Dabbler correspondent Toby Ash recalls a really dreadful weekend he once endured in Glasgow.
A recent post by fellow Dabbler Susan on why the British put up with lousy hotel rooms brought to mind the self-declared ‘boutique’ hotel in Glasgow I stayed in while working in the city over a weekend a few years back.
After checking-in, I was directed up to my room on the top floor, where I fully expected lovely, far-reaching views of the city. Unfortunately, my room was windowless and up in the roof; a sloping roof no less, which only allowed me to stand upright for the first couple of feet upon entering. From then on my head was first bowed, then my knees bent and finally I had to limbo dance before being forced onto my hands and knees to use the kettle and TV (no remote) at the far end of the room. The bathroom too was built for a contortionist. To use the bath I had to position myself horizontally and post my body letter-like through the narrow gap between the edge of the bath and the sloping ceiling.
Being British, I took my hotel misery uncomplainingly. It was late and I was tired. There was also one ray of light amid the darkness – I discovered the Paramount Comedy channel bizarrely placed between ITV1 and Channel 4 on the TV and it was promising back-to-back episodes of Frasier the following night. Something nice to look forward to then.
The following evening was difficult in many ways. Scotland played Italy at football at home that afternoon. The result was a draw which, given the lamentable state of the Scottish national football team, was reason to cheer. So from about 5pm the streets of the city were packed with the celebrating tartan army.
I ventured out for something to eat at about 7pm. Within minutes I was surrounded by a large group of rowdy, kilted drunks, most wearing ginger wigs, shouting at me incomprehensibly in Scottish. To complicate matters further, they also presumed I was Italian. So I faced a dilemma. Did I play along, or did I stand, all alone, in Glasgow city centre surrounded by inebriated tartan foot soldiers and politely point out to them that they were mistaken and in fact I was English? Hmmm. I opted to become all Italiany. ‘Oh Scotlandy, veerrry goood at the foootball, si, si! Frascati Dolmio! Frascati Dolmio!’
Having narrowly escaped with my life I dived into the nearest restaurant and ordered a stiff drink. Dinner followed and I then took a cab the 300 yards to the safety of my hotel room and an evening with Frasier Crane.
On entering my room I limbo danced to the kettle to make myself a cup of tea and then scrambled sideways, crablike, over to the television set. However, unbeknown to me at that moment, the hotel owner had wired up all the rooms with the channels from his own personal satellite subscription. And, if Friday had been his comedy night, Saturday night turned out to be… very big black penis night, this being a honest and true description of what I witnessed at that moment on the channel between ITV1 and Channel 4.
In my surprise and horror I leapt unthinkingly to my feet, smacked my head hard against the sloping roof and found myself lying on the floor concussed, tears rolling down my cheeks, listening to the immortal words ‘ooo I’ve never seen one as big as that before’ emanating from the TV set.
Perhaps I should post this on Trip Advisor.
For some reason there’s always an irresistable compulsion to turn on the telly and flick through the channels as soon as one gets into a hotel room.
In the UK this mostly involves observing that they’re all out of sequence. And “Ooh look they’ve got Sky Sports 1 and 3 but not 2…”
When abroad it forces the realisation that UK telly is, by an order of magnitude, the least terrible in the world.
Rumour abounds that Athens TV may go off-air, very soon.
As it seems that half of the west coast population are of Italian descent, adopting a wee pretendy what-a-mistake-a-to-a-make-a accent is a sensible defence Toby. We were frequent visitors to the murder capital whilst our daughter was at the RSAMD, strangely the Geordie accented ones are welcome with open arms, kindred spirits maybe.
Until quite recently the Scottish hotel trade suffered from the alcoholic staff syndrome, and the brain dead attitude, thinking working in service meant being servile. now cured by immigration.
Geordies are perceived as existing in the same socio-economic sphere as Glaswegians, their primary city offers the same post-Victorian, post-industrial vision of brutalism as Glasgow, and best of all Geordies are HARD, ex-miners and what-not. Brothers across the divide, a Glaswegian has much more in common with a Geordie than he does a Teuchter frolicking among the sheep up north, or a genteel lady running a tea shop in Kelso, selling knick-knacks to the visiting English and Germans. Scots vs. the English is about class & resentment, not phantom “national” issues. Thus northerners such as Geordies and Yorkshiremen are kosher, while southerners are “posh” and have annoying accents.
Sphere?, socio-economic?, post-Victorian?, Daniel hinny, what sort of Geordies have you been co-habiting with. Your average post Kevin Keegan Geordie male …..speaks with a Bromley accent, shops in the afternoon when he should be working, is a government employee, drinks Faustino Rioja, hols in Florida, considers the locals odd, thinks The Oxford Galleries displayed art and has his toenails cut on Friday nights.
The key word is “perceived” Malty, “perceived”. Jimmy Nail, waye aye man, etc.
Sounds charming! Never stayed in Scotland, but once in a hotel in Alcester I went out drinking with the hotel owner and an hour after drunkenly going back to my room I was awoken by the sound of a police siren outside and watched as the owner was led away for a night in the cells for beating up his wife when he got home. He was quite sheepish when serving up breakfast
You should definitely post this on Trip Advisor, Toby – it made me fall about laughing – and will make a welcome relief from the bland style of entry usually found on the site. I’m curious to know which ’boutique’ hotel you are referring to – perhaps you could whisper the name in my ear?