Mum said this room was “private.”

Dad called it their “sanctuary.”
I called it: where they hid the hard liquor.

Now it’s a karaoke room in Soho…when they’re out. I gotta make my money somehow. With its own private bar. A bed you’re allowed to get your filthy shoes all over. And some guy who’ll hand you a mic and act like you’re headlining Glasto.

Available to rent, Thursday to Saturday. Two-hour rentals. Over 3000 songs. Oh, and a bar tab big enough to do serious damage to Dad’s single malt collection.