Fawlty Towers

Damn, what a weekend. So much that I’ll have to split it into three parts. Starting here, with a hotel review.

I had the misfortune to stay in the Warwick Hilton this weekend. Frankly, given what I now know and my feelings for the girl in question, I’d rather enter Paris Hilton. And I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than in that air-headed tit-stand.
I’d like to find something good about the hotel, but really I can’t. The bar was uninviting and outrageously expensive; the gym and pool was closed over the weekend; the breakfast was appalling (how difficult is it to heat up some beans) and necessitated a long queue; the lift took longer to go from floor to floor than Concorde did to cross the Atlantic; the shower was louder than Concorde; the ‘luxury robe’ was thinner than a condom and rougher than a mail sack; and the carpets, as in all hotels, offended my eyes.
But the most annoying thing, and something completely unforgivable in this day and age – especially when you are paying £120 a night – was the lack of air conditioning in the room. Unbelievable. True, they had provided a fan, which was the only thing in the county louder than the shower, to circulate the hot air around. Quite where people get the idea that we don’t need it in this country, I don’t know. It may not be as hot as other places, but it’s hot enough during the summer, and it’s sticky and humid and sweaty. And everywhere else in the developed world, air-con would come as standard. Frankly, they are taking the piss.
So, I urge you never to stay in a Hilton hotel. Their service is shit and they charge you a fortune for it. And if you are desperate to stay just off junction 15 of the M40, stay at the Holiday Inn instead.