Hotel Rooms

Whether it’s the Four Seasons or a Travelodge, all hotel rooms have an inescapable flaw: other people.

I regularly stay in all kinds of hotel, but my enjoyment was forever ruined in 1992 when I saw Basic Instinct. It’s not because I now fear perforation by ice pick. Nor is it that tiny bathrobes often lead to a re-enactment of that infamous scene – if Sharon Stone had been an ugly bloke with a hairy appendage, of course. Or Lady Gaga.

No, what did it was the murder scene, a UV light and iMax glasses. With the lights off, the bed resembled the dancefloor of a Newcastle nightclub and really hammered home how little the human eye actually sees. If Michael Douglas, of all people, can be standing right next to a spunkfest and not notice, what hope for the rest of us?

Sorry, but it’s true. Even the most arrogant, self-centred, egotistical cock on the planet (yes, Winner, I mean you), must concede that somebody else has already been there. From the second a room takes shape, every single person passing through leaves bits of their anatomy all over the place. It becomes a buffet of bodily fluids and worn out flesh. Much like Katie Price’s pants, I’d guess. And don’t give me any shit about brand new hotels either, because somebody built, wired and decorated them. Whenever a tradesman scratched that ubiquitous crack, skin cells (if you’re lucky, it was skin) flaked off. Do you really think his professionalism extended to picking up these microscopic particles and placing them into a baggie, like the owner of the world’s smallest dog? Well then.

The prisons are full of murderers who thought they were meticulous in covering their tracks. They used bleach, acid and scrubbing brushes, and still got caught 15 years later when police found DNA under the bed. Just how thorough do you think a minimum-wage housekeeper is going to be when they have a quota? Especially when a ‘guarantee’ of hygiene can be as flimsy as a plastic disc resting on a glass, or a band of paper slipped over the bog seat.

The hotels may not be at fault for this, but they are definitely guilty of a multitude of other annoyances in their rooms: Fruit or nut-based bath products whose descriptions seem more suited to eating than cleaning your arse. Little signs imploring guests to use their towels until they practically dissolve – purely for the good of the environment, of course, and nothing whatsoever to do with laundry costs and profit margins. Worst by far though is the little note hanging on some bathrobes that threatens to dock the maid’s wages in the event of theft. They may as well hang a picture of a Labrador puppy with a gun to its head, and the following caption:

‘If this robe is gone tomorrow, so is little Billy!’

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