London Rental Opportunity of the Week: Do You Wanna Go to Shooter’s Hill and Watch Me Shit

What is it? The orangest-looking decking in all of Christendom;
Where is it? Shooter’s Hill, a grey hidden alcove somewhere in south-east London. I have managed to live nigh on a decade in this city and never even heard of it. It’s near Falconwood, if that helps. And Welling. Am I going mad? Did these places just get sandwiched in there quite recently? I’ve heard of Greenwich. I’ve heard of Bexleyheath. And there, a wad-like stretch of nothing between them, some new and unknown quantity: Shooter’s Hill, SE18. Who knew.
What is there to do locally? Obviously I don’t know, do I;
Alright, how much are they asking? £900 p.c.m.

Here are some facts about London, all presented unordered and without judgment or motive, all of them unconnected beyond the fact that they pertain exclusively to London, the capital city of this awful grey place:

– Every park in London has a semi-sinister French bloke in it wearing mismatched adidas shorts w/ a Nike top, and every time you play a game of football with your mates he will lurk there, on the edges of it, before – through a series of lingua franca-like unspoken hand signals – ensconce himself into your game, at which point he will play on the left wing and absolutely fucking rinse all of you, every last one. Every park in London has these.

– I can draw you a map of London as I experience it based solely on a number of different factors: restaurants I have been to, pubs I have fallen over in, cinemas I have kissed outside, night buses I have cried on. But most importantly I can draw you a map of London based on which streets in it smell most of piss. Because there are loads of streets that smell like piss. Everyone in London can do this.

– The Tube has a very distinct smell – a school dinner? A sweat patch? A glass of water left to go stale? A damp hospital? – that you can only smell if you did not grow up here. This is my theory and I would die for it. Did you grow up in London, or in those sprawling surrounding suburbs? You cannot smell The Tube, the same way your aunt can’t smell the dog piss in her house. Did you come to The Tube later, at university perhaps, or after moving here at 22? The Tube will always smell of something to you. Like… wet, but also cheese? A sort of… human yeastness? It’s hard to describe but it’s there.

– London (final fact:) London will absolutely twist you up in terms of what is and is not acceptable in terms of renting and/or what flats look like

And so to the latest instalment of London Rental Opportunity of the Week, a beloved (?) (subs please check) column that takes in the worst London has to offer in terms of the renting and sometimes buying market. And also a column that takes on a much darker vibe – a blood-red taste, if you will – when the writer of it (me.) is at the same time looking personally in real life for a flat to live in. Does anyone notice when this happens? Does anyone care? Or is it just me, howling into the pillow of this column, utterly alone?

Anyway!

I am currently looking for a flat, and when I saw this I thought – honestly, now, let’s just be real for a second here – I thought: 'I mean. Yeah, I could live there.'

This is wrong. This is what looking at flats now has done to me. All the flats, so many flats. Hundreds of hundreds of flats. Flats so far the eye blisters. Flats in east and flats in west. Flats that are essentially small corridors in other flats, repurposed into the vague shape of another, additional flat. Flats with furniture and flats that are firmly without them. Flats, flats, flats. I have seen every possible shade of beige and teak, now. I have seen every configuration of big-bed, small-bed. I have seen every mad corner alcove and interior cupboard. I have shaken the flimsy wood panel doors of every available flat in east London. I have beheld every small grimy window and said to the property agent next to me, "Yeah." I have asked about council tax rates and heard every conceivable answer (one pound; one million pounds). I have seen every possible fish-eye-lens-from-the-very-back-corner-of-the-room bedroom shot, and now my mind is boggled, my mind is finished. It’s over for me, as a sane man. I saw this £900 shed and thought: 'It could work.'

It can't work. Here’s why:

– Firstly, there is no divider between the toilet (special porcelain machine we shit and piss in) and everything else. I want you for a moment to imagine the logistics of shitting in this place. Alone: it’s fine. You shat, you did the mess. Then go two feet round the corner to your bed, where you can lie in the miasma of what you have done. Not alone: unless you’re tremendously well-acquainted with the person in the flat with you, you’re going to need to ask them to leave. "Yeah, ah… god. Could you go stand on the violently orange decking for a bit? Give me… maybe 20, 25 minutes?" Sit and squat and consider what you, truly, are paying £900 per month for—

– There are three (three.) separate chairs in this space, and this is discounting the further five chairs out on the decking, all of which suggests this is a space designed for hosting and partying. Again, I don’t want to get into the piss/shit thing ("Hi guys, could everyone just file very quietly outside please? Daddy needs his pissy"), but can you just imagine having people over, to this? "This is my fridge, which I keep in a white goods stack between my microwave and washing machine." Or: "Behold, the floor tiles ceding to grey carpet, a clear demarcation between the 'work' and 'leisure' areas of the flat." Or: "Ah yes, the Dennis the Menace-inspired kitchen tiles. Aren’t they relaxing shades of vivid black and red?" Or: "Is it a bit gloomy in here? Bit gloomy, isn’t it. Do you want to put on the long white strip-light that I apparently fucking stole from an underfunded secondary school library?" Your eight friends will marvel at how independent and singular you are. "You only pay £900 a month? For this? Wow."

– That’s the world’s tiniest sink, friends! That sink is barely larger than a mug!

– This flat is the latest in a trend where property agents over-saturate or completely Photoshop the sky behind the flat to make it look more blue and appealing. Because most property agents can barely take a non-blurry photograph of a bath they fuck up entirely, this is why the Shooter’s Hill shitting den is presented in some sort of vivid orange/blue like a poster for a disappointing American action film.

– One of the perks of this flat is "All guests receive preferred rates at the wonderful on-site restaurant." My dude! Are you trying to rent me a shed in the smoking area of a Shooter’s Hill restaurant! For £900 p.c.m.! Could you not do that, please!

Anyway, what do I know. Give me two more weeks on the London property market and I’ll be happily moving in here. "Come have a bottle of wine on my weirdly massive decking!" I'll say to you all. "Let me prepare you a delicious meal made only from the ingredients that fit into my hundreds of narrow cupboards! Also, it basically has to be toast anyway because I spent all my money on rent." And then I will pause, and fix you all in turn with a steely yet determined glare. "Hey: come round the corner and watch me shit!"

@joelgolby