The whisky is the sixth release from Balvenie’s eponymous marrying tun.
The guitar on the wall was unnecessary. It’s not that I want to moan. Perhaps it’s because I spend a considerable part of my life in hotels that I’ve become (over-)sensitive to their design.
Take the other weekend. Between Friday and Monday I was residing in an achingly hip one in Shoreditch, where my room was stuffed with suitably ironic touches. A pencil sharpener attached to the wall? Yes, of course I used it.
It has to be said that the room was rather lovely and tried to make you feel as if you were, if not at home, then a guest at someone else’s, perhaps the new hipster mate you ran into at Callooh Callay the night before and who had offered you a bed when you realised you'd missed the last train home (does that sort of thing still happen?).
Anyway, I felt comfortable – which is what hotels are about. Apart from the guitar, perhaps.
I mean, the last thing you want in a hotel is everyone serenading themselves, or trying to impress their partner with Smoke on the Water or, even worse, seeing that guitar as a symbol of their inadequacy.
‘Oh, can you play?’
‘Er... well… no.’
End of budding relationship.
Still, there was a kettle. I need a kettle. I get grumpy without my tea (and I mean my tea). It also had an iron. I get grumpy if there isn’t one of those either. Iron over guitar every time. Kettle over iron. It’s the way I roll.
The guitar was an example of how hotel designers over-think rooms. There was the central London hotel which had an electric guitar – and amp – in the room (double inadequacy, double irritation as Smoke on the Water echoes from 50 bedrooms).
There was, however, no kettle. Or iron, come to think of it. Maybe the thinking was that no-one who plays an electric guitar would ever need to have a pressed shirt… or a hot drink. I’m sure Robert Fripp would.
There was another east London establishment which had a hot water bottle on the bed. A lovely, quirky thought that made me feel all fuzzy.
There was, however, no kettle, meaning the only way you could try and force hot water into the bottle was via the espresso machine in the corridor.
Of course there was an espresso machine in the corridor! Hipsters don’t drink tea. The result was that I was insanely grumpy.
Impeccably turned-out: the neatly ironed Mr Fripp (Photo: Sean Coon)
Over-thinking might not be the worst aspect of modern life, but it is symptomatic of the way in which ‘irony’ (which in this case is, for once, truly ironic as there are so few irons) has replaced any form of deeper thinking.
The surface is all, the instant, unthinking reaction is all that matters. There is no need to sit down and make a cup of tea and think. All that matters is the sheen, the glance, the smirk, then you move on.
Design has got in the way of function and the core essence of the room – a place to rest – is forgotten or overlooked. Such is it with brands.
Maybe I’m just an awkward customer. Perhaps I just need to get out less.
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