We’ve covered Premier Inns before, of course. But we love them so much that lately, we’ve been thinking about them even more than usual and have been browsing their website for an impromptu minibreak. We’ve decided upon Bridgend.
Their website, it has to be say is terrible:
Talk about hiding your light under a bushel. If I owned a Premier Inn, I’d have huge photos of it on my website, like these folks do:
That image size is 4256 × 2832. That is one big image, you could print it off, stick it on your wall and convince yourself you in a Premier Inn somewher. Somewhere were somewhere where people were contractually obliged to be nice to you. Somewhere better. I feel a bit guilty hot linking to that image but there we go.
Here’s another one, there’s no point to this, it’s just nice
We have been all over the country and stayed in the same place. The paradox of the everyday. The banality, in the end, of beauty. For make no mistake a premier inn room is a thing of real beauty. What does a hotel room at £50 per night get you when you stay at a conglomorate with huge purchasing power and the ability to hammer margins? A lot, that’s what. A Samsung TV, a desk which no one has ever sat at and a bed at which, though hundreds and hundreds of people have rested their greasy heads on, feels brand new. Perfection.
Bristol, Leiscter (never going to learn how to spell that, sorry), Coventry, Hull, Bridgend, Mansfield. Well, you get the point.
They are all beautiful. There is something so joyous about pulling into an ‘Inn car park. Turn off the engine and listen to it click as it cools. Then into the purplish reception room, with the vending machine and, if you are in a larger one, a restaurant. They give you the room key – a space age card if you please- and you walk down the corridor, slightly tense that they’ve given you a room with a shower rather than a bath.
Then fill the bath, right to the top with piping hot water and, whilst you wait for it to become slightly less hot than the earth’s core itself, stick on the telly. Perhaps pointless is on, or, in honour of the slightly unusual situation, one of the cooler satelite ones. ITV 4 perhaps. Thrill at the edginess whilst the shitty kettle boils.
As an aside, I had a friend who used to defacate in hotel kettles immediately prior to departure. He used to imagine the smell of the turd as it boiled. Leon he was called. A brute. On the other
Anyway, having checked the kettle, enjoy the brew, enjoy the TV and relax
Chillax. Life in a premier inn is perfect. If I won the lottery, I think I’d roam from town to town, staying in ‘Inn after ‘Inn in a what some would call morbid odyssey. Wouldnt that be a wonderous way to see the world?