Skiing
It was with a sense of trepidation that me and the 2 people I would be sharing a room with with opened the door to our room in the hotel – We already knew it was going to be slightly cheap, and most probably nasty. How wrong we were! It surpassed all of our expectations.

After we dumped out bags in the main area of the apartment, we went to see what the other rooms were like in our new home. If you can call it that. There was only the one – A bathroom. A quick glance in the bidet told us all we needed to know – It was filled with pubic hair; it was definitely not ours. A more careful examination of the sleeping area revealed similar results; one of the beds (Which everyone else kindly gave to me) had several suspicious brown stains on it. Even better, the Television had been replaced by a log! This was a favorite with everyone in the hotel, as soon as we got in from the slopes everyone was clamoring to see ‘What was on the log’. We couldn’t find the remote however, so that remained a dream.

After puzzling about the state of the room (We finally decided that a fat, sweaty man named Bubba owned the apartment, and as soon as we left it, he would come in, shave his pubic hair off, distribute it around the apartment, and shit in my bed), we ourselves considered having a celebratory dump on the baking tray & turning the oven on, but decided that a simple piss in the bidet would do the job.

On the last night, everyone elected to come and visit our apartment to celebrate the end of the trip. They were all amazed by our bin (the sink, now overflowing with decomposing rubbish), and they also kindly decided to urinate off the balcony.

Unfortunately all too soon the rooms needed cleaning before we could leave. We did empty the sink of all the rubbish, and flush the toilet, before liberally scattering the apartment with pubic hair. After all, we were requested to leave it in the same condition we found it in.

Sorry, whoever was staying there next.

Length? Short, curly and black.
(Merrep, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:49, Reply)

The Dominican Republic
When I was about 17, my mum and I took one of those cheap package breaks to the Dominican Republic. Seven days of all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink. Not normally my type of holiday, and thanks to this experience, it probably never will be.

We got to the room, a "garden view", which meant it overlooked a few bushes and the resort's informal rubbish tip. Air conditioner didn't work properly, but made up for it with the amount of noise it produced. The first time I sat on my bed, a leg snapped off: although the housekeeping staff claimed it would be fixed, it remained broken throughout our stay, and I had to share a bed with my mother, who is a chronic snorer of impressive volume.

As far as the all-you-can drink bit goes, I firmly believe that they just waived the bottles of spirits over the mixed drinks, because they had absolutely no taste of alcohol whatsoever. (I probably shouldn't have been drinking anyway, but they gave me an adult wristband, and I wasn't about to complain.) The food seemed okay, or so I thought until I collapsed at the pool one day, struck down by food poisoning. Two people had to load me into a golf cart, take me back to my room, and put me to bed. That didn't last long, as I spent the following two days drifting in and out of consciousness on the bathroom floor, emptying every scrap of material in my digestive system from both ends. At least I got a break from sharing a bed with my mother. When I finally rallied, I found a lovely tile pattern imprinted on my face and most of my body.

Cheap Carribbean package holidays: just don't.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:46, Reply)

I went to Amsterdam for business once
I thought it was fantastic, with exception of the hotel. My boss got a rather plush hotel and I ended up with some nasty little place that was in the process of being dug up outside. Right next to one of the canals, I had to walk on some planks of wood then onto wet sand just to get into the place. The building works would start first thing in the morning and I had a crane right outside the window! Which was nice...

Still, everything else was fantastic :)
( Firkinfedup last shat on your wife's tits at, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:42, Reply)

Set Set's drug den
In the summer after my first year of university, my brother and I decided to go to Barbados for a few weeks. We hardly had any cash so when we got there we tried to find the cheapest possible place to stay. My brother knew of a guy called Set Set who had a shack, which he apparantly built himself and rented out a few rooms for about $5 a night.

Set Set used to be the local dealer but found god or something and was now some kind of back street dentist.

We made our way there and he actually had a room free so we took it, congratulating ourselves on the bargain we had bagged.

Unfortunately Set Set's shack was built right next to a swamp, litteraly a few feet from one. It also had quite a few holes in the walls so each night we were eaten alive by mozzies. Before we went to sleep we would hook up 2 of those plugs that you put the tablets in to kill the mozzies, burned 2 of the coils, covered ourselves in repellent and sprayed the buggery out of the room. The only result was that we probably got cancer along with the bites.

One day Set Set arranged for his mate Ning Ning (a little skinyn rasta dude) to take us out on his boat for an hour. He basically motored out to a few hundred metres from the shore, made us pull up a few lobster pots and then took us back. He then asked us for $100 for the privilige and when we refused threatened to kill us. We told Set Set and he told us he would go and shoot him with his magnum (the gun I assume rather than the ice cream).

Saying all that, Set Set was actually a stand up chap and occasionally cooked us some really decent Bajan food. Despite the billion mozzie bites and the various threats on my life, it was actually a pretty cool holiday.
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:34, Reply)

Joke
Dear Sirs,

I haven't thought about something that has happened to me in relation to this qotw yet, but when i do you'll laugh til your growler wilts.

But I wanted to quickly commit this joke to the internet before i open another bottle of co-op Shiraz. I thought of it just now, literally with a start. Here it goes. Ahem..

Where do homosexual people go to get healed?



Gay Lourdes!!
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:27, Reply)

Majorca Hotel.
This is more of a romantic experience at a hotel but i'll continue anyway. I met this guy called alex. i really liked him without saying a word or going near him. Every morning at about 10 i'd go outside my room and look down to the pool and saw him there. He was there. When i came down to the pool, he was there. He was always at the pool. One i was lying down on my sunbed with my ipod i could see him staring at me and doing the same as me. I'll skip to the end. He left the night before me. I saw him leave. He blew me a kiss and tried to come and give me a real kiss. But he's dad wouldn't let him. He's dad looked gay so i think his dad wanted him to be gay too. Anyway, it was a good experience of falling for someone you don't know a thing about. It's awfully simple to fall in love. But simply awful falling out of love xxx
(Katee124, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:26, 3 replies)

Glasgow hotels...
Hotel A... Designed seemingly by M C Escher. Stairs that lead up to a solid wall...

Hotel B... The one where the corridors look like something from The Shining, until you walk down them... and the walls get closer, the ceilings get lower, until you have to hunch.... Also has the smallest swimming pool ever. Has the capacity for one guest, and god help them if they want to turn round to do another length...

I love those hotels :)
(cookiemonster, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:19, Reply)

breakfast included
"twin share room with private en-siute. breakfast included. bargain rates"
sounds great, we thaught as we headed off to find the place somewhere in london. my last stop before i flew home. the place was charming, just off the main road behinnd a pub, so i could sneak pints out the back door and sit in the hotels garden and read. the weather was warm. i was content and happy. the crapiness was first evident when we arrived and were shown to our room. it was actually a shoebox with two beds jammed in so tight 2 people coudnt get out of bed at once. the reason for this was that the ensuite was a beige plastic box pushed up in one corner of the room and silliconed to the wall. unlike the tardis, it was slightly larger than a phonebox on the outside and remarkably small on the inside. to open the door, the roommate had to sit on her bed. once inside you were standing in a combo bath shower, a toilet nudging your leg, begging for attention and a sink facing you. it was almost certainly designed by a mad scientist with chronic and on-going gastro. a time machine for the gastricly challenged. the second mark came when after may lazy pints i hazily staggered off to bed. crashing down i donged my head forcefully on the railing. in order to help in the llusion that the room had some space in it the beds were significantly shorter than an ordinary bed. ah well. i didnt care, pissed and sleepy i drifted of to a hunched slumber, awaiting my free breaky befor my flight in the morning. morning came and breakfast was to be the last crowning glory of crapiness. after 6 weeks of wandering i had been suprised by the breakfasts i had been served and was looking forward to egs and baccon, or ham and cheese. toast, coffee, juice. sitting at the table a disgruntled and harrassed looking staffer baught over a plate and plonked it down. a slice of cold toast and a boiled egg. hmmm. oh well, thinks i. better than nothing. tap tap tap...splosh. nope. not so much boiled as hen-fresh. so may last meal in merry ol england was dry cold toast, a raw egg and half a cup of bitter black coffee. crappy, yes. but i loved every bit.
(lazy killer robot found that beer tastes better when your older, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:15, 1 reply)

Amsterdam, Koninginnedag
...meaning "Queen's Birthday" -- a big holiday, the whole of the centre of the city is closed off and the place becomes a giant street party. We were in town because the missus had to be at a conference, we'd decided at the last minute that I'd fly out to join her but hadn't realised it was a special weekend and everywhere decent in town would be booked solid.

We were running out of options when we found the last room in a reasonably central place. When we arrived, we were informed it was right at the top, and there was no lift. The room was miniscule, the bed apparently made out of a crate and designed for kids -- I'm 6'3" and it was about a foot short. Sitting on the en-suite loo, you couldn't shut the door because there'd be nowhere to put your legs (fine when you're married maybe, but we'd only been going out a few months at that point, so a little awkward).

The best part? Getting back at some ungodly hour, knackered and ready to crash, to discover that the street directly behind the hotel was where the local radio station had set up its massive stage, and the DJ had decided that it'd be funny to leave Eminem's "My Name Is" on repeat for the rest of the night.

Oh, how we laughed.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 21:11, 1 reply)

Trzy Kafky,
a delight in central Krakow. My parents had stupidly asked me (a poor student) to book us a family room in an affordable hotel in krakow one year. However, our definitions of 'affordable' were slightly different from each other. To my parents it meant 'somewhere we won't be bankrupted, but neither will we be in extreme luxury', to me it meant 'somewhere we each get a bed and won't die too horribly'.

so i found this place on-line, and booked it. all seemed well until we were trudging through the streets of krakow looking for our lodgings. they were above an 'internet cafe' (money laundering den), and had somehow lost our booking. Sadly, before my mother could protest too loudly, they found it, in a mouldy ledger, and showed us to our room.

well, what a lovely place! we scrambled up a rickety outdoor metal fire escape, past the rats, cockroaches, and bed bugs which were scurrying AWAY from the room (it was that nasty), and we got to our room.

It was actually a series of chambers held together with mould and mucus and the pubes of previous occupants, and each chamber had a charming centre piece such as a bloodstained rug or a rotting carcass/mattress.

my mother and aunt took one look and both burst into tears.
my brother, sister and i found a chamber with 3 sagging mattresses in it and started looking for bodies/porn*. my father just collapsed in an exhausted heap, and muttered something about maybe looking elsewhere in the morning.

by this time it was close to midnight, so dad talked my mum and aunt into just staying 1 night, we'd look elsewhere in the morning.
so, we lay around in our chambers for a few hours, before getting up to prepare for a visit to auschwitz.

that was when we discovered the shower.
it was so encrusted with filth from previous occupants, that only a particularly short dwarf foetus would be able to climb under the rusty shower head. there were towels laid out, but not one of them was stain free (although we did have a variety of stains - blood and shit were the most popular). there was a crust/soap on a rope attached to the wall, and the whole thing smelt like 10 dying tramps on a hot day in an abbatoir.

we left...

on our way to a new hostel though, we saw a tramp, aslepp between his sandwich boards -boards which advertised our hostel. Lovely!

i'm not allowed to book hostels for my family ever again.

*in our previous hotel in slovakia, there was russian porn under the mattress - lots of men in bras and not much else. my brother vomited on the doorstep as we left that hotel. i'd booked that one too...
( ascorbate, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:59, Reply)

Life on the pissing road
Being a touring musician at the arse end of the music biz, I have stayed in a variety of fucking shite places. Where to begin...
The squat in Wigan (or a suburb thereof called "Hag Fold", I shit you not) where I was given an undersized sofa to sleep on, complete with some chav cunt speeding his tits off and talking to me about how "i ain't a thief man, they got it all wrong" for FOUR FUCKING HOURS while I tried to sleep... The house in Somerset where we were told there was a houseparty going on, duly showed up and got chased out by a baseball-bat-wielding dad on the rampage and had to sleep in the train station... The house in Nottingham where we had to barricade ourselves into the spare room to protect ourselves from the mentalist houseowner who was bolind, angry drunk and had randomly taken against us... The house in Leeds which didn't seem to exist (so we slept in the van in a lay-by)... A room in a Soviet-era block of flats in Moscow with no furniture, or heating, in the dead of winter... The practice room we were given to sleep in somewhere in Latvia decorated with big framed pictures of Sam Fox with her tits out...
I could go on. For ages. Rock n roll, eh?
(franktard, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:57, 1 reply)

i dont think
ive ever stayed in a bad hotel

lucky, eh?
(harestylenumber1 loves weiner, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:43, Reply)

Crikey, I take it that no one here has ever been to ATP at Camber Sands...
I went to the one curated by Slint back in 2005. It made one think that perhaps Hitler had the wrong idea when he decided to gas the Jews. Instead he should have sent them all to Camber Sands to freeze to death in what can only be described as an Indie Concentration Camp. Mainly because;

a) It was the middle of fucking February
b) It was so cold there it should have been sponsored by a grinning cartoon figurine of someone suffering from acute hypothermia.

Our chalet apparently had central heating. If it had it then it was most certainly as mythical as a chinese unicorn because despite the pounds worth of electricity we kept pumping into the meter, the temperature didn't go above ball breakingly cold throughout the duration of the three days that we were there. And that's even before you got onto the fact that I went with one of my friends and his mental girlfriend who was trying to get impregnated by him against his will and Ex-Mr-Giro was staying right next door. Most nights saw me and my other female best friend putting on fifteen layers each, pushing our single beds together and huddling together for warmth. Which would make a really good porno film if we weren't both wearing duffle coats. It really says something when one of the highlights of a music festival is taking a massive amount of amphetamines to keep warm and then spending twelve hours hugging a radiator whilst your best mate refuses to come out of a cupboard because she's convinced it contains Narnia.

Still. Fucking great festival though...
(giro_playgirl is new here. Howdy., Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:33, 3 replies)

When working on contract in Brussels
I was working 5 days a week in Brussels, had a nice little hotel near the centre on a regular basis, all was going well until DHL decided to have a mass conference in the city.

I turned up on the monday night after work to check in, but was told they were fully booked - as they knew me they made a lot of effort ringing around and finally found me a place near Brussels Zuid railway station - the Hotel Paris I think it was called. And by god what a hell hole!

Now I have stayed in hotels of many grades and prices with little reason to complain, but this place was the most disgusting hole I had ever witnessed. The room was a bit grotty to say the least - blankets were courtesy of National Service circa 1950 - itchy as hell, but I am sure that the room had more guests in the way of fleas. Then on closer inspection I really got to notice the state of the place - the bed was propped up with a phone book, the towels were mouldy, the TV only emmitted a sort of sepia blur for a picture, and the phone was about 30 years old. But by far the most scary thing was the blood tracks up the wall all around the room where it was obviously used by Heroin addicts to use as a drugs den. The room was just pure filth, and I couldn't stay in there.

I went to the pub and was offered a place to stay but thought I would brave it out, but alas, by 5am I couldn't stand it any more - I felt like an OCD case keep scrathing and jumping at every noise.

The final straw was on leaving they had to unlock the door - the lock being a chisel rammed under the front glass door. Couldn't get away from that place fast enough
(Waynster James Joyce is fucking my sister!, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:31, Reply)

How I spent two nights in a brothel without really noticing and certainly without getting laid
Ecuador is a country that I have visited twice: once in 1995 as part of a school expedition after my A-levels finished, and once in 1997 alone, because I liked the country so much the first time around. This story takes place on the second trip. For background, it is worth knowing that, to attract attention, Ecuadorians whistle.

One hot, sultry afternoon, my bus pulled into the city of Guayaquil. Tired, and with nothing but an out-of-date Lonely Planet to guide me, I set off in search of a place to stay for a couple of nights. The first place I tried was no longer in business, but another hostel across the square also had a reasonable write-up, so I decided to try there. They were open and had a room. I attempted to negotiate a price in broken Spanish. The man behind the counter looked puzzled, but gave me a figure. It was slightly higher than I’d expected, but bearable. I agreed. He asked for the money up front. In retrospect, this should’ve been a warning, but I was young and exhausted, and I paid.

I was shown a room. The man warned me that I ought to be careful, because the lock on the door was… well, there was no lock on the door. I protested; he offered to go and fetch a padlock. (Note to travellers: always take a hefty padlock with you.) I waited, and, as I waited, I looked around the room. I had initially assumed that it was dark in there because the blinds were shut. In fact, it was because there was no window: the only source of illumination came from the fluorescent tube that intermittently flickered in the bathroom. “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “I don’t want to be here after all. I should get a refund and find somewhere else to stay.”

“Refund” was not a word in the manager’s vocabulary – but, after a protest, he agreed to give me a different room. This one had a window with a view over a square, and a lock on the door. The light worked, and there was air conditioning of a sort. Granted, there was a leak somewhere in the bathroom, but… well, what the heck. 48 hours and I’d be out of there, back in Quito.

I didn’t see much of the other residents of the pension, but that was fine by me. I think it was on the second evening, though, that I heard someone whistling outside my door. Wondering if it might be the manager wanting to see me, I opened it, to be confronted by an old man standing in the doorway of the room opposite, trying to attract the attention of someone down the hall. Behind him, I noticed that the bed was unmade. I apologised and shut the door. And then something occurred to me.

The man had been naked.

Half an hour later, when I went out to find a bar and a restaurant, the door opposite was still open. In the dusky light, the bed was quite clearly made. Of the occupant – of any occupant – there was no sign.

As the sun set over the Gulf of Guayaquil, the lights came on along the Pacific coast and a light also came on in my mind. The puzzlement of the manager when I asked for two nights was easily explicable when seen in the context of his more normal schedule of bookings by the hour. (Maybe he’d been a little intimidated, too, by my supposed sexual prowess: I was going to need two days?) The lack of lights in the first bedroom would not be too big a problem to many of those wanting to use it.

Still: the sheets were clean, and the clientele was quiet. Moreover, in the end, I’d wanted somewhere to sleep, and that’s what I got.

And that is how I spent two nights in a brothel without really noticing and certainly without getting laid.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 20:15, 5 replies)

Our family doesn't really go on holidays, which may be a good thing is past experiences are anything to go by.
But of the few holidays we do take, this one stands out as the worst:-

We decided to go to France, as a family. My mum, aunt, and I, along with my cousins, their 2 kids and their parents, 9 all told.

We booked up a nice sounding place, in the small village of Quineville. Sorry, did I say small village? I meant rat-infested shithole.

Turns out that we were staying in what used to be a monestary. The swimming pool was actually a pond (complete with fish!), the 'gym' was a large echoey, unpainted room with a broken skiing machine-thingy. The beds, rather than being the 6 doubles and 5 singles we were promised, were 9 singles. All of the mattresses were childs-bed sized, meaning there was a noticeable gap on the base of the bed, and more than one of us ended up on the floor. The floors were unsanded bare boards, and thick with grime and dust. The so-called 'facilities' consisted of a standard-sized washing machine which cost 5 Euros a time, and the windowsills were thick with flies. And I don't mean the odd one, I mean actually black with the fuckers. I don't want to think of the reason the were there.

Rubbish desposal consisted of the entire village dumping their black bags outside the doorway to the monastary, meaning it was rat-infested and stinking for the entire stay.

The only slightly uplifting point of the trip was when my cousin's father went into a shop and asked for some meat by shouting "UNE HAM BOCOUP!". Delboy couldn't have done it better!
This moment of fun was quickly quashed when I learnt we wouldn't be going to any of the historical WWII landing-sites, which was the entire fucking reason I came along (you may be able to tell I am a little bitter about that). My cousin's dad was also upset that we wouldn't be able to visit the cemetaries, as that was why he came along. We both got a major sulk on and spent most of the stay watching dogs shit on the beach nearby, and being kept awake by the church bell which was the other side of the road from our bedrooms.

The ferry back was lovely, and it was obviously meant for long boat tours, as it has cinemas, restaurants, swimming pools and nice looking rooms. We couldn't use any of them, but I had more fun poking about on that boat than I did in the 2 weeks in France.

I think the Germans could've done a better job of running the place if given half a chance.
( OneSullenBrit *air sandwiches*, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:59, Reply)

Armitage Shanks? More like fucking Tupperware!
London, 2006, Duke of Edinburgh Award 50th Anniversary.

I'm there looking after a disabled guy, we check him into his hotel room. The reviews of this hotel were less than shining but we'd been sorted out, and the DoE folks were paying.

His room was niiiiiiice. Huge, Tv, safe, ensuite, double bed, air conditioning, ceiling fan, wardobe etc.

Mine on the other hand was terrible. It was about the size of a matchbox and contained not one, but two single beds. The air con was actually a window that opened about half an inch so it was hotter than hell. The bathroom was like nothing I'd seen in my life... or imagined in my darkest of nightmares.

It was made entirely of plastic in what could only be called 'yeast grey'. It was kinda built into the room like it was put in as an afterthought. Maybe 2.5m long by 1 deep. It had all the usual bathroom things in it though. Toilet in yeast grey plastic, sink in yeast grey plastic, 'shower' in yeast grey plastic. The only thing that wasn't grey was the mirror.

It was the first time I've ever been able to sit on the bog, have a shower and brush my teeth all at the same time. Everything got soaked when the shower was on because the water was coming out at a pressure that Karcher would be proud of. It was like being pissed on by the Devil.

Finally, closing the door was pretty much like sealing yourself into a Tupperware box.
( SubCulture Hero ... ... He... .... Comes ... ...., Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:57, 2 replies)

The Drop Inn
Stayed at a ho t vel in Manchester near the curry mile called The Drop Inn in about 2002 with the band I was with at the time. Highlights include having to share a double bed with the very smelly drummer on sheets which clearly hadn't been washed since their last use, and being woken up around 4am by the fire alarm - they didn't let us back in for 2 hours. Oh, and watching a constant flow of ants in and out of a hole in the ceiling.
( Gobfrey Shrdlu put his plans for world domination into effect on, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:42, Reply)

Trinidad: 1986
I have an aunt who used to live in Barbados. As a celebration of me finishing my exams, me, my mum and my sister went to visit her. For some reason, we could not get a direct flight, so had to stop in Trinidad overnight.

So, we arrived in Trinidad. Got out of the airport. Had to fight with our luggage to the Taxi rank. Got in a cab.

My mum told the driver where we were staying, and he demanded a small fortune for a fare upfront. Mum, not knowing any better, paid and we drove off, expecting to be on the road a while.

300 metres later, we pull up outside the hotel, which is at the other end of the runway. Go to our room. The room was air conditioned, but the noise of the air conditioner (which we couldn't turn off) was slightly excessive, especially when combined with the noise of Jets landing and taking off.

None of us slept. Eventually, around 7am, we all rose, feeling knackered and went back to the airport to board our connecting flight.
(Ok, I'll get me coat, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:32, Reply)

Kos: 2001
This hotel wasn't actually bad compared to some..

A couple of mates and I went to Kos for a holiday. Three guys, one girl. I shared with one on my mates, and the other mate shared with his then fiance.

First, our room had a wierd smell, that was bearable if you kept a window open (we were advised not to do this because of possible theft - people routinely climbed up the front of the hotel and into the rooms).

Second: Temperature. The room had no fan, or air conditioning. So, the temperature was bearable if you kept a window open, but barely otherwise.

Third: The door lock. This broke three times in two weeks. The hotel tried to blame us, but all we did was stick the key in and turn it.

Fourth: The hot water system didn't work for 8 of our 14 days. So: cold showers only, and we couldn't do any clothes washing (even with deodorant, the amount we were all sweating meant we got through an awful lot of clothes).

Fifth: Breakfast, Stale rolls, jam and stewed tea doesn't make a good breakfast. Still, we found a lot of lovely restaurants, one of which actually did an excellent full english.

Good points? Nice pool. Met a lovely lady (who I didn't see after the holiday). The hotel barman didn't like to see guests leaving the bar, so would happily GIVE you schnapps all night. Ok, so the last bit was good while it lasted, but I had one mother of a hangover after.
(Ok, I'll get me coat, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:25, Reply)

Havana
Spent 2 nights in a seemingly nice hotel in Havana. got back to the hotel tired and ready for a sleep. First thing i noticed was the heat. The room was hot enough to cook, and worst of all the air conditioning. We turned it on to hear a loud reassuring whuur followed by a loud clank and smoke. The hotel staff being nice enough people removed the faulty machine leaving us with a nice big hole in the wall. So no aircon and a great big hole in the wall. This was in central Havana as well so there was a lot of noise, a man laughing thought the night and what appeared to be a drug deal going on my the entrance. I finally get some sleep only to be awakened by the sound of falling ceiling. We flew to a nice little island next day with a minor scratch.
(Staple Sauce, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:18, Reply)

Dublin
Stayed in a youth hostel in Dublin a few years ago, the showers smelt of wee and my sleep wasn't helped by the fact that there was a full ladies' hockey team in the dorm next door who sounded like they were practicing for a match at 3am!
(drfeck pissshitfuck, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:15, Reply)

France's finest
About 10 years back I decided to go touring France on my bike with a friend. Armed with a les routiers guide from WH Smiths we headed down to a five star place south of Brest. "An exeptional traditional property with rustic charm and offering a taste of the real France. ***** Highly recommended". The restaurant was rated very highly and the place had en-suites and TV in every room to boot. Sorted.

It was obvious things weren't going according to plan when we passed a dirty brown sofa with a spring pushing through on the landing with an old black and white TV above it. That was the "TV lounge". The room was flea bitten, there was no running water and the bog had a huge lump of polystyrene in it with "Ferme" written on. If we weren't so wasted from 6 hours blasing through the French countryside in the rain that would have been it but we decided to dry out and try the restaurant.

Not speaking da lingo too well I ordered what I thought was something with toast from the menu. I looked at the other diners and watched as this guy cut a slice of brown shit from a plate offered by the waiter, licked the knife clean and put it back on the plate. "Messuer, eer eez your pig pate", he said, passing me the plate and knife.

Holding back the barf I pretended to need the toilet, or as it is known in France, the shit stained hole in the ground in the corner of the bathroom with marks where to squat.

Fortunately I was still clad in the bike gear and we high tailed it back to the ferry. My mate was shitting himself that the gendarmes would be waiting for us there as he hadn't paid for the meal or the room.

Bon apetite.
(Mong The Merciless Older not wiser, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:07, Reply)

Tampa, FL
We had a family gathering in Tampa, FL. In our room, I was the first to use the shower when we arrived, and I found that my towel had a long, wide streak of blood on it. I noticed this once I was about halfway dried off. And it was NOT my blood!

My wife's cousin used the bathroom sink in her room, and the faucet handle fell off in her hand.

When it was time for my wife's parents and grandparents to check out, the elevator was broken. My wife's late-80s frail grandparents were on the 5th floor. The hotel staff were in no way apologetic about the fact that they thus had to walk down all those stairs (difficult at that age!). Everyone under 50 was out somewhere, so this also meant that my father-in-law (who had very bad knees which he just recently had surgery on) had to carry all 4 people's luggage down by hand.

I realize the staff couldn't snap their fingers and make the elevator be fixed, but a simple "sorry about that!" or "we'll have an employee carry your luggage down the stairs, sir!" would have been nice.
(chase, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:05, Reply)

The list is long and varied
I spent a night in a little B&B in the town in Wales where my family live.

A member of my extended family was tying the knot on a September Saturday morning, and every room/sofa and floor of every other member of our family was heaving with occupants. I really couldn't face a night in the local pub's rooms, not with my 2 children, and so it was decided that we would try a new B&B which was fairly near the wedding venue.

After the customary 4 hour drive to Wales with 2 children in the back with plastic bags on their laps, and a mother in the passenger seat shrieking every time a car in front of changed into our lane, we arrived at our place of rest. I was feeling frazzled and parked the car in the gravelly alley which ran adjacent to the house, and my mum scurried into the B&B to find out where we could park. She emerged with a big man with little glasses and a large voice who told me to carry on down the gravel path and take the first left. "Watch out, it's a tad steep" he boomed. As I turned into the entrance I felt the car teeter for a couple of seconds before it fell off the end of a mini cliff. God knows what the gradient was but the engine was crying like a girl, and I'm sure my exhaust pipe said "What the FUCK?". I parked the car, unplugged the children from their PSP's and dragged our cases back up the cliff and into the house. All while the big booming man stood with his arms crossed and a rueful smile on his fat face. Then he started speaking, "The house has a great history you know...(history of house for the last 100 years)...I'll show you to your room...Here's the key..*hands us the largest iron key in the history of the world*...HAHAHA, you won't steal that will you? HAHAHA...A big key has a big keyhole, be careful no one peeks through ladies! *winks*.. HAHAHA...*opens door*..some have said this room is haunted! HAHAHA" this is in from of my 2 kids incidentally and they have started to eye me suspiciously. I try for a reassuring smile and only manage a frightened grimace.

We manage after 15 minutes to shoo him from the room - which was actually very large and had a little adjoining room with a little passageway running between them. It was perfect, my mother and I in one part and the kids in the other, I could see them from my bed. The only problem was that they absolutely refused to sleep in there. I put them to bed and after an hour, my youngest son started talking obsessively about the door in the room which led nowhere. "There’s someone in there mum" this was repeated about 20 times and I started to get a bit freaked out. SO I swapped beds with him. After about an hour, I started wondering where the door led. After another 20 minutes I had to put the light back on and read. I kept hearing footsteps and felt very very uneasy.

I awoke the next morning feeling unrested and generally strange. We headed down to breakfast. There was the big strange man again. He seated us at the main table with a little old polish man, who, after perfunctory introductions, offered to heal my mothers’ broken wrist by channelling the Lord God. The fat, creepy owner stood at the head of our table for our entire meal, arms crossed, chatting about peculiar stuff and then he got onto the subject of the attic. "Oh yeah" he shouted at us as we shovelled eggs down our necks as fast as we could, just to escape "We found loads of Victorian clothing in the attic, one night I put on a top hat and talcum powder on my face and I let myself into the room of a couple of old ladies who were staying here! They woke up and I was looming over them like a ghost" He chuckled "Scream? You never heard such screaming!"

I fixed him with a steely look (this is a lie, I quailed and stammered) and said "Well, we've got to leave in a minute for the wedding, and I've just received a call from my Nan to say we can stay there, so we won't be needing the extra night, thanks"

I have never eaten so fast, got dressed so quickly or packed a bag with such haste. I didn’t care if we had to sleep in the CAR there was no way we were staying there. In the end we cadged a floor of a friend of the family, and I drove back to London like a zombie.

Length? I do not want to know.
( my_cat_has_no_shoes meh meh meh MEH MEH, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:57, 2 replies)

My son wanted to go to the Virgin Fest.
Virgin Records, that is. Held in Baltimore this summer, two days of music featuring the Police and Smashing Pumpkins among others.

I told him to research hotels in the area, and he found a few that were on the Virgin Fest website that were cheap. I told him to go ahead and book one, that my girlfriend and I would go up there with him and his friend Ben- not that we were going to the concert with them, but that we would be nearby in case of emergency.

We found it, all right- nestled behind a car battery shop. We checked in with the Indian woman at the front desk who told us in very heavily accented and somewhat broken English to drive around to the back of the building, and gave us a room on the second floor.

The pavement of the parking lot was cracked and had major craters in it. Along the trash-strewn edges of the parking lot there were vegetable patches planted- obviously a major source of food for the hotel owners. We passed by the rusted trash bin, bumped our way down to our parking spot, and climbed up the outside steel staircase which has holes rusted through large enough to put my entire foot through.

The room smelled a bit stale, but the bedding seemed to be reasonably clean. The mattresses were as soft as pressure treated lumber, but the TV worked well. The bathroom wallpaper was coming down and had been repaired with transparent tape, and had graffiti over the toilet. Outside of the bathroom was the sink in the middle of a counter- and the counter was cracked at the front of the sink, where clearly someone very large had sat on the edge. I tried to blot out the images of Norma Stitz that flooded my brain, with little success.

My son arrived just after I did, and entered the room with a look of oh-shit-what-did-I-do. I smiled and mentioned a few of these things that I've described above, and he looked increasingly apprehensive. "Ummm... I'm not going to live this one down, am I?"

I burst out laughing and assured him that it was fine for the one day, as I had been the one to tell him to get us all one cheap room, and he looked very relieved- until I wondered aloud about the used Band Aid I found stuck to the top of one of the bedspreads.

It was, at any rate, an unforgettable weekend.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:57, Reply)

Mickey Discount
I stayed in a hotel in New Orleans. It was an old building. Whilst trying to sleep I heard a tiny noise, a kind of scrabbling. Damn, I think, those are some big roaches. I turned on the light, but alas they were not roaches. They were mice, three of them, and the little bastards were eating my pretzals. Luckily I had my digital camera and took a picture. When I left, I showed the photos of the three mice at the front desk. Oh, they say, how about a Mickey discount? It makes me wonder how many times that had happened before.
(evil_penguin_17 Robots of Doom... Attack!, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:55, Reply)

Somewhere in London (apologies for length)
I suppose I should have guessed that this would be slightly less than perfect when I boarded the taxi at Euston, told the driver where I was headed, and received the reply “Where?” For once, The Knowledge had seemingly deserted my driver… either that, or this hotel was eminently forgettable. It was, however, nothing of the sort.

It was snowing when I arrived, and Christmas Eve was four days away. I stepped from the taxi and walked towards the attractive terrace filled with high hopes. As I stepped through the narrow front door, struggling with my collection of holdalls and boxes, I saw a slightly shoddy reception area, and a pair of eyes and a forehead peering at me over the reception desk.

“Hi. I’ve got a reservation in the name of (my name),” I announced.

“I know,” replied the forehead. “Fill this in.” And with that, he handed me a tiny square of paper bearing three blank spaces labelled Name, Address, and Nationality. I filled it in and, after glancing over my details, the receptionist handed me the customary six-inch long key fob, telling me that I was in room 501 (or something like that). Not wanting to struggle up the stairs I asked where the lift was, only to be told that they didn’t have one. I asked if somebody could help me with my bags, but nobody was free. So I struggled up the stairs alone, noticing that each landing had its own Coca-Cola vending machine. A nice touch.

I reached the top floor, looked around, and saw that every door number started with a 4, indicating that I was on the fourth floor. There were, however, no more stairs to climb, so where was my room? I noticed a small alcove and, looking into it, I saw a narrow staircase, each step sagged through use over the years. The stairs were all of two feet wide, and I feared that this was merely a roof access ladder, so abandoning my luggage for a moment I climbed the stairs, finding my room and others at the top. I unlocked the door, switched the lights on, noticed a loud growling sound and a flashing light, then collected my belongings and went to settle in.

The flashing light was, it transpired, my bedside lamp, which was actually a fluorescent tube – unshielded – which had been screwed to the headboard. The tube was also on the verge of expiring, and was flickering slightly, but just enough to be noticeable and bring on either migraine or epilepsy. As for the growling noise, I found that it came from the bathroom. I opened the door, stepped inside, and realised that it was coming from the extractor fan, the cover of which was rattling noisily as a screw was missing from its underside. I turned the light out, waited about fifteen minutes for the fan to switch itself off, then removed the cover and put the light back on again. The fan whirred quietly, but it seemed to be encased in a large cube of fluff which it had accumulated, chunks of which were dropping onto the floor. Quickly I turned the light back off, put the cover back on as soon as the fan had stopped, and resolved to shower in the dark, an experience which made bathing somewhat like being a member of the cast of “Das Boot.”

As for the rest of the bedroom, it was ferociously hot and L-shaped, a narrow passage leading from the door before turning to the right. The bed more or less filled the main part of the room, a gap of around twelve inches between its clear side – the other side being pushed hard against the opposite wall – and the wall, and at its foot stood a dressing table and a wardrobe. The wardrobe had a hinged door, but as the gap between the door and the end of the bed was around eight inches in total, it couldn’t actually be opened fully, and so to make use of the wardrobe you had to put your clothes onto a hanger, hold them flat against the outside of the wardrobe, and then slide them into the gap before twisting your hand and attempting to find the hidden rail.

Upon the dressing table there was a television, and a small card standing on its top told me that one of its channels was “Sky.” Not knowing which Sky channel this was, I switched the set on and saw that it was one of the movie channels, so I left this on as I attempted to unpack. After a few minutes, however, the film became a cricket match, and I realised that the hotel had a single Sky box, and this was controlled by the man sitting at the reception desk, so whatever he watched was beamed into every room. Not being a cricket fan, I switched the set off, went to the toilet in the dark, and then went to bed…

…and promptly fell out of it. Because of the shape of the room, previous guests had been forced to get into the bed in a single place and, as time went by, this spot on the mattress sagged, so when you lay in the bed your backside was significantly lower than the rest of your body. In addition, for reasons unknown, the side of the bed away from the outside wall also appeared to be lower than the other, and as a result I had to lie in the bed on my left side, my hands hooked over the opposite edge of the mattress in order to stop myself rolling out. I took one last look out of the window at the snow falling over London, gripped the mattress, and settled down to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning I discovered that the bed was wet. I looked around, wondering if the room was raining in, even if I had wet myself, but neither was the case. The external wall of the room was coated in white gloss paint, and was a Dorma-style extension, against which the bed was positioned. As the temperature inside the room was so much greater than the world outside, condensation had formed on the wall during the night, trickled down the painted surface, and soaked the bed through. I leapt from the bed, had a shower in the dark, dressed, and went to breakfast.

“Morning,” said the man on the reception desk, but as I was half-way down the stairs and out of his sight. How did he know I was there? It was simple, really: he had positioned a mirror at the foot of the stairs, angled such that he could see people coming down. I walked into the reception, feeling a little nervous, and proceeded to look for my breakfast.

“You looking for breakfast?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s down here,” he replied, pointing behind the counter. I half expected him to hand me a plate of toast and some cereal, but when I looked over the desk I saw a trap door, a wooden staircase leading into the cellar.

“You’re joking…” I gasped. He shook his head. Deciding to humour him, I slowly descended. As I was half way down, I heard him lift the telephone and dial a number.

“He’s on his way,” he said, and quickly replaced the receiver. Instantly I had visions of a masked lunatic waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a cricket bat held in his raised arms, ready to swing at his latest gullible victim.

I found myself in a small room, a tiny window allowing a little light to enter, illuminating the motes of dust which hung in the air. Each table in the room had a glass of orange juice waiting, and a bowl of cereal, the milk already poured. I sat down, wondering a) why I was alone, and b) why I was there at all.

Moments later, a slightly mad-looking woman approached. “Yes?” she asked, not blinking.

“Breakfast?” I replied.

“Yes?” she repeated.

“Cereal?” I asked.

“There’s some there,” she said, pointing to the bowl before me.

“Can I have some without the milk already on them?”

“Why?”

I decided that an alternative plan was necessary.

“Tea and toast?” I asked.

“And?” she replied.

“That’s it.”

“No cooked breakfast?” she said, frowning, a baffled expression on her face.

“No thanks.”

“Oh.” And with a suspicious look, she scurried off to the kitchen. A few second passed, before I heard muttering and, as I looked up, I saw a few faces peer around the kitchen door, seemingly wanting to see the mysterious guest who didn’t want a cooked breakfast. Eventually, my toast came, and after picking at it, I left.
(nasalhair The Twix guy!, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:53, 1 reply)

I used to work for the Hilton
as a chambermaid. For the longest 3 years of my life.

And believe me, its not worth the money you will pay for those rooms.

I could tell a few stories of the terrible and weird things I found left by guests. Like the box of dildos under the bed, or the wad of £500 in tenners, or the blood/sick/piss soup someone decided to leave all over the bathroom, or the approx 200 suspicious tissues all over one honeymoon suite after one night...

So you may complain about some bad places, and a lot of them are, but spare a thought for what the poor staff will find once you've gone out. Or you may end up with the delux clean;

This will involve the chambermaids eating the little packets of biscuits while they sit on your bed they just straitened the same old sheets out over, watching your tv, then spray a mist of air freshener and fold over the corners of the loo roll.

As a rule we were hard working, and appologies to any chambermaids who make more of an effort than that, it was just common practice at the Hilton in Newbury!
( TheGirlWithNoName, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:52, 1 reply)

Amsterdam
A old colleague of mine (Hey Devasa!) went on a stag weekend to Amsterdam, presumably to explore the labyrinth of canals, look at diamonds and soak in the fine art at the Van Gogh museum.

Upon waking up the next morning after a night of low-country excess, he opens to the curtains of a cheap hotel room to see a fountain shaped like a cock, with rotating balls sat in the motel grounds.

When I make my first million, I'm having one just like it built in the grounds of my country house.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:52, 4 replies)