A Regent London visit

The trade description of act of 1961 is there to protect consumers from companies that mislead. But there are exceptions. Take ‘Great’ Britain, the ‘Speedster Two’ (fine, apart from it being an electric car for the elderly) or the ‘Rapid lift’, a stair lift, hardly going to travel at speed carrying the blue rinse brigade. And then there is the ‘Regent Palace Hotel’ in London.

The hottest day in May for over thirty years. Fantastic. I spent the first nine hours of that in the large greenhouse, otherwise known as JP Morgan. The last half an hour of my green house time was spent deliberating whether I should just walk out of a meeting that was over running, I needed to make the shuttle bus to catch the train. I missed it. In true style going to the wrong bus stop and cursing a late shuttle bus that passed away in the distance. Obviously being English, and not used to decent weather, my body shut down. Someone turned on the sweat taps whilst I rushed to find a nearby taxi, whilst at the same time trying to convince myself I didn’t smell, and that it was in fact the cheaper than normal deodorant I had purchased in haste the day before.

If I thought I had perspiration problems, I soon realised that maybe it wasn’t all that bad. The tube doors opened at Embankment. True to form, five o clock on a Friday night, the people were forced together like sardines in a squashed tin. The heat from the non air-conditioned pre-war tube system provided the ammunition for my next episode. I found myself wedged between two rather large, blue shirted, wet armed hairy men who were grabbing onto the handles above. Every time the train swayed, they took turns leaning onto the side of my face. Now, they had sweat and smell problems. My farts would probably smell like roses in comparison.

The problem is simple. The London Underground is the oldest subway system in the world, the joys of air conditioning had not kicked in for the bowler hat, large jacket moustache sporting people back then. As I stood in the slip stream of one mans armpit, I started to think about solutions to the problem. Well, to be fair, other people have done that already.

Bosses at the London Underground were so desperate for a solution, they offered a £100,000 prize for the best idea. Well they offered it, but nobody took it. Hardly surprising when you consider some of the entries.

‘Decorating stations to look like icescapes’ or ‘handing out flame-retardant tube maps that are shaped like fans’

I pictured the scene at Underground head quarters that day, when they opened this well thought out entry –

‘replacing the trains and tracks with an underwater canal. The slow pace of travel will make it pleasant’

They probably turned to each and said “Maybe the people can just sweat after all”.

Stepping out of the humid Piccadilly Circus tube station was like stepping out into a foreign country. It’s was if the world had decided that this was the official meeting place for all things foreign. Next to the gigantic television screen was my place for the night, the Regent Palace Hotel.

I had selected this place for a number of reasons. It had been on teleevision. Well, it featured on the ‘Hotels from Hell’ programme two years back (bringing out the sadistic side in me), was comparatively cheap, was right in the middle of London and had lots and lots of rooms.

Of course, you pay for what you get. The lower rates were based on ‘sharing’ a bathroom premise. Walking along the long corridors I was confronted by balding, belly inflated German men in their white underpants, towel in hand, looking lost whilst searching for the ‘shared’ bathroom. This took on a extended humour when it transpired that before you take a shower, you have to call reception so they can unlock the washrooms. As the washrooms also housed the toilets, I could imagine the switchboard on the ground floor

“Janet, Mr Laslinger from 7012 wants another shit, can you do the honours please”.

Just like the London Underground, there was no air conditioning. Normally not a problem when the air is conditioned by lots of rain for you, but on this hot day in May, the room was rather humid. “For your safety, the windows will only open half way”. Fantastic. Quite obviously they had experienced too many people jumping out of the seventh floor windows after realising they would have to wait twenty minutes for a shit. I wonder if the Queen has the same regent problems down the road at Buckingham Palace.