New face of Travelodge

Mr T Lodge I await your feedback

I hate spiders

Well hello,

Today I’m going to have to take back a lot of things I have said previously, and tell you that the Travelodge on Upton Way is a wonderful place full of light and laughter and staffed by giants among men and women.

As I was packing to escape my Lodge on Thursday I crossed paths with a gigantic spider who had taken up residence in my dirty laundry (which I was carefully keeping in a heap on the floor). God alone knows how long it had been there, watching me sleep, watching me shower, touching itself with its eight revolting legs.

I tried spraying it with hairspray, cause I thought this might slow it down. It just made it run around fast. I briefly considered lighting the stream of hairspray, but then I thought “No, no, then I will just burn to death.” However allowing it a free run of my room was not an option so eventually I told it to stand still and went off to get the lass from reception to deal with it. Surprisingly enough, she was well up for it.

Obviously when we returned to my room the beast had not listened to me and sloped off to hide in my pants. Fortunately Ms Reception very gamely went through my pants and hunted it down while I leapt about shrieking and, I’m ashamed to say, put a towel over my head to avoid seeing anything that might distress me further.

So you see some Travelodges are not all bad.

Spiders though, they are bad. I hate spiders. I don’t really understand why we have to have them. And I’m not buying this eating flies business either. Flies don’t bother me, and they certainly don’t scare the shit out of me and make me put a towel on my head.

Please don’t tell me that some spiders are good. They aren’t. Especially this one. It was a total prick and a waste of chitin.

Love Patchouli

This week sees me back where I belong, in my ecological niche on the A45. Plus I have not one but TWO Gideon bibles – one being the one I stole from Westone Manor last week. So I’m planning to have a full on meltdown this evening and wandering the corridors wearing a towel and a shower cap and reading aloud from St Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. Then I may sit in reception for bit offering to heal lepers and trying to magic the sweeties out of the vending machine, before popping down the canal for a spot of walking on water. I think it might provide a bit of much needed good PR for Christianity after the book burning loonies of Utah have been hogging the lime light. We need to hark back to a time when religious zealots were a bunch of harmless eccentrics.

As you can see, living in a Travelodge is causing not inconsiderable damage to my mental state. In fact, I don’t think I am going to be doing it much longer. You know when you see articles in lifestyle magazines about people who gave up their six figure salaries to sell patchouli door to door, and you think “why the fuck did you do that then, you prick?”? Well let me tell you, these people probably had to spend weekdays in Travelodges and after a month of that being a patchouli salesperson seems quite appealing. If any lifestyle magazines want to interview me, I will be happy to explain exactly how and why living in a Travelodge sucks cock and likes it.

I’m wondering if I am in spectacularly the wrong job, or if everyone spends their working days having violent fantasies and setting elaborate traps for other users of the shared kitchen. Perhaps the office environment simply isn’t for me. Perhaps I’d be happier with something outside, door to door maybe. Possibly involving patchouli.

Commandment breakage

Morning,

This morning a thick blanket of fog as settled snugly over the town of Northampton, making it look about a millions times better on account of being invisible.

I’ve just woken up from a complicated dream in which my trainers wouldn’t start. I spent the first few minutes after waking wondering how on earth I was going to get back to Dorset if my trainers wouldn’t start. Plus in my efforts to start them (by pulling the laces) I’d made the knot so tight it could only be undone by microscopic needles.

So ends my week in Westone Manor. A hotel in which one of my work colleagues got married! I’ve yet to ask him if he thinks this has anything to do with his now divorced status.

Anyway, I did a bit of a bad thing: I eventually found the Giddeon Bible in my room last night, and, well, I kind of stole it. I really want to read Leviticus you see, and its abhorrent and sickening views on homosexuality. I’m not sure if breaking one of the ten commandments is mitigated by actively seeking out this hilarious and bigoted word of god (Or rather man pretending to be god, I don’t think we can blame the bible on god).

Why would the Gideons place bibles in hotel rooms if they didn’t want people to read them? And you know what happens when you get into a book, you can’t just leave it behind! I think the Gids wanted me to steal the bible. I also suspect they want me to murder and to covert my neighbours oxen.