thing the bell pieces that populate Ken and Chels appreciate it’s talking like a charming eccentric. If you want to get them on side, it’s best to copy all your parlance from the bigoted Major Gowan from Fawlty Towers. A doddering friendliness and phrases like "old boy" will quickly endear you to the denizens of the borough, though the casual and dementia-riddled racism may not fit in so well with Westy’s largely bohemian demographic. The worst thing you guys could do is adopt a sort of chimney sweep apples and pears vibe because every one will just think you’re a cunt and tell you to fuck off back to Stepney (which you will pronounce Step-er-ney).

Old money people will likely expect you both to say things that involve "popping caps in asses" as a lot of them live in a horrendous time warp where the only thing showing on TV are reruns of Grumpy Old Men, but you’ll have to excuse them because they’re old and white and so close to death that the ivory finger of the reaper is reaching into their bras and squeezing their dusty tits.


One of the greatest things about being a filthy rich cunt living in West is that you can just spend all your time going into delicatessens and antique shops, spending hours buying cured meats and tables. Jay can meander around Kensington Church Street, looking at Japanese chandeliers with his hands behind his back, walking at about two miles per hour, peering in every window. Suit of armour? Take a look sir, long as you like. Tasteful landscape scene? There’s a lot of detail, make sure you give it a good eyeballing. Eventually people will be barging Mr. Z out of the fucking way cuz he’ll be observing tat like he’s taken a pill that slows his every movement down to incremental nudges. But that’s the point of being comfortable, you can go out in your £5000 tracksuit bottoms and gradually make your way through every antique shop, picking and choosing, swiping and spending.


Basically the only time anyone gives a shit about West London is when Carnival rolls around. You have two choices here: you can either have timid appreciation of it, making quasi-racist jokes about getting stabbed at Rampage whilst hanging out in the backstage of Red Bull with Diplo and Rita Ora, or you can go get stabbed at Rampage. If I were you guys though, I would just straight up not leave the house, probably barricade yourselves in and cover up the windows lest anyone sees you from the ground level and tweet your location.

Knowing these cool cats, they’ll probably be performing at it, Jay bringing out the hearty summer feeling and Bey keeping all the Red Stripes cool under the shade she threw at them while nearby morons make their thumbs bleed by furiously tapping the ‘praise hands’ emoji. Shade! Michelle is worthless! Queen Bey! Queen Bey!

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