I would like to address claims that I, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, was seen scurrying from the bowels of one of London’s most notorious adult shops, beanie pulled down to conceal my identity. The shameful accusations – printed in many of the UK’s most contemptible tabloids – could not be further from reality.
The truth is that I was forced to pompously prance through the front doors of Cyberdog several times, waving a bag full of naughty goodies and screeching, “Oh, I hope nobody takes a photo of me – the inimitable Bigs Bardot – and sends it to the media” before somebody finally did just that. Honestly, why’s it so hard to get caught up in a scandal these days?
Unfortunately I was erroneously identified as one of the lesser-known members of Take That, but it’s just the first step in my journey towards being the most famous Antipodean in the UK. I’m coming for your crown, Rolf Harris!
Wanna Cyber? A/S/L?
There was another reason for my visit to Camden Town, though – the ravishing robots who stand shinily outside Cyberdog‘s flagship store. In an attempt to suit all tastes, one is a strong, muscular, brawny, handsome and virile chap with a cheeky smile and a bad boy mystique that we all wish to tame, and the other is a woman.
Each is around five metres tall, dominating the industrial landscape. Their incandescent irises lure unsuspecting shoppers into the labyrinthine boutique betwixt their metallic thighs. There’s a range of outrageous rave clothing and nerdy collectibles within the belly of the beast, but beware of venturing too far inside.
The basement of the store is home to Futurelovers, a depraved sex shop with the totally inappropriate tagline of, ‘Live long and perverted’. Some of the creatures found inside were doing their best to live up to that, rubbing their leather-clad rumps against me as I shielded my eyes.
So disgusting was their behaviour that I was barely able to find a suitable set of battery-powered crotchless knickers with matching nipple clamps before racing out of the store and into the insatiable gullet of the paparazzi.
Seeking refuge in a nearby discoteque, I fell in with a group of glowstick-waving ruffians I’d seen inside Cyberdog. Against my best judgement I indulged in several cups of the local mead and some biscuits the ravers produced from clear ziplock bags, and woke up on a deserted beach in Ibiza without my clothes and with another man’s name tattooed athwart my lower back.
Call me, Keith!
