The shame faced joy of the Easy Hotel London.

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Bird. Porridge. Life in prison: Ever thought about it? What it’d be like and how you’d cope? We’ll be honest. We have. A lot. Mainly, it has to be said, when Mrs Gin starts talking about her fucking day at work. We have two jobs, three really. We’re full time cleaning product reviewers, we have a tedious job in IT and we have a third, unwanted job, listening to Mrs Gin as she bangs on (and fucking on) about her day at work. It’s relentless. She talks and as she talks, our eyes involuntarily roam:

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Doubtless your wife talks. They all do. If you were to have a ‘moment of madness’ and were facing 2 or 3 years in prison as a consequence, do you wonder how you’d cope? Well wonder not because for only £40 you can find out.


==not as bad as you might have thought==

It’s not as bad as you might think. The first thing that hits you is, naturally, the lack of even basic cleanliness. You have to be prepared for pubes on the pillow, stains on the ceilings and ‘you know whats’ in the toilet bowls (shit stains). Luckily, we always pack an emergency pack of Zoflora with us.

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Anyone who leaves home without one is a fucking bozo and no mistake. So the first thing we do is lay down a massive amount of bleach, bleach on the floor, bleach on the walls, on the headboard and down the toilet. After that, slightly, we relax. And after that the Easy Hotel comes into it’s own. It’s not actually that bad.

The east might have mountain tops, and Godliness and the rising sun and pebbles, but here in the west we have broad band internet, dirty burgers, prisons and cheap hotel rooms. Who are we to say one is necessarily better than the other?

After we clean, we sit on the pubeless pillows and try to find God, in the same calm and patient manner we believe we would were we lucky enough to be amongst meaningful mountains and clever people in Orange robes. In this respect the Easy Hotel, much like prison, is a useful space to be. There are no distractions: no wives talking, no TVs, coat hangers, pictures on the walls, just you and the sound of two people three rooms away being unnecessarily pleasant to each other. In this respect, but this respect alone, we hope it is different to prison. It gives a peace and bleach stained serenity that, frankly, we need more of. We are ashamed, perhaps, to admit we feel more joy in this souless, cheaply bleak hotel room than we do on our sofa, where it is supposed to feel like we are home. The bed that thousands have slept in feels anonymous and slipping into the solitude of this anonymity is more comforting than slipping into a warm embrace. We often stay here, maybe three of four times a week, hiding, frankly. Hiding in a threadbare prison of our own making, but hiding happily nonetheless.

That’s a thought actually…can you get Zoflora in Prison? We should hope so. Not to have it would be a flagrant breach of human rights. We’re not murdering our wife if we can’t have bleach inside, sorry, no way.

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