Very rarely am I motivated to write a letter of complaint (no drama please, I'm British), but there's one in the bag, fellow yelpers. Until then I shall vent my spleen via my favourite medium. We were well and truly screwed at the Copthorne.
Screwed, not in the empty thrill of that "ooh, I feel dirty, I feel naaaaughty" feeling, when it's kind of worth it. You know, as my father-in-law would say, "Well, you might as well bend over and enjoy it." Nope. This is screwed in the weirdo's basement, Marcellus Wallace style. It ain't pleasant, it's humiliating, you feel violated, it inspires nightmares and you agree never to discuss it again. The only difference is that this ordeal can't be ended with an impressive sword. Now, I'm not letting the being-stuck-in-traffic-for-seven-hours-prior-to-arrival affect my opinion of the hotel, because to be fair, an amusing sense of camaraderie was created between three people going slowly insane in the confines of a car with only Tooty Frooties for comfort. It all started before the journey even began, with my better half being told the hotel room cost £100. It was last minute and he was desperate, but later finding out that his sis and brother-in-law were staying in an identical room for half the price? The only difference was that we'd opted for breakfast, and unless that morning meal included champers and caviar... a bit ridiculous, wethinks.
Then, things got progressively worse. After the party we'd attended, the four of us returned to the hotel hankering for a midnight snack. Room service was no longer providing hot food but they assured us sandwiches were available. For over a fiver each, we were suspicious. "Are they nice?" asked the BF's sis, sweetly yearning for a bit of honesty and decorum. Because really, we were tempted to head over to the nearby McDonald's and stuff our faces with fries, but the swiftly nicknamed 'eunuch' at the front desk (it truly was like an opening scene from a horror movie) insisted we couldn't go there unless we were in a motor vehicle. We were told these sandwiches were the bomb. Fresh, delicious and awesome. We really should have trusted our gut instincts on this one.
What arrived at the door, late I might add, were insipid, uninspiring fillings a child could have put together on pallid, sad-looking stale white bread. This cost us the best part of £20. Surely the food could get better. Perhaps that expensive breakfast was where it was at. Of course it wasn't. Three kinds of juice, watered down to weak cordial level, were not the sharp, fruity wake-up call we desired. Stewed beans, sweaty mushrooms, anemic-looking tomatoes... the hash browns were nice enough but they were bite-size, which was a tad confusing. And I received word that the eggs and the mystery sausages left much to be desired.
It wasn't all negative at the Copthorne, hence its second star. The bed was lovely and comfy and I slept like a baby, the room was clean, and the staff were ever so sweet and pleasant. But other than that it was a stay to forget, save for the awesome company that night. Really, what else can you do as a group when greeted with extortionately expensive greasy sandwiches but... laugh? And laugh we did. Heartily. Or else we might have cried. read more