Guest User
October 29, 2024
Ah, the Premier Inn—where the promise of a restful night collides spectacularly with the reality of a fusty, dilapidated room. Upon arrival, I was greeted by the reception staff, who could have won awards for their impeccable ability to exude disinterest. I’m still not sure if their goal was to check us in or check us out of the hotel entirely! Now, let’s talk about the room. Picture this: a cosy atmosphere steeped in the scent of despair, with the added charm of plaster coming off the bathroom walls like confetti. The fan was a delightful companion, incessantly roaring through the night—perfect for anyone who enjoys the soothing sounds of a jet engine at 3 AM. Windows left wide open? Bravo! Who needs privacy or temperature control when you have that authentic “abandoned warehouse” experience? And don’t get me started on the road noise. It was like having front-row seats to a symphony of revving engines and honking horns, ensuring that sleep was a distant dream, drowned out by the soundtrack of the M1. On to the restaurant! A premier breakfast that’s decidedly not self-service—because why would you want the freedom to serve yourself when you can engage in a delightful game of “How many sausages would you like?” (Spoiler: it’s always one too few.) The milk situation was nothing short of a comedy sketch. “Sorry, our milk dispenser is on a permanent vacation. Please help yourself to the cereal section’s milk—if you can find it!” And orange juice? Let’s just say I haven’t seen it since the dawn of time. Now, let’s discuss the breakfast itself. The baked beans were freezing cold—perfect for anyone looking to experience the thrill of frostbite before their first coffee. The bacon wasn’t much better; it had that delightful lukewarm quality that leaves you questioning whether it was cooked yesterday or simply left out for a while. The rest of the spread? Lukewarm at best. It was like a culinary game of “guess what temperature this is supposed to be,” and spoiler alert: we lost. As for our toast, I asked for butter, and what did I receive? A plate of butter, like some sort of culinary insult. Did someone forget to tell the staff that we’re not living in the Victorian era? Breakfast was served cold, though I can’t help but think it was a charming “take two” of a meal sent back by our neighbours—now that’s what I call hospitality! And then there was the waitress. Speaking in what can only be described as a language composed entirely of mumbles and frowns, she left us utterly baffled. We had no idea where to sit, and just when we thought we might figure it out, she simply walked off, leaving us in a state of confusion that could rival a scene from “The Office.” Smiling was clearly not on her agenda, which made her incoherence even more delightful. To top it all off, our seating in the restaurant had huge tears that had been “repaired” with gaffa tape—because who doesn’t love a bit of DIY charm with their breakfast? It was a lovely reminder that even th