What is it? Oh we’ll get to that buddy—
Where is it? Vauxhall, or: "This Gigantic Roundabout Got Too Horny";
What is there to do locally? I’ve been to Vauxhall two significant times in my life: once to see an under-the-arches musical about bathhouses which lurched from the surreal into the manic when Su Actual Pollard stood up at the end of it to lead the audience in a standing ovation, Su Pollard turning to the rest of us, roaring us to our feet to clap, all eyes on Pollard, Pollard furious, almost, with the clapping, Pollard replete in woven clothing inked in every neon colour beneath the sun, Su Pollard stalking Vauxhall like an apparition or a ghost; and ii. I went there this weekend, got drunk on a docked boat, lost on a building site and hit my head multiple times on a low ceiling before falling fully asleep in an Uber, passing out so entirely that my rating went down somewhere so low into the doldrums that I can no longer be picked up. So I suppose the answer to the question actually posed at the start of this is: anything you want, really, in Vauxhall. Anything your tiny mind can imagine.
Alright, how much are they asking? In a rare zig from the format of "London Rental Opportunity of the Week" [*1][*2][*3][*4], this property is actually fully for sale, and will cost you £3 million. Three million pounds.
What would you do if you were rich? Would you:
- Fill a swimming pool w/ champagne, luxuriate in it until you die—
- Turn your enormous mansion-surrounding garden into a sort of exquisite zoo, full of giraffes and rhinos and men in straw boaters handing out balloons, and free cotton candy, a sort of fantastic magical Disneyworld, all for you—
- Buy a football club, or an F1 team, or just eat at Nobu, like, every single night, fly first class, holiday in the Maldives, pay to have Richard Branson killed by the world’s most expensive hitman, anything you want, live in a fantasy world—
- Chain some lads to the floor of your basement and just Fuck. Them. To. Absolute. Bits. Mate.
If you chose 4: correct, that is the correct choice to make. And may I also recommend to you this beautiful property in Vauxhall, which costs more than you will earn in your lifetime – more than you will earn in five lifetimes – which is tastefully decorated, gorgeously laid out, perfectly positioned (in Zone 1!), has both a conservatory and a spacious designer garden, modern luxuries throughout, and then also, should you choose to descend of an evening, it has an entire dungeon in it, dedicated to fucking:
Like: look how perfectly arranged this sentence is:
Additional street access.
I have so many questions about the fuck dungeon, obviously, but mainly one pure and shining concern: that the Fuck Dungeon House not be sold to someone who will not maintain the dungeon of fuck. Some young family. You know, he works in the City and went to Oxford, she has a very successful interior design blog, they have a three-year-old called "Jessamyn" and they want to buy the fuck dungeon. "Yah, great space down here," one of them is saying. "Maybe we could turn it into a nurs—" No. No. I forbid it. You keep it as a fuck dungeon. If you didn’t want a fuck dungeon in your house, why did you buy a house with a fuck dungeon in it? Exactly. For me, the fuck dungeon is a dealbreaker, the promise of its sanctity being the only condition of the sale. I fear a lot of things in this life, but some normie couple buying this fuck dungeon and turning it into anything that isn’t "a more complex and intense fuck dungeon" is highest among it.
(Side note, but, like: some dudes have taken a real arseful in this place, and you can’t escape that. You cannot get that out of a room. You can’t paper over a vibe that musky and powerful with a bit of Farrow & Ball and some £200-a-roll wallpaper. Doesn’t matter if you crank a skylight into this thing and put a pool table in the middle. Some vibes cannot ever truly be aired out. No way a fuck dungeon, once converted into and then used as a fuck dungeon, can ever be anything other than a fuck dungeon. Some doors you cannot walk back on once you’ve been through them. Putting a fuck dungeon in the basement of your house is one of them.)
Questions about the fuck dungeon, in no particular order:
- Once you have committed to putting a fuck dungeon in your house, how do you reverse out of that decision, i.e. by selling the house the fuck dungeon underpins? Like: does there come a time, in your life, when you look down the gloomy stairs at your fuck dungeon, hands on hips, and think: "This is a young man's game. It’s not for me any more."
- Are there specialist contractors who can install a fuck dungeon for you, or do you need to buy all the parts and just sort of put it together yourself?
- How often, once you’ve put a fuck dungeon in, do you actually fuck in a dungeon? A fuck dungeon always feels like a good idea, doesn’t it, and then eight months roll by and there’s dust on the shackles and you realise you haven’t been rimmed by a gimp for like two entire seasons. Not a perfect example, but one I’m going with nonetheless: I bought a Nintendo Switch in November. Really thought I’d use it more. Like: I love it, obviously. It’s great. Used it on the train. Mario Kart for Christmas. But now it’s there… some days, I just don’t play with it. I’ll look at it. I’ll think about it. And then I’ll go to sleep. I feel like this is very much what owning a fuck dungeon is like.
- The seller is trying to shift this £3 million townhouse via a free gmail address, namely firstname.lastname@example.org, and all this makes me think is: was email@example.com already taken? How many dungeon houses are there?
- Does the dungeon street access mean, and bear with me, that a pair of padlocked double-doors open out directly into the street, into which blinking pale nude boys can escape after a weekend of being rigorously fucked, searing beneath the flood of sunlight around them, and if so what are the neighbours like? Are they nice about that?
I truly think Fuck Dungeon House has ruined all other houses for me. I’m going to go home tonight and just look at all the rooms and just be disappointed I can’t be pinned mechanically to the floor of them and shagged. Please – if you have £3 million spare, and you are exceptionally horny – please, please buy this house. Do this fuck dungeon the honour it deserves.
[*1] Not always in London
[*2] This is not the first non-rental
[*3] They are absolutely not weekly
[*4] Consider the sheer temerity of me calling this a "rare" zig, when it seems the format is actually adhered to almost never, and I mean I invented the format, so I should know†
† (I did not invent the format, my former editor Kev Kharas did)