Ivy Cottage, York
A number of years ago, my presence was requested in York for a mate's snag night. To keep project costs down it was decided to stay at teh Ivy Cottage... a place frequented by those who are partial to how much they drink, and not partial to where they lay the drunken carcass.

So, having to drive up from London I decide to go on the Friday ahead of the crowd, get a good night's kip, rise early, get a haircut and wander round the boutiques of York to get something dazzling to hit York town in later on Saturday.

Now, when it comes to hotels, it has been a very long time since I have done less than 4* (except in France where it's all shit).

So my arrival at the Ivy was a met with some trepidation. A quick look up on the interweb advertised it has having "running hot and cold.", which wasn't clear if this was water, marmalade or syphilis puss. Luckily it was water. Each room had a TV. My room had a TV mounted on top of the wardrobe and pointed upwards to the ceiling. It was black and white.

The bed had a permanent hollow left by someone of Rick Walleresque proportions. The bedding was winciette, dirty grey and smelt rank.

I think I slept with my head one inch from touching the pillow.

Breakfast was prepared by the Maltese host, who not only coughed on my bacon but left some of his dark hair mixed in with the food.

Later I said to him I was going out to get some edible food and would be back later. He asked when I was checking out because he had 16 yobbos coming over from Manchester for the evening.

"Ah" said I, "I am one of those yobbos...."

Ended up being an average weekend, not enough pills and powders.... and by Sunday morning the place looked like a normal B&B... Yay drugs!

It's student accommodation now... google it.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 9:52, Reply)