We’ve just left one of the worst hotels that we’ve ever stayed at, and The Young’uns have been gigging for nearly fifteen years and in that time we’ve certainly stayed in some dire places. We once stayed somewhere in Norwich that had a communal toilet which also doubled up as the smoking room. By this I don’t mean that the people staying there chose to flaunt the rules and smoke in the toilet; there was actually a sign on the door saying, “toilet and smoking room.” This toilet/smoking room was stiflingly hot with a rotating fan that blew out heat, meaning that as soon as you opened the door you were assaulted by an overpowering cocktail of smoke and shit being blown in your face and around the room at speed. It’s one of the only times I can claim to have taken a crap which had a positive influence on the ambient smell.
This particular hotel was located in Connecticut. The Young’uns are currently on the second week of our two week US tour. Alarm bells started ringing as soon as we pulled into the car park. Actually it was less bells and more sirens, as a police car and ambulance zoomed in front of us and parked directly outside the hotel. By the time we’d got out of the car and unpacked, the ambulance and police car were speeding away, and we hadn’t observed the reason for their being here. However, we did later find out, and that revelation will come in the next-but-one paragraph, so keep reading. I’m aware that it’s a really weird, dramatic time at the moment and that you, like me, are probably refreshing the news every few minutes to see what new craziness is unfolding, so I thought it best to put in a cliffhanger to try and keep your attention.
As we got nearer to the hotel we began to seriously question our choice of accommodation. The building and surroundings looked very dilapidated and crumbling. But our parents’ had always taught us not to judge on outside appearances (something which is obviously comparatively easier for me, being blind). But none of our parents had ever experienced this particular Connecticut hotel. But it was 2 in the morning, and the hotel had already been paid for, and so, with some trepidation, we entered.
As the rather menacing looking and sounding receptionist handed us our keys, we tentatively inquired as to the presence of the police and ambulance vehicles. The receptionist informed us, belying no trace of concern or compassion in his voice, that someone had been beaten up in one of the bedrooms and had just been carried out of the hotel in a stretcher. The receptionist must have registered the look of concern and surprise on our faces, and so added, “oh, no worries, it happens all the time here,” which I think was somehow meant to act as a statement of placation and reassurance. Perhaps he took our concerned expressions to be dismay that we had missed the action, and he was trying to appease our disappointment with the news that we’d probably get to see another violent assault during our stay.
We took the lift, which juddered and creaked in a very disconcerting manner. As we made our way to our room, we wondered whether, given the receptionists statement that physical assaults happen here all the time, this beating up was an altercation between two people who were connected, or whether the hotel has a resident beater-upper who does the rounds. I reasoned that being disabled, I should technically be in the bed furthest from the door, as I would surely be less quick and able to respond to an attack and protect myself, or for that matter the other two. It just made sense that the stronger members should defend the pack.
Despite the really hot room and the uncomfortable nature of the bed, as well as the looming threat of violence, we were so tired that we fell asleep immediately. We were woken at 8am by a thudding on our door. “House keeping,” came a gruff voice. We answered that we were fine, thank you, although upon opening our eyes, the morning light brought into focus the myriad of stains and blemishes that had been unseen the night before. The room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for months. Perhaps it hadn’t. Maybe the housekeeping guy deliberately knocks on the doors ridiculously early, knowing that most people will say they are fine, leaving him to clock off before 9. However, another thought suddenly occurred to me. What if he wasn’t the housekeeper? What if he was the resident beater-upper who lures people into opening the door to him, thinking that they’re being knocked for a clean, when in reality they’re about to be knocked clean out. Fortunately, the man shuffled away and tried his luck at another door.
Sean was convinced that he’d been bitten by bed bugs. The shower refused to shower, unless you consider the term “shower” a valid word to describe an intermittent single drip of scalding water about every ten seconds. Of course we didn’t complain. We didn’t want to incur the wrath of the resident beater-upper.
This morning we’re heading to do a radio interview on WGBH. All the radio stations around here start with a W (it’s a legal thing), so ignoring the perfunctory first letter, this station is essentially named GBH. I don’t know if this translates in the US, but in the UK GBH stands for Grievous Bodily Harm. Surely this can’t be a radio station dedicated to physical assault and violent crime? Perhaps the hotel’s resident beater-upper also hosts a show on their; maybe presenting a run down of his favourite physical assaults that he’s carried out the previous night, interspersed with a “better variety of feel-good music”, because he understands the importance of having light and shade. We’re a bit concerned about this interview. We’ve just reread the email that the station sent us and they wrote that they hoped they’d be able to twist our arms and get us to sing a few songs.
This is the problem with digital radio and TV. You end up having too many stations and they just get more and more niche to the point that they’re creating a radio station dedicated to physical violence. In fairness to the station, their music is top notch, but then again, as their jingles proudly proclaim: “GBH, it’s just hit after hit.” But whilst they principally deal with the hits, they also feature quite a lot of thrash.
The station, however, seems to be doing really well. The latest ratings figures put them at number one, although I suppose it’s inevitable that they beat their competition.
We’ve currently got WGBH on in the car. They’ve just played R.E.M Everybody Hurts. Before that it was Frank Sinatra’s “I get a kick out of you.” They’re now playing that song about the woman whose attempting to clean herself after committing a violent, gory crime on some poor bloke. As gruesome as the subject matter may be, it’s got one hell of a catchy chorus, and as the song plays, the three of us can’t help but join in singing: “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair.”
The final bars of the song fade out and the start of the advert announces: “have you been in an accident that wasn’t your fault? Call big Terry and the lads and we’ll deal with it.”
Back next week, assuming that we survive WGBH.
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On Saturday 31st August I’m back supporting Comedian and comedy songwriter Boothby Graffoe in Bristol. Tickets here. When you order, if you mention to a member of staff that David Eagle sent you, then you’ll receive complete indifference.
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