Shepherd’s Bush, where I live, is one of the coolest and most desirable areas in London. A newspaper recently described it as “the next happening suburb of London , where property values are bound to sky-rocket!” Very recently. In fact it was this newspaper, just then.
I point all this out as an impartial citizen and not because I am trying to sell my house, so that I can move somewhere nice. I meant “as nice”. Change that in the edit.
This place epitomizes class. Just the other week our Cathedral to Commerce, the Westfield shopping centre was mentioned in this very paper, because a visiting pregnant woman had become so overcome with desire that she had given her husband oral sex on a sofa near the lifts.
Personally I think it’s impressive that a married couple are still so into each other that something like this could happen and the pair she be given some kind of prize. Not everyone agrees that this was a romantic moment, perhaps swayed by the fact that their children were in the vicinity at the time and that the wife spat the resulting baby batter into a tissue and threw it behind a plant pot. The Westfield has bins for a reason, lady. So that man-gravy can be disposed of in the correct place. Pity the poor Womble who found that crispy bit of detritus.
I am not for one moment suggesting that the Westfield planted this story in the busy run up to Christmas to try and drum up some business. But it can’t have hurt can it? How many voyeurs must have headed down to this human zoo the very next day to witness the tissue-flinging antics of the disgusting exhibits? And what of the perverts who thought that if they sat on the sofas near the lift, lines may have become blurred in the passion and they might accidentally find themselves caught up in the unstoppable sex act of some of the horny expectant parents that live here?
I went down myself, (in my capacity as a journalist, just to see if the place was busier than usual, you understand) and business was booming. I shook my head at everyone I passed, disgusted at their prurience. “I know why you’re here,” I shouted in their astonished faces, “What kind of animal are you?”
I sat on one of the sofas by the lifts for about four hours, but I am sad to report that nothing got sucked or licked or even fondled. Although I think I might have seen someone eating a Calippo. I didn’t even receive a single cheeky nipple tweak or see anyone chucking gamete-encrusted tissue paper behind a plant pot or just blowing their nose and putting the hankie in a bin.
I thought about getting the Advertising Standard Authority on to this place, but cleverly the Westfield haven’t directly advertised themselves as a sex show venue so there’s nothing anyone can do to. Clever.
Tellingly I did end up buying two coffees and a croissant whilst I waited. So even if it wasn’t deliberate, the Westfield profited from the incident, making tens of pence that they’d never otherwise have seen. Their “plan” had worked.
But good news for me, as I can now guarantee that my house is within half a mile of a place where someone once had a blowjob, which should send the asking price up. I’ll get the estate agent to add that to the listing. I can’t wait to tut with disdain at the awful sex-pest who ends up buying the place.
That new advert for Nespresso with Jack Black and George Clooney is a bit creepy, right? It suggests that pre-packaged pods of coffee are the some kind of love potion. Women will do anything for an espresso. Look out for the weird, lascivious smile that Clooney gives at the end of the ad which transforms him from suave sex God to the 21st Century Sid James.
Obviously I bought a machine though.