Now then- what can I do for you three gentlemen?

It is Sunday afternoon and we are trying to leave the Holiday Inn at Camden Lock, London, where we have been attending a friend's wedding. The normally straighforward business of checking out is proving difficult, as the porter is having trouble finding our luggage, which we have described to him as ‘a big blue holdall’. Instead of this (you might have thought) easily identifiable item he has so far offered us:

· a small red bag
· a medium-sized green box
· and a big brown leather suitcase.

The suitcase looks quite interesting but I decide that on balance I would rather have my own luggage, so, rather than wait to see what the hapless porter brings out next (a yellow rucksack? A live snake wrapped in clingfilm?? The crew from Candid Camera???) I march past the alarmed receptionist (‘Hey! Hey!- you can’t go in there!’) and into the storeroom. Here I find the porter staring forlornly at his now-empty shelves like Old Mother Hubbard (the shelves are empty because he has spent the last half-hour trying to give us all of their contents, which are now strewn around the reception area).

There is just one item of luggage left in the storeroom, and it is a big blue holdall. Our big blue holdall. I stoop down to pick it up, but as I do so the porter becomes animated and grabs the other handle, shouting ‘No! You can't come in here! I must bring the bag to you!’ After a short struggle featuring some amount of muttered obscenities on both sides I give in and return to reception, where a minute later our luggage joins us, and we are- at last- free- to leave.

The baggage incident is merely the last straw in a series of mishaps that have led us to believe that if John Cleese ever needs material for a sequel to Fawlty Towers he could do worse than book a weekend stay in this particular four-star (four-star!) central London hotel. The fun started on the previous lunchtime when one of our party tried to buy a round of drinks, only to find the barman did not know the price of anything on offer (eventually he said ‘call it three quid a pint, mate’), and couldn’t find anything to open the wine bottles with. But if we thought waiting half-an-hour for an overpriced round of drinks was the worst things were going to get, we were sadly mistaken. The next morning we woke up to find the hotel had no hot water, and when Charlotte rang up to find out when it was coming on, the reception tried to connect us with the Duty Manager, but somehow managed to put the call through to an old lady in another room who had rung up to complain about the same thing- leading to the following, rather confusing, exchange:

Charlotte: Hello, is that the Duty Manager?
Room 109: Oh hello- I believe there is a problem with the hot water?
C: Well, we can’t get the hot water to come on.
Room 109 That's right, we can't get our hot water to come on. Is that the Duty Manager?
C: No, I thought you were the Duty Manager! We can't get our hot water to come on!

Eventually I have to go down to reception myself, hungover and unwashed, to ask whether they would kindly consider allowing us to have breakfast in our rooms (we have a young baby to get ready, and are feeling a little stressed out). Which they agree to do at no extra charge- but when the man arrives, he has the tray of breakfast and a £20 bill for room service. It as at this stage that I have almost got to physically restrain Charlotte from attacking the man with the baby's rattle. I would have allowed her to as well, only the sausages did look rather nice.

A little later we meet up with some friends from the wedding (it was a lovely wedding by the way, since you ask- I may tell you about it another time) who have been staying in the modest two-star hotel down the road. Apparently it was lovely- the staff efficient and helpful, the bar open at all hours, and with all mod cons including the groundbreaking and revolutionary concept of hot water in the taps. And all for half the price. Next time- unless I am undertaking some research for a sitcom- I think I might join them there. I am a big fan of Fawlty Towers, but all in all I think I'd rather watch it on the telly than be trapped inside of it for £85 a night, sausages or no sausages.

Comments

[billy]

...what I hate about this story is:
1) I know it would happen to me
2) everyone else would stay at a better place (as did your friends)
3) except for the one person who *did* stay at the same hotel and would manage to get the whole stay for free plus a weekend at a sister hotel thrown in because they complained loudly

...don't you hate being british :^)...

[jonathan]

It's just not the British way to complain, is it? Even when I stormed downstairs to confront the reception staff about the water thing, I couldn't manage to summon enough self-righteous rage, and by the time I got to the authoritive, uniformed, not-hung-over people at the desk was ready to be almost deferential. I felt like Hugh Grant trying to be Jack Nicholson, and failing.

There is always that voice at the back of your mind saying 'now just don't cause a scene here'. Causing a scene being the most shameful public act a British person can carry out. That's why I cannot believe that bloke in the Batman costume at Buckingham Palace was really a builder from Essex- he would be to concerned at what the neighbours would think! Clearly the intrepid figure perched atop the Queen's balcony was Batman himself, and a major cover-up has been mounted to prevent an outbreak of public panic.

But perhaps you knew that already Billy, being a comic-book buff and all??