Think Death in Venice.
The Royal Clifton at Southport has the faded tatty "pomp" of the mid 50s, the kind of place Philip Marlow would describe as a "seedy joint". Everything is shabby, the service is barely acceptable, there's a run-down "fin de siècle" feeling, an odour of tiredness, decay, of inertia - as if they just can't be bothered any longer but are simply going wearily through the motions. The "Royal" part is as used with pains in the rear- you know?
I ate a three course meal here last year- Christmas dinner allegedly. The main course was barely enough (I think they count the peas), the starter came mostly from a jar, the dessert tasted entirely from a packet. A pint of beer was handed to me that I couldn't see through - twice on the same day, different bars. There were a couple of quite astonishingly discourteous bar staff who gave new meaning to the word "lippy". And any waitress calling a customer "Darlin'" should be shot along with her boss..
I complained by letter to the manager several times. I was utterly ignored every time. And their bosses Best Western were even less use than a stamp instead of loo roll.
Management like that might be considered cowardly, bullying, incompetent, arrogant, as hostile as Fawlty to criticism, disrespectful, disorganised, deep-down nasty. I couldn't possibly comment. But the run-down dump that is the purlieu and the responsibility of this prime example of mismanagement certainly won't be seeing me again. I've dealt with some awful hotel managers in my time, but this one's imaginary head and antlers are now firmly above my mantelpiece with the appropriate legend - which you can supply for yourself.
You may think I'm exaggerating. So - try it for yourself. You wouldn't get me in there again alive. The Clifton gives a whole new meaning to the word "hotel", one which, for the worst of reasons, you'll never forget. read more
