I stayed at the Merchant City Inn in Glasgow last week. I had had a harrowing day at the office as usual and I walked a mile and a half to the hotel in searing heat with a back-pack that weighed about the same as a large dog. The receptionist was foreign and humourless. He gave me a key with a brick attached to it and said ‘Room 404 – third floor.’ There was no lift. The building dates back to about 25 B.C., so there was only a circular stone staircase.
I climbed 87 steps in all. I was quite dizzy and breathless when I reached the room. It was supposed to be a double, but even an Inuit would have felt a little cramped. The bathroom door opened out about halfway and then hit the foot of one of the two single beds. Getting into the bathroom was like going through one of the turnstiles at St James’ Park. There was no carpet on the floor, just bare boards. The last time I stood on bare boards was in the main hall at school, listening to a stream of vituperation levelled against me, some of it justified, from the quite mad assistant headmaster, Mr WA Brown.
The furniture was old, and clapped-out. I doubt if War on Want would have even found a place for it. I looked out of the only window, through which a narrow shaft of light had pierced the stygian gloom. There seemed to be some sort of public house opposite – at least I could see the knees of some people as they sat apparently enjoying a drink on the ground floor of the establishment.
I unpacked, wrestling with those ludicrous coat-hangers that fit through little slots attached to the cupboard ceiling, which need a huge amount of twisting and turning to release themselves and you are lucky if you escape without blood on your fingers.
I noticed there was an iron and an ironing board, so I prepared to press my suit trousers. The ironing board was so flimsy it rocked about like a stick-insect in the wind. When I put pressure on it with the iron, the board collapsed like a stricken camel, so I threw the whole lot back in the cupboard and went out for a wander.
I explored Glasgow Cross and Glasgow Green, marvelling at the Winter Gardens, the People’s Palace, the largest terra-cotta fountain in the world and the giant factory across the Clyde that seemed to be belching all sorts of noxious substances into the atmosphere. I returned, quite buoyed. It didn’t last. I slept quite soundly, until 3 a.m. At that point, my sleep was shattered by a huge cacophony of noise. There was such a whooping and a hollering, I thought a bunch of native Americans had burst into my room. I had a window open because of the heat (the only air conditioning was the cold tap), and it turned out the pub opposite was a night club, and that the revellers had just been turfed out onto the street, whereby they all went berserk for forty minutes. That was the end of my sleep for the night.
The next morning, I went down to breakfast, in the basement. The exuberant chef kept calling his customers ‘mate’ and ‘buddy’ which might have been appropriate at seven at night, but surely not seven in the morning. Certainly the little Japanese chap picking at his continental breakfast and wishing it was rice and miso soup was clearly discomfited by being addressed thus.
At least the breakfast was hot, edible and cheering, unlike some of the others I have consumed in the places I have stayed since my sojourn here began. Whether I can stick this till next February is anybody’s guess.
I climbed 87 steps in all. I was quite dizzy and breathless when I reached the room. It was supposed to be a double, but even an Inuit would have felt a little cramped. The bathroom door opened out about halfway and then hit the foot of one of the two single beds. Getting into the bathroom was like going through one of the turnstiles at St James’ Park. There was no carpet on the floor, just bare boards. The last time I stood on bare boards was in the main hall at school, listening to a stream of vituperation levelled against me, some of it justified, from the quite mad assistant headmaster, Mr WA Brown.
The furniture was old, and clapped-out. I doubt if War on Want would have even found a place for it. I looked out of the only window, through which a narrow shaft of light had pierced the stygian gloom. There seemed to be some sort of public house opposite – at least I could see the knees of some people as they sat apparently enjoying a drink on the ground floor of the establishment.
I unpacked, wrestling with those ludicrous coat-hangers that fit through little slots attached to the cupboard ceiling, which need a huge amount of twisting and turning to release themselves and you are lucky if you escape without blood on your fingers.
I noticed there was an iron and an ironing board, so I prepared to press my suit trousers. The ironing board was so flimsy it rocked about like a stick-insect in the wind. When I put pressure on it with the iron, the board collapsed like a stricken camel, so I threw the whole lot back in the cupboard and went out for a wander.
I explored Glasgow Cross and Glasgow Green, marvelling at the Winter Gardens, the People’s Palace, the largest terra-cotta fountain in the world and the giant factory across the Clyde that seemed to be belching all sorts of noxious substances into the atmosphere. I returned, quite buoyed. It didn’t last. I slept quite soundly, until 3 a.m. At that point, my sleep was shattered by a huge cacophony of noise. There was such a whooping and a hollering, I thought a bunch of native Americans had burst into my room. I had a window open because of the heat (the only air conditioning was the cold tap), and it turned out the pub opposite was a night club, and that the revellers had just been turfed out onto the street, whereby they all went berserk for forty minutes. That was the end of my sleep for the night.
The next morning, I went down to breakfast, in the basement. The exuberant chef kept calling his customers ‘mate’ and ‘buddy’ which might have been appropriate at seven at night, but surely not seven in the morning. Certainly the little Japanese chap picking at his continental breakfast and wishing it was rice and miso soup was clearly discomfited by being addressed thus.
At least the breakfast was hot, edible and cheering, unlike some of the others I have consumed in the places I have stayed since my sojourn here began. Whether I can stick this till next February is anybody’s guess.
