Someone in England is selling a $9.1 million home (approximate conversion into GBP: $Infinity) for the low low price of $23.
It’s haunted, guys. It is 100% haunted and you don’t even need to convert that into grams or whatever temperature measurement that confuses me, so that when a Londoner talks about how it was so hot at 14 degrees marmalade they had to take off one of the nine sweaters they were wearing, I sort of lose my mind.
(I’ve never been to England. I don’t know how many sweaters any one person wears at any one given time. I have been to Ireland, which is (a) not fucking around about being green; and (ii) home to every oldest pub in the world.)
Oh, right: you also have to answer a riddle because that’s the economy we’re in now, a riddle-based one:
Who was the reigning Monarch on Christmas Day of the year the Dancers Hill House was built.
Knowing that, and having $25 in your pocket is all you need to enter to win.
“The giant property is available after the owners’ children flew the nest,” a caption tells us, which is Polite for “taken by the Good People,” or “last seen in/at the bottom of the well.” It also has a “home cinema, gym and wine room.”
(A former boss had me, and several of my co-workers, over to his house for a Christmas dinner/party thing and his house had a cinema, and gym, and wine room, and could comfortably fit my house inside of it probably four times and still leave a LOT of space to call “open concept.”)
But the real problem is here:
See that tub? That tub that you’re absolutely going to break your neck on getting either into or out of it? Notice how the toilet is, what, 3 farthings from the tub? It’s a bathroom with what appears to be infinite space and yet you’ve put the dirtiest thing in your home next to the cleanest thing in your home.
THIS CANNOT DO.
Obviously, if you enter and win I’ll want an invitation, however, I will also RSVP right now that I am too handsome to be haunted in your murder castle in London.