Real life | 9 October 2010

No matter how many scatter cushions they put on the beds, British hotels are just faking it. Thirty-five years after Basil Fawlty, we still can’t do hospitality. Oh, yes, we can do fancy little feedback forms and chocolates on the pillow. But we absolutely cannot do the basics. To visit a British hotel is to embark on a Ray Mears-style expedition into a hostile environment. Granted, it’s all very nicey-nicey down at reception, where the youngsters with gold lapel badges and tight waistcoats have got their degrees in Catering and Customer Care Technology from the University of East Grinstead and know a thing or two about raising your expectations — ‘You’ve been upgraded to a junior suite, Miss Kite,’ is just one of their cunning hope-raiser ploys. But as soon as you get through the door of your room, you are beset by a series of terrifying battles to acquire the basics to sustain life.