Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 18th January 2009 - Week 15
Rodney Edwards | Sunday Life Column | 18th January 2009 - Week 15
e-mail: rodney@rodneyedwards.co.uk
MY OWN ROOM WITH A SPEW
HAVE you ever stayed in a hotel that hasn’t quite lived up to your expectations?
You know, when it just doesn’t match what you read in the brochure or on the website. You expected a beautiful Edwardian-style building with a pianist in the foyer. You were looking forward to being greeted by some sort of servant fluent in Swahili. But all you got was a rundown shack stinking of e-coli, with one window and a receptionist with a deep, throaty, laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
Then you go into your room dying to be laden with gifts - chocolates on the pillow, tea and coffee sachets by the side, those little bottles of shampoo in the bathroom that you’ll never use, but always take home with you – and there’s nothing. Nothing but pamphlets on Giving Blood and cigarette burns on the curtains. And a beetle in the bath. There’s always a beetle in the bath.
I once stayed in a hotel that looked more like a young offenders’ institution than the Taj Mahal.
The bedroom was a microscopic cesspit of dust and decay, so small, there was only room for a bed. That’s all it had, a bed - which doubled up as a wardrobe and a trouser press. I’d spend the night trying to sleep and roll around, flattening my shirt for work the next day at the same time. It was a single bed that took up so much room it blocked the bedroom door. Apart from the clear fire hazard had I inevitably burnt to death if the flammable potato sack for a bed sheet decided to go on fire, I had to physically break my way out of this shoe box every time I needed to use the communal bathroom down the hall.
And then I’d have to practically kick the door back in again when I wanted to return to my room. “It’s a security thing.” said the manager, who morphed more and more into Basil Fawtly each day. “Really? If you ask me, it looks like this room used to be a cupboard.” I replied as he ran outside and smacked his car with a branch in rage.
When it came to décor, this place had it in the bag. Instead of putting a gnome in the garden or a water feature like most establishments, they had imbedded something very different – an actual mini bus.
They had actually buried the top half of a mini bus into the ground between some hedges. This is a contraption for wheeling a few old women to bingo, it’s not something you need to nurture or water.
Now I’m sorry, but at what point in a hotel managerial meeting does the chief muse: “I’ve been watching Ground Force and you know what we need out the front? A Fort Transit mini bus planted in between the rhododendrons, it’s very chic, you know.” and everyone around him breaks out into a round of applause as if he’s some sort of new-rave Alan Titchmarsh.
What’s wrong with a pot plant or a hanging basket?
Although to be fair, the introduction of this distinctive ornament probably had something more to do with the vicinity than the feng sui. Some towns have old castles or monuments as places of interest, this area had the very first planted mini bus courtesy of some green-fingered yobs. And if you were quick, down the street by the traffic lights, there was a drunk urinating in a skip.
I recently stayed in the really brilliant Irish-owned Gore Hotel in London. Tucked away in Knightsbridge and around the corner from Buckingham Palace, it really wasn’t somewhere you were going to lose an arm despite its name. Guests included celebrities and a couple of well-known bands, which when you’ve stayed at the hotels I have, makes a change from European backpackers.
So let me give you a bit of advice. If the hotel you plan to stay in has ‘palace’ in the title then the chances are it’s anything but. Don’t make the same mistake I made of actually checking into a hostel for migrant workers. If it’s named something more beastly like ‘the bloodsucking vampire slaughterhouse’ then it’s probably grand and you won’t have to pack the gun.
Bath tub full of algae? Breakfast repeated on you for a month? Perhaps there was a corpse under the bed. Send your hotel horror stories to rodney@rodneyedwards.co.uk
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WOMEN STILL AIN’T GOT A CLUE WHEN IT COMES TO THE FLU
I’ve just about stopped spluttering asphalt following my bout of man flu last week.
The utmost of appreciation to everyone that sent best wishes and ‘Get Well Soon’ cards, someone even sent a fancy bouquet, but I gave it to the other half for the continuous supply of wet flannels she provided me with in my week of need. Well, man needs support from woman – said in a caveman’s voice.
I was also invited on the Stephen Nolan Show to debate man flu with comedienne Nuala McKeever but that never happened. Not because I was still stuck in my sick bed banging the floor with a slipper when my brow needed a mop but because Stephen was apparently *too busy* to talk after all. Come on big man, let’s bury the hatchet?
It seems Nuala had a bit of a dose herself but I can’t imagine that she’s been perspiring to quite the same levels as me because women just can’t get man flu like us chaps. If you’re reading this Nuala, get on the e-mail and tell me all about your wee sneeze, there’s a love.
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MADNESS OF KING GEORGE
When George Bush finally leaves his post as President of the United States on Tuesday, most folk will light a candle and rejoice. Others, mainly comics, will say a tearful goodbye to the pouting chimp and the way he gets his wee short sentences all jumbled up. Bush’s bloopers have provided some superb comical fodder over the last eight years and for that alone, I will miss him.
Here are six of my favourite Bushisms!
1. “If you say you’re going to do something and don’t do it, that’s trustworthiness.”
2. “I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family.”
3. “I remember meeting a mother of a child who was abducted by the North Koreans right here in the Oval Office.”
4. “Sometimes when you study history, you get stuck in the past.”
5. “The problem with the French is that they don’t have a word for entrepreneur.”
6. “They misunderestimated me.”
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OH, TO B UNDERSTOOD
Mel B says Americans don’t understand her. The former Spice Girl - who moved to Los Angeles six years ago - says her neighbours can’t understand her strong Leeds accent, but luckily she has a pal who translates for her. That’s nothing, try being in the US from Northern Ireland. You’d need a translator on standby.
What should be - Hello fellow human, I trust one is well. Just after a jolly stroll around the rather splendid surroundings of New York. My boots are soiled with dirt and I am simply famished. Oh golly miss molly, that is considerably steep for a baguette. I may have to get mad and rough you up, you whelp.
Is actually: Bout ye. Went fer a dander so I did, round the big apple, hi, I’m boggin and dying fer a bit ta ate. Getawaydat, $30 dollars for a Samitch? Do ye like yer bake, ya slabber.