The Joy of the Premier Inn

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“If you want to feel good looking, go to Asda” Anon.

I am not a rich man. Normally, people say “I may not have much money but the riches I have are priceless”, and then, dreadfully, offer to show you a picture of a spouse or kid. I am not a rich man. The world of penthouse flats, cocaine, fast cars and not feeling like a fraud in Selfridge’s food hall is alien to me. And yet, poverty has its benefits. I don’t mean in the whole India-oh-they’re-enlightened-so-they’re-ok shite, I mean being poor means I stay at premier inns instead of fancy dan claridges or ritzes or what have you. The only connection I have to ritz is the biscuit.

 

“If you want to feel rich, go to a premier inn”

 

I first decided I loved premier inns in a midge infested, leaking tent in Wales. I’d paid £50 to sleep in a field with a load of other hairy toed guardian readers with a dubious attitude to cleaning. I could hear them snorting at political cartoons as the rain fell. Those bastards had a Tesco value pagoda and were sitting there honking. Though it was still unarguably early, I was trying to sleep, to speed up the whole miserable holiday.

 

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That bloody le cruset frying pan is another bitter disappointment too)

 

As the rain fell on my nose as I failed to sleep, I pondered the Premier Inn. For the price I had paid to ostensibly sleep in that field but actually to spend all night trying to get comfortable on a rock which, as the night wore on I became convinced was the peak of an undiscovered pyramid, I could be on the bed of average kings. I could fill a bath up (to hell with the environment! Raise the waters and drown the campsites!) with scalding hot water and while it cooled, watch ITV 4 on the Samsung TV and drink free instant coffee. Is anything better? Since that day I’ve given up camping and started taking city breaks around the country, staying at Premier Inns. While I loathe the fact that all high streets are the same, I love the fact all premier inns are. Open the door, with the high tech yet retro door card, and you are no longer in Bingly or Hull or Bridgend or Nottingham, you are everywhere and normal. A world of moderate luxury, of focus group approved perfection. Staying at Premier Inns is as luxurious as putting on a new pair of cheap walking socks. Of zipping up fleece.

And as you sleep, comfortable and warm, think of those guardian reading tossers in their fucking tents and sneer at them – see how they like it for a change

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