There is nothing more likely to collapse, break or simply wither to nothing than a hotel bin liner. These wispy, ineffective, pointless items are provided to the same low standard irrespective of the establishment's room rate - from expensive room to cheap lodge. This was exactly the case on each of my recent overnight experiences, including the last one at the Copthorne Merry Hill. It would be fair to say that any ProLife supporter would sanction the Merry Hill bin liners for use as condoms, based on their complete ineffectiveness!
Arrival was late, and an adjustment to our reservation was necessary. I arrived at reception with Mrs MWSC alongside me, and Junior in tow. I had of course booked online for three adults. The receptionist was a variation on a 'Stepford Wife' - the two significant variances being she was not very attractive, and not very bright. I dubbed her "Anne".
"Oh; you'll be needing a family room with an extra bed in it, then."
I acknowledged this superb assessment as accurate, while remaining baffled as to how the fuck our allotted room was not of such a style and already prepared for us. Anyway, Anne of Cleves was able to amend things with minimal effort, the level of input at which she was proficient. After registering, we got the lift and found our room.
Aside from the bin liner being gossamer thin, the room was seemingly perfectly acceptable. It was almost 11pm, and with a slight stomach rumble on the part of Mrs MWSC, it was time to investigate room service. After perusal of the options, Mrs MWSC decided that she would be satisfied with a Panini (£8.95 was the going rate for said delicacy which came with crisps and salad) and Junior would have some chips. It was time to place the order.
Unfortunately there was some sort of communications issue, for the 'room service' number elicited no response. After a long wait, Mrs MWSC decided to call reception. Alas, Anne of Cleves was not available. She was of course NOT engaged with the hotel manager (Henry) in any hanky panky because as we all know, her marriage was never consummated. Another go calling 'room service' was fruitless, just like the menu. Again a call to reception proved a waste of time. A personal visit was required to place the fucking order! This was not a good start for "room service".
Upon her return, Mrs MWSC told me that there were no chips available. Anne had said the fryers were turned off for the night. Junior would therefore be having a panini as well. Strangely there was a quick answer when Mrs MWSC called to add a pint of lager to the order. As soon as Mrs MWSC announced herself, Anne of Cleves was straight in with, "I know; we doing your order now and it'll be ready in a minute." She no doubt felt she was being pursued. I could have assured her that if she were indeed the target of pursuit by Mrs MWSC, then she would have been beheaded, significantly messing up the rhyme of "Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived". The request for a lager was taken, and that concluded any further involvement - she was history.
The arrival of the large tray was a grandiose event, preceded by the tap on the door. The ritual "setting down of the square" was followed by my signing the pad and the exit of the court jester who'd brought it, with flourish and a dollop of her unusual personality.
As I confirmed the following morning, via the completed customer survey: "No cutlery was provided with room service. Eating a salad + dressing with fingers is a strange experience, possible a local custom in the Midlands?"
Illiteracy was evident, as confirmed by the printed message on the paper sheet under the two plates of food.
When you require your tray collecting please place it outside your room and dial 4631 for collection.
"Require your tray collecting" is simply clumsy and wrong.
The humidity was high, and akin to the conditions required at the Body Farm, where scientists conduct research into the decomposition process for bodies.
Hotels never give decent light. Instead, there's a strange rationing of this commodity (well, the electric variety) through a weird obsession with multiple lamps each trying to eat a small mouthful of gloom and succeeding only inasmuch as progress demands collective action. In this case, four lamps colluded with two wall lights which did little more than help establish the true colour of the wallpaper. There was also one overhead disc of light by the door that illuminated the wardrobe area to a reasonable degree.
The Bed of Brierley Hill
All of this peripheral information proved irrelevant for any review of the establishment, as the whole experience was severely overridden by the quality of the night's sleep which was determined for the most part by the comfort level of the mattress. On a scale of Tutankhamun's Sarcophagus to Luxurious Angel's Wings, it was definitely as fucking Egyptian as the cotton sheets!
The particularly small bin was almost full as we set to go, with the liner of course underneath the debris rather than containing it.
Departure involved being mugged for £24.80, the cost of two paninis and a pint of later. This, I quickly realised, was only 80p more than 40 cans of Carlsberg from ASDA, and I determined never to return. The fair cost of a pint and two very small paninis was probably no more than half that.
Will I return? No.
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