The Worst Place on Earth

Motorway Service Stations are (and have been for as long as I can remember) my least favourite places on the planet. In no other location is the disgusting, hopeless, vile nature of the human species more evident. Obese, stinking families waddle between computer games arcades and fast-food outlets, clutching trays laden with overpriced carbohydrates (no doubt stuffed beyond capacity with flavour enhancers, preservatives and hormones extracted from the testicles of urban rats) a glazed, moronic expression on their hideous faces.

You get to a service station; tired, grumpy and stiff, in the desperate hope that you’ll be able to relax with a cup of good coffee and recharge your batteries before concluding your journey. But you arrive in a concrete nightmare; a hopeless hell-hole of horror. All around you is the stench of Burger King, floor-cleaning agents and the ever-present sting of fresh and stale urine. “Imagine,” I once thought to myself “having to work in a place like this.”

I’ve made quite clear my feelings about motorway service stations. So you can only imagine my disgust and dismay when I learned I would have to stay in a Travelodge… IN a service station.

Actually in it.

I dislike the Midlands at the best of times; I especially dislike being there for “work reasons” during a Bank Holiday Weekend… the thought of spending an entire night of my life in a Travelodge in a service station in the East Midlands was a little more than I could stomach. I”ll cut-to-the-chase:

I arrived and checked-in. There was immediately a problem- despite having had the reservation for over a month, there were no “normal” rooms available; and I would have to stay in a “disabled-friendly” room. I said I didn’t mind -it’s exactly the same as a normal room, except there’s no sofa (I asked why this was the case: disabled people apparently don’t use sofas. i scratched my head a little and let it slide, though in all honesty it’s been troubling me ever since. Shouldn’t disabled people be even more into sofas than your average able-bodied person?) and there are these weird red chords everywhere which you can pull if you’re in need of help.

“Don’t pull them.” Said the revolting man behind the counter; the inbred offspring of a homeless necrophiliac and Umtbeck Hataar (World record-holder for “most zits” 2004 AND 2006)

I agreed not to pull them, mostly out of fear of entering some kind of physical altercation with this ghoul which could involve touching him or his pus/semen stained clothing.

Having put down my bags and been through my standard hotel-room-arrival-routine (stealing the extra pillow and the bath-towel… they owed me man, that place was gross) I thought it might be nice to have a bath. That, at least, would be relaxing. I’d run the bath, empty every single miniature shampoo/conditioner/shower gel/bath foam bottle into it in the hope of getting one or two bubbles out of the mixture and read my book. Nope: no plug in the bath. I thought about ripping the plug from the hand-sink (they’re fixed in with a bolt) but the sink plug-hole was smaller than the bath one so it wouldn’t have fit anyway. I stormed down to reception and knocked on the counter; no doubt interrupting the receptionist’s attempts to make love to a baked potato in the back-room or something.

“There’s nothing I can do about it.” He told me. “I have no plugs.”

I gave him a look that was meant to look scary, but I think he interpreted it as a come-on so I hastily departed and decided to take a walk to clear my head. But where do you walk to in the service station next to the East Midlands Airport?

I walked around the service station. There was a WH Smith, a Marks and Spencer “simply food” and a Burger King. And a lot of fat, repulsive bastards sitting around being more important than anybody else. So I figured I’d find some alcohol and get through the night in the simplest way possible.

Guess again.

There was no booze. Not in the M&S, not in the WH Smith, not in the fridges of the garage across the road… nowhere. No bar, no pub, no booze. It was only my raw, unconquerable masculinity which prevented me from falling to my knees and weeping.

I went back to my room, hoping that perhaps there would be a room-service menu or something. Something, -anything which hinted at some suspicion of alcoholic beverages being available somewhere nearby. But no, once again I was thwarted. The Travelodge had no bar, no restaurant, no cafe, no kitchen -no facilities whatsoever; even the “breakfast” they offered (and I use the word with a massive helping of irony) was delivered in a bag to my door the following morning. It contained a number of plastic boxes, one containing some instant coffee granules, another with some cereal and one more with some “milk”. This wasn’t included in the cost of the room -nope, this was an additional £5.

Which meant the entire experience cost the company £56. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care: not my cash -they can pay for it. But I couldn’t bring myself to allow anybody to go on funding this kind of warped, perverse operation. Upon my return I insisted that the secretary write a letter of complaint (which I in fact wrote) to the Travelodge demanding a full refund and pointing out in no uncertain terms that they should be ashamed of themselves and that everybody who worked there should be forced to walk, single-file, into the tireless blades of an industrial garlic-sausage processing machine.

After some editing by said secretary the letter was dispatched. I had done what I could.

Never stay in a Travelodge; least of all a Travelodge in a motorway service station. You have been warned.