Alfred Hitchcock – The Birds

 

Alfred Hitchcock – The Birds

It was like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s – The Birds……… 

Parking at Crewe Railway Station has always been a bit fraught. To start with you can never be sure how long it is going to take you to get there. It should take about seven minutes at the ungodly time in the morning that I was catching the Virgin Pendelino (overuse of the word “virgin” is always good for a few extra hits!) express train to Euston, but, I have known it take thirty.  

I was particularly keen to get there in good time yesterday as this was the first time that I was parking my new car. The beautiful, black, sleek, sporty machine – my new Audi TT. Not only do you have to be in reasonable time if you are to avoid a ridiculously long hike to the station, but, you have to park strategically. The car park was clearly marked out in 1963 or thereabouts when your average Hillman Imp was about half the width and a third the length of your average modern car (let alone those great hulking Chelsea Tractor things). And, the TT does require quite a liberal sweep to open the door. I didn’t want to suffer the humiliation of having to climb into the boot on my return, so, I was keen to bag an end of line position if at all possible. 

I arrived at the car park in good time. It being Crewe it was dark, cold, windy, and pissing down. But, I found a suitable location and headed off for the platforms. It was at this point that I noticed the noise and looked up to locate the source. The source was the line of trees which borders the north-side of the car park. These trees were moving, and not as a result of the wind. These trees were alive with roosting starlings.  

I was in a hurry, getting wet, and headed off without giving it a moment’s further thought. That is, until returning to the station some ten hours later – of course it should have been nine hours earlier but we got diverted around Rugby. As I arrived at the queue for the parking ticket machine I found myself behind a technologically incompetent lady who struggled with the basic instructions: “Insert parking ticket; insert credit card”. This gave me ample time to read the notice about the starlings. Basically it was an apology for the fact that these avian monsters were crapping over everyone’s cars. The trees in which they are roosting is council land and, therefore, Virgin Trains were not able to nuke the little feathered bastards. 

It was somewhat with trepidation that I trudged the few hundred yards through the dark, cold, wind and the rain to retrieve my car. My beautiful black machine was beautiful and black no more. Every inch of her was covered in guano. Bird shit. She was blotchy with starling crap from halogen headlight to chrome exhaust. I had to wrap my hand in a tissue to open the door. I did this rather hurriedly of course, because there was a veritable swarm of the flying crappers swirling ominously and noisily over my head and I was without an umbrella.

Parking at Crewe Station for the day cost me six quid. The car wash cost me £6.50.

Flying vermin. Exterminate! 

ps. Virgin, virgin, virgin, virgin, virgin 

pps. Kat Deeley (another popular hit with the search engines!

Blair’s Second-hand Babe

   

Blair’s Second-hand Babe

I like to read the Times on a plane journey and my new job looks as if it will take me to the beautiful city of Prague in the Czech Republic every other week or so. For a while at least. The trip takes about two hours, which is just about long enough for me to read the paper, do the Times2 quick crossword, and, complete the Killer Sudoku…..unless it is a particularly difficult one….or unless the stewardesses are particularly distracting. 

Actually, on my last trip I was particularly distracted by the advertisement on the back of the antimacassars. You know, those paper-like things that cover the seat headrest and flaps over the back. They were originally a piece of cloth protecting a seat headrest from staining by hair oil. The term is derived from Rowland’s Macassar Oil, first manufactured in about 1793. 

The ad read: ”The (crossed out!) David’s new Skoda Fabia with MP3 connection…because listening to “Love Is In The Air” on the road sounds as good as in the air” followed by the strapline “Love at first drive!”….with a picture of a bright orange car. I was offended on several levels. Firstly, it is just a bad advert. I can only assume that it was originally “crafted” in Czech and, well, just translated very, very badly. Secondly, my name is “David” and, as you all know, I drive a classic, black, 3.2 litre, V6 Audi TT dream machine with an iPOD interface. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a Fabia. At least not driving one. And you wouldn’t recognise me if I was a passenger. I would be in disguise. Incognito. Nor would you catch me listening to “Love Is In The Air”. Not since about 1978. I do not posses any John Paul Young music at all. 

I suspect that it is a subliminal message aimed at the cabin crew. “Love-is-in-the-air.com” is a dating site for cabin crew! I always suspected that the Fabia was aimed at the trolly dolly market. 

I was also distracted on the flight by a tiny reference to a previous article on another day – which I missed – referring to Ruth Kelly, Secretary of State for Transport, and her time as Entz Rep (Entertainments Representative) at Queen’s College, Oxford. The suggestion seemed to be that it was unlikely that Ruth could organise anything entertaining given her personality (or lack of it) and her leanings towards Opus Dei….unless you are into mortification of the flesh, that is. I’m not. 

This distracted me because a) I too went to Queen’s College Oxford and b) I used to be Entz Rep. I think I must have been Entz Rep a year or so before Ruth was. The position of Entz Rep was an elected post and a member of the Junior Common Room (JCR) Committee. I organised discos known as “sweaty bops”. They took place in a packed beer cellar. It got very warm and condensation and perspiration would literally drip from the low ceilings. I organised cocktail parties and would often get tipsy trying out different recipes. Film nights. Themed parties – Valentines, Halloween, Fancy Dress. You get the idea. 

I remember Ruth quite well. She was a couple of years below me. She was taking PPE (Politics, Philosophy and Economics) while I was doing Modern History. She was slimmer then. More fresh faced. But, even then she had the same hairstyle. She was also politically active back then too. And in the Labour Party.  But she was someone else’s babe before she was Tony’s (Blair’s). She was one of Nye’s Babes. Nye was and is a good mate of mine. He was JCR President at the time, for which he was rewarded with status and a huge room. Nye was (and is) blessed with the good looks of a young Charles Dance. Blond. Blue eyed. He was also politically aware. Also in the Labour Party. And, blessed with a social conscience. He was also kind of aloof at the time. He took his politics seriously. More seriously than his History studies at times. He seemed to have little interest in girls. Consequently he had a constant gaggle of young ladies pursuing him. He had a bevy of young socialists hanging on his every word and only too eager to help distribute leaflets, organize a rally and the like. And, Ruth Kelly was part of this entourage. She may have had the same hairstyle, but back in 1987 she had a definite twinkle in her eye. So, sorry Tony, but someone else got to Ruth before you did. 

It is strange seeing people that you knew from college/university appearing on the TV. Apart from Ruth, another regular Queensman on the box is Guto Harri, political correspondent for the BBC. He was in the same year as me, doing PPE. There have also been brief sightings of Neil Tunnicliffe. He used to be Chief Executive of the Rugby Football League and could infrequently be found given interviews or picking balls out of a sack at the time of a cup draw. Oh, and Rowan Atkinson of course. He went to Queen’s too.  

Going Nowhere Fast

Going Nowhere Fast

My new job requires me to commute on a regular basis between the leafy, rural lanes of south Cheshire to the grid-locked conglomeration of roadworks and building sites which is Walsall. I notice that Wikipedia provides a pronunciation tool to help one say “Walsall” correctly. Which, is probably why most of my friends are confused, believing that I am currently employed in the capital of Poland. 

While resembling many former Soviet block towns and cities, Walsall is, in fact, in the Black Country – not yet a reference to its ethnic mix but to the smoky, sooty side-effects of the Industrial Revolution. “Walsall” is thought to be derived from the words “Wah halh”, meaning “valley of the Celtic speakers” or “where people speak like Benny off Crossroads”.

Walsall is “famous” for its arboretum and its illuminations and is officially the “Unhappiest Town” in the country (according to a First Direct poll) and is compared with Ceaucescu’s Romania and declared “The ugliest place in the world”.  Famous residents include Noddy Holder (my friends will regale me with their renditions of the “Kipper Tie/Cuppa Tea” joke at the drop of a hat) and Boy George. And, very briefly my good self. For I was born in the Manor Hospital, which is virtually next door to the office where I now work. You see, I have come a long way! 

Anyhow, my commute takes me down the M6. I hate the M6. It has been a long time since I have had to drive regularly on the great British motorway system but it hasn’t taken me long to loathe it. Not so long ago, I enjoyed a holiday in France which involved driving the full length of the country, to the Pyrenees, along French motorways with tolls. It was an absolute pleasure. The M6, however, is a nightmare.  

The inside lane is consistently clogged with a train of heavy trucks going nowhere fast and occasionally interspersed with a caravan or an old lady in a Volvo in an obvious state of panic having believed she had turned into the carpark of her local supermarket and not the slip-road to one of our busiest roads.

What is worse, the middle lane is also frequently clogged by HGVs who seem to forget that they have speed limiters installed and, therefore, are not able to go any faster than the similarly restricted trucks that they are trying to overtake. And this then forces all of the other vehicles into the third lane – I will not refer to it as the “fast” lane, for it is not! I try to drive safely, by keeping a suitable distance (count to 5) between me and the car in front. But if I ever do leave more than a gap equivalent in size to a gnat’s tadger, it is immediately filled by someone swerving to avoid a truck in the middle lane, more often than not without indicating (mirror, signal, manoeuvre). More often than not it is a “white van” with “clean me” humorously (not) written on the dirty rear doors, around which I am unable to see, and which proceeds to hover on and off his brake lights for the next thirty miles or so.  

As I am driving a TT, every boy racer in a toy racing car (Mazdas, MGs, Chrysler Crossfires, Porsche Boxters and the like) or a Golf GTI, seems to feel honour bound to undertake me. Fortunately, you can see these guys coming from quite a distance because they have their fog lights glaring even in the height of summer (it is illegal). And at night you can see their fake-tan orange faces, dimly lit by the glow from the Blackberry Pearl or Borg-like hands-free earpieces permanently stuck to their ears or the reflection from their Tom Tom screen which obscure the view. 

Tailgating, poor lane discipline, not indicating, undertaking, women drivers, Volvos and flat caps. It is a miracle that I ever make it to the office in the morning. The only reason I do is because I seem to average a speed of about 10 miles per hour. Admittedly this is an average of brief seconds of doing the national speed limit (J – honest) and the couple of years that I seem to sit in stopped traffic between junctions 11 and 10. 

Now, where did I put my valium?

 

 

Letter From America

Letter From America

Part 1 – The Journey

I recently returned from Atlanta, Georgia in the US of A. My new employer had decided to throw me in at the deep end by flying me out to the corporate head office on my very first day. For two weeks. It was my first day; my first time in America, and, my first time flying economy for a long-haul flight. 

The flight out was not too bad at all. We flew with Delta Airlines who are a partner of KLM. My Frequent Flyer Card was, therefore, valid for the flight. I had not flown since last February, so on the way out I was welcomed like a returning prodigal son.

My bag received a “Priority” sticker. I don’t know why they bother. As far as I can tell, most of the world’s baggage handlers are illiterate and assume that the bright yellow labels attached to certain bags means “sit on me”. 

I was given an aisle seat. As readers of my earlier post – Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 2 (Belgium) – will know, there are certain strategic advantages to having an aisle seat. Unfortunately the air stewardesses resembled the great grandmothers of Desperate Housewives. They were stick thin. Artificially blonde. And, caked in garish makeup which held their grins in place. They looked like Peter Stringellow on acid. 

I was even given a sticker on board to identify me as a Frequent Flyer. This meant that I got extra cheese with my smile and free booze. Not to be sniffed at. 

The flight out was nine hours long, but as we had taken off at noon and were landing at four in the afternoon, sleep was not an issue. And, I had great fun playing with my new PC which I had just collected from my new boss. Yes, I lied when asked if “anyone has given you anything to take on board”. I just had to take it on trust that my new boss wasn’t an international terrorist. In truth, the jury is still out on that one…… 

The flight back was a very different story. We were flying out at eight at night to arrive at nine in the morning. So, sleep was very much an issue. This time, however, it seemed that all of my Frequent Flyer privileges had been revoked (except lounge access which, with three hours to kill at the airport, was as welcome as the free Makers Mark bourbon).

I did not get an aisle seat. I was sat in the middle of three. The lady who sat on my right. And I mean on my right (not to the right of me) was like a female version of the James Bond baddy, Whisper. She was as wide as she was tall. And, she was really quite tall. And she squeeked in a ridiculous whisper which was impossible to understand.  

After the first five minutes she gave up apologizing for knocking me. And then she decided to sleep. She donned her iPOD headset, her blindfold, and rolled, with all the grace of a hippopotamus in quick sand, onto her right side and began to snore…..very squeakily. I spent nine hours with her huge arse in my face and spilling over my chair arm, making it impossible for me to adjust the controls for the muti-media console.

She slept like a babe. A really huge, fat baby. And, I slept not at all. I must have managed just 30 minutes or so shuteye in the whole flight. How does anyone get THAT fat? Not only was I awake but also I was incredibly bored. There was no video on demand. The plane was so old it may even have been a bi-plane. There was just one movie at a time being displayed on a single big screen. I was a good twelve rows back from the screen and, being in the center seat, my view was obscured by the heads of everyone sat in front of me. It was like watching a bad pirate copy. But, as the “entertainment” consisted of the latest Mr Bean movie, I wasn’t missing much. 

I was very glad to get home. I was very tired.

It Doesn’t Taste Like Chicken!

 

It doesn’t taste like chicken 

What is it about the Service Industry in the UK? To be sure, it does very little “servicing”. Nor is it “industrious” if my recent experience is anything to go by.  As readers of recent posts will know, it was with some dismay that I discovered that it takes more than 14 weeks to buy a new Audi TT, being a cunning plot by those fiendish Germans to mess with the old supply and demand dynamic in order to sustain the retail price of their vehicles at ridiculously high levels – presumably in retaliation for our bombing of Dresden back in WW2 or something. As a consequence, I did not in fact purchase a new TT, electing to buy a nearly-new, ex-demonstrator model with lots of unnecessary bells and whistles that I will probably never use (such as cruise control). 

Yesterday lunchtime I was driven out of my home by the combined presence of Mike, the painter and decorator, who is in the middle of putting right a collection of DIY disasters (not all of them mine) that have taken place in the property over the years, and, the arrival of Cheryl, our cleaner.

 

Cheryl is lovely but she does like to chat. Mike is lovely but he does like a fig roll with his coffee, and a chat. I don’t do “chatting” so, consequently, I had stored up my chores for the day and promptly took myself off and left them to it. Maslow, our furball baby, likes neither disruption nor the vacuum cleaner nor a chat and not even a fig roll and similarly made himself scarce too. For some strange reason I was hit by an attack of the munchies and so took myself off to Kentucky Fried Chicken at the Grand Junction Retail Park in the mighty metropolitan Mecca which is Crewe. I know, I know. But sometimes only the deep-fried Colonel’s secret recipe will do. 

I entered KFC at 1.30 pm. There were just five customers in the queue ahead of me – a couple of likely-lad builders who were ordering a big bucket of spicy processed stuff with onion rings, fake ice-cream and a coke or something; an elderly couple with a purse full of small change with which to purchase their mini-fillets and fries; and a very easy-on-the-eye petite blonde girl.

 

Unfortunately, behind me there was a very uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arse fast-food regular who was having a very loud conversation on her mobile phone. They should be banned! Both! Uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arses and mobile phones should be banned from all public places. 

Tony Soprano once famously stated that all Blockbuster outlets are managed by rhesus monkeys (when arguing with AJ who had been sacked from one). The same is true of KFC it would seem. There was the usual array of inane teenagers sporting body piercings, tattoos, black eyes, baggy jeans, muffin tops and bum cracks, and not a GCSE between them. They all looked either stoned or asleep and in need of a good wash.

They were certainly more interested in chatting to each other, cracking jokes, and ogling the petite blonde girl just ahead of me in the queue, than in serving the customers. After taking the elderly couple’s order, the greasy oik at the till actually disappeared for ten minutes. None of the other staff, including the beanpole, hippy Manager that looked like he had been brought up on a Greenham Common peace camp and was best friends with Swampy seemed to know, or care, where she had gone. I think she was a she, but the beard was a little confusing…..meow! 

The petite blonde took her Zinger Tower and I stepped up to the counter just twenty five minutes after entering the establishment. Fast food?! The bearded lady had been replaced by jovial fat kid. Jovial fat kid prioritized helping his mate who had just come in to get an application form ahead of serving yours truly. And, without so much as an apology or by your leave, another five minutes later, he asked me what I would like. “A three piece Colonel’s meal to go, please.” said I. “Hold on” said he and disappeared around the back only to return with the magical words: “Sorry but we are out of chicken!” 

I was furious. “You what! You’re out of chicken!? What’s the name of this bloody place? It is lunchtime on a Thursday and I’ve queued for thirty minutes to be told that KFC has no bloody chicken!”. I may have used a word a little stronger than “bloody”. The response? An inane grin. I stormed out for fear that I was about to commit a physical assault. I took refuge in the nearby MacDonalds, pursued by lardy-arse and her bloody annoying mobile phone. 

Does anyone have the complaints department email address for KFC? Or, the telephone number of the petite blonde……?

Strange Visitors

I seem to get some very strange visitors to my blog. These strange visitors find me through some very weird search engine searches. One of the most common seems to be a double whammy on “swingers” and “caravans”. For some reason these phrases are often accompanied by the search term “cheshire” or “north wales”. Well, for those of you who came via such a route, you may wish to view my entry Cheshire Swingers……….enjoy! I am not sure why I am so surprised that swinging is so popular in Cheshire or North Wales. But I am. But, will someone please, please tell me why you do it in caravans?!? 

There are other popular searches that seem to find me. Typically these would involve a “kat deeley” or a “julia roberts” or a “kylie” or “suzannah reid” and various spelling derivatives, thereof. Now these are all fine looking women and I have had close contact with at least two of them (see “Sleeping With Julia Roberts” and “Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 6” and I am sure we have all been propositioned by Sarah Lancashire!! But, you would be surprised how often these searches are accompanied by the word “porn” or “naked” or “stockings”. Shame on you!

 Well, I bet you can’t wait until I tell you about the steamy weekend I once passed in a trailer tent in Staffordshire with Anni-Frid and Agnetha, the babes from Abba………”Abba” is by far and away the single most commonly used search term that finds me. And, I can only remember mentioning them the once (here) but I guess I did so in an article which started with the word “porn”. Enjoy.

Oh, and Happy Caravaning!

Mid-Life Crisis

Mid-Life Crisis 

I have bought a new car. I have bought a new Audi TT. Shiny and black with beige leather. SatNav, iPOd connection, parking assist. 3.2 litres. V6. Tiptronic. Quattro four-wheel drive. 0 to 62 mph in 5.7 seconds. Top speed of 155 mph. She purrs.

At least she will purr when I take delivery at the end of November. It is like waiting for Christmas as a kid. 

I was quite disciplined in my selection. I researched all of my options on the web. I received glossy, shiny brochures from various motor manufacturers. I consulted What Car and Jeremy Clarkson (virtually of course, not in person). I ruled out a Mercedes or a BMW for being, well, indistinctive. Samey. Boring. I know that they are good cars but they just look like a better styled Vauxhall or Ford. Same for the Lexus. I ruled out an S2000 or an MX5 as being impractical. I dismissed the Chrysler Crossfire as being a hairdresser’s car and for being noisy with poor visibility.  

So, it came down to a choice between the TT, a Nissan 350Z, or a Mazda RX8. I had previously driven the old style TT; the old 1.8 engine. So, I thought it might be nice to try something else for a change. All of the reviews told me that there was little to choose between them.  The RX8 was slightly slower than the other two but looked great, I thought. Design-wise and engineering-wise it was quite different, with innovative door design giving access to practical back seats which would actually seat two adults without the need for an osteopath or a shoehorn. The engine has only three moving parts. It had been voted best coupe for four years on the trot and I found several online reviews which claimed that it was a better drive and more “fun” than its two rivals. It was more economical and significantly cheaper; by at least eight grand. I test drove one and I loved it. And, what is more, they could deliver one by my 1^st December deadline – I have to hand back my current company car on 30^th November. For me it was a done deal.

But then I made two mistakes. Firstly, I took C to have a look. And, secondly, I told my neighbour, J (who is a bit of a car fanatic), that I was thinking of buying the RX8.  C didn’t like it. She moaned about pointy “Star Trek seats” and back seats that looked like they needed a “sperm-resistant” material. J mostly complained that it was a Mazda. She is a bit of a brand snob when it comes to cars.

She also claimed that the RX8 had a boy-racer image – she was concerned of the impression that I would be giving when I start my new job. She went on at length about how I needed a good, solid, reliable car for the amount of motorway driving that I would be doing. For a while I thought she was going to suggest a Volvo. 

And so, despite my weeks of painstaking scientific research and consideration of performance, economy, driveability, etc. I was bullied out of it by two women because they didn’t like the styling of the car seats. Not that I am complaining really. The TT is truly gorgeous. Roll on December.

Illegitimi Non Carborundum

Illegitimi Non Carborundum 

Wednesday this week was cathartic. No, I do not mean that I spent a lot of time on the loo purging my bowels. No, I meant rather in the sense of being emotionally purging. For, this was the day that I left my employer of 20 years, having been put on gardening leave for the sin of finding employment with a competitor company. 

The day started much as any other work day. The alarm went off. I came downstairs and made a fuss of Maslow, the furball baby, and fed him. I showered. I donned suit. I grabbed my laptop bag, mobile and wallet, said goodbye to C, and headed for the door. 

It being October, and, therefore, the “grey period” weather-wise for the North West of England (it lasts from about September through May!) and it was minus 2 degrees, with a thick layer of ice (or rather frozen dirt – the car needs a wash) on the windscreen. Having de-iced, I wound my way through the gloom and not-so-leafy (it’s Autumn) lanes of Cheshire, to the office in Shameless (see earlier posting) where I have been based for the last fourteen years. 

At the weekend I had signed a new contract of employment with a new company, to start in December. This was a huge, huge, huge, huge (it was huge!) relief as I am being made redundant and due to leave my present company at the end of November. I informed my boss on Monday and on Tuesday got the call to say I was being sent home on paid leave. This was not as dramatic as it may have been. I was not under any immediate suspicion of having stolen the company’s crown jewels, commercial secrets, customer database and intellectual property. At least I don’t think that I was. At least my boss said that I wasn’t. In any case, I was not frog-marched from the building carrying my wife’s photo and a potted plant, flanked by burly security guards.

No, it was a lot more civilised than that. Thankfully. On Wednesday morning I cleared my desk. It has never been so tidy. I cleared my half of the cupboard which I shared with a colleague. I cleared my pedestal drawers. I threw away all of the absolutely essential files and folders that I had been hoarding over the years, filling one of the huge blue, plastic, recycling bins. 

I was left with very little to show for my twenty years of dedicated service – an Oxford Gem dictionary, a calculator, a photograph of my wife, a couple of books on management style and “The Business Skills of Adolph Hitler and Gerald Ratner” and the like. Just one small bag and a single trip to the car was enough to see me moved out. Moved on. Expunged. 

I cleaned out my email and set my final “Out of Office“ message. I undiverted my desk phone, and took my final supper, my very last meal with the Ladies Who Lunch (see previous posting). It was quite emotional. Not because of the food, but the finality and suddenness of the act of farewell. The girls were on good form and trying to buoy me along with the odd joke, the occasional reminiscence, and the latest from the X-Factor. But, there was a sincere affection, both ways, in the hug and peck on cheek as we parted outside of Shameless’ bingo hall. I will miss those girls. 

And so, I sent a final farewell-email to my closest colleagues and work friends, before packing up my PC and handing over my laptop. I had a lovely kiss and a cuddle with the girls in the office (thus discovering how Vanessa got her stripper name on Facebook.com), and handed my security badge in at reception. 

And there I was gone. I drove home through the gloom with a tear in my eye and a feeling of……..deflation, anti-climax, and, wondering what I will do with myself for the next five weeks. I would like to thank all of those former-colleagues that have sent me emails and kind thoughts. Please do stay in touch. I will miss you all. And, for those of you who haven’t sent emails or kind thoughts…….shame on you! I wish you all good luck, success, health and happiness. And, to all, but especially my Ladies Who Lunch, remember the motto: illegitimi non carborundum!   

Don’t Look Under The Bed

Don’t Look Under The Bed

What is it with hotels in this country (the UK)? My company has just shelled out the princely sum of one hundred and eighty of your British pounds to enable me to stay one night, yes, one night, in a central London hotel. This was not the Ritz. This was not the Savoy. This was not the Dorchester. This was a run-of-the-mill business/tourist hotel belonging to a well-known chain above Charing Cross station.  

In return for this money I got an “executive room” just big enough to swing a cat, a small TV with just five TV channels and four pay-for-view adult movie channels (anonymity guaranteed!), a Bible, a mini bar stocked with the ubiquitous mini-Toblerone and spirit miniatures, and an ironing board combined with a trouser press. The ironing board and trouser press were only big enough to cater for the clothes of a newly born baby and the bottom of the iron looked as if it had been dipped in bitumen. 

This was the epitome of British business hotels. There was a newly painted patch on the ceiling, clearly attempting to hide the point at which the bath in the room above had overflowed. There was one wall lamp missing from the dressing table area. There was the remains of someone else’s piece of toast on the armchair. And, the carpet was a tad sticky in places. 

I ate the complimentary shortbread biscuits and threw the cushions which adorned the “double bed” (two single beds pushed together with a double sheet which was too slackly fitted to prevent you falling into the crack) to the floor. I checked the ceilings, wall pictures and mirrors for hidden cameras, just in case.

I checked that the mini bar was fully stocked and that the seals on the miniatures had not been broken – it is quite common to replace the white spirits with water. Some people! 

At least the air-conditioning worked. It rattled and hummed and cooled the room to Eskimo-like temperatures (or should that ne innuit?). But, the rattling and humming was at least better than the stifling heat that would otherwise have ensued. And, the humming and rattling acted a little like white noise and helped a little to drown out the middle-of-the-night corridor conversations.

Hotel room doors are akin to amplifiers. The slightest drunken whisper in the corridor is amplified to a shout in your shell-like. And the drunks in these hotels are many and not prone to whispering. If it wasn’t amorous partygoers or drunken executives that I was attempting to block out with my air-conditioning and my iPOD, it was the constant click-clack of the fire-doors just outside my room and the rather noisy lift. 

Has anyone ever been in a hotel where that little dial in the bathroom, which is supposed to relay the sound of the television, actually worked? I haven’t. I think it is a real shame. I would love to be able to listen to the BBC News while having a constitutional.

As ever there was a chip out of the bath enamel and a shower that looked as if it had seen better days, presumably during the reign of Queen Victoria, and now did little more than remind me of the dangers of Legionnaire’s Disease. And, I am always just a little bit suspicious about the contents of those little bottles claiming to contain shampoo or shower gel. I fought my way manfully into the cellophane-wrapped brick which claimed to be a tablet of soap. 

As ever, the hairdryer was bolted inside one of the drawers and sported a wholly deficient length of flex, which required me to kneel on the floor in order to dry my hair.  And, is it just my imagination or do you think that the sheets always feel a little damp when you climb into he bed? That familiar rustle of starched sheets over plastic mattress cover. And believe me, no combination of the five pillows will produce a comfortable sleeping position. 

And, some bastard stole my copy of the Times from outside my door!

Worth every penny. I think not.