The board in the reception of The Royal Station Hotel says 'British Airways' and 'The Royal College of Nursing' in wonky gold letters, but I know differently: it is the Aleister Crowley Society operating under a number of pseudonyms. They have congregated at The Royal Station Hotel, Newcastle because it is Evil, and commonly known to be Lucifer's favourite stop-off point when he's travelling in the North East.
Last night was punctuated by bangs and thumps, muffled laughter and fire doors squeaking. At four in the morning someone knocked on my door, but the hall was empty apart from a fresh stain on the carpet and the smell of burning tyres. I fell into a restless slumber, and dreamt of cars for the fourth night in a row.
Felt pretty perky when I woke up, mind, for there was Hotel Toast to be had. Hotel Toast is in fact the only reason for staying in a hotel. It is cold, cut into triangles and comes in a toast rack. You put butter on it and then either jam or Marmite. It is best with tea, which usually comes in your own stainless steel pot. (I had some excellent Hotel Toast in Canterbury the other weekend, but I was in a splendid frame of mind anyway and may have been distracted by my charming companion, who was trying to eat a muffin made of sweetened polystyrene.)
I was gagging for it, that toast. Forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair such was my haste to get to the 'restaurant'. I ran down endless halls and through seven sets of fire doors, pausing only to snatch a copy of the local paper from the table in reception. I shouted "ROOM 116!" at the Croatian in the tie, and "TEA PLEASE!" at the lady with the Eyes before skidding to a halt at my table.
The Aleister Crowley Society sat around me in clumps of four eating mushrooms and sausage, making secret '666' signs at each other with their hands and laughing quietly. One of them kept looking at me in a Dirty Way. I moved tables and tried to convince myself that I was imagining it, and that the hotel couldn't possibly be evil. Then the lady with the Eyes said, "if you wan' toast, toaster THERE'. See? Evil.
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6 comments:
Er, you like to live dangerously, don't you? I hope that you know what to do when hotels and mega-corporations sue you for defamation and making "wild accusations" that could damage their reputation and business?
I only eat marmalade when I'm in a hotel. But somehow it seems obligatory to me.
Weird.
These days, more and more hotels require you to make your own toast - or, more accurately, supervise its toasting. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not, really. Good if you like hot toast, I guess.
(hello)
Your report makes me think of Dahl's Witches story.
These old station hotels are awful, so long past their prime, a bit like me :(
It would be more worrying if the staff were Transylvanian.
Indigo: I am prepared to risk it. If they can prove that their hotel is not scruffy, slightly smelly, with condensation on the windows and stains on the carpet, I will happily apologise. Oh, and prove that it's not evil as well.
Hi sweets, enjoying your funny blog. You might want to know that I'm researching the dandy gents of the Crowley era; I've had access to Special Branch and will be putting forward some new revelations. :-) ( not a joke, though much of what I experience is.)
I also identify with your starving writer approach, except the crisps are finished, very sadly for me ...
I found you via Brisso who's just put me on his blog.
That's it, you're on blogroll. All for a once a year Alistair Crowley joke ;-)
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