hospitality

THE “UK’S WORST HOTEL”, A DESERVED TITLE?

| sophiekemsley

I have a really strict criteria when it comes to hotels. Since they’re not cheap, when the rare opportunity arises for me to stay in one, it absolutely has to be one of two things:

A little bit quirky

OR

Have lots of terrible reviews

I know it might seem like I’ve made a typo in the latter, but I mean every word. Unless I’m travelling with friends or family – when I’ll comply with more ‘normal’ choices – I’ll always choose budget and character, over nice, but expensive and boring.

I haven’t always felt this way, but then in 2017 I needed to book into a hotel opposite the train station in Stoke on Trent, and it changed everything. Say what you will about cleanliness and quality (neither of which that hotel particularly had), but I’ve never stayed in a hotel I’ve spoken about more. I can’t even remember most of the others. My stay at the North Stafford Hotel prompted much laughter, and conjured bizarre stories and anecdotes in abundance.

It also gave birth to a dream of visiting terribly rated hotels all over the country and writing a book about them, but I never pursued that dream due to both time and financial constraints. Now, a vast number of writers and YouTubers have beaten me to it, and probably do it better than I could anyway.

But there’s always been one hotel here in Kent that’s been on my list of places to experience before I die. Maybe it would be in poor taste to name it, so let’s just say I’ve been burstin to go ever since I found out it earned the grand title of the ‘UK’s worst hotel’. For several years running. Perfect.

I finally got to tick this item off my bucket list (no, not ‘sick bucket’!) in April 2025, when a Folkestone-based friend was having some birthday drinks. I could have found a way to get home that evening if I’d tried to, but I didn’t try. At all, in fact.

It was time.

Beautiful Folkestone, a town I always enjoy visiting

After a delicious lunch on the Harbour Arm and an hour reading my book on the dreamy seafront, I finally make my way to the hotel to check-in. The automatic door opens, so already my expectations have been exceeded.

“I like your green shoes, love!”

The group of men in the lobby start laughing. Maybe I should be offended, but I’m not. I’m too excited to be fulfilling a dream, and am eager to check-in. The service is friendly, professional, and hassle-free, and this would be the case in every encounter with staff during my stay. Before heading to my room, I take a little tour of the building. It’s everything I hoped it would be. Hypnotic carpets. Worn leather seats. Yellowing ceilings. I feel like I can still smell the many B&H’s that would have been smoked in these rooms in the 1980s, and strangely, I don’t actually dislike that fact.

The whole place brings back memories of some of the best nights out in my life. Only those who attended Lancaster University before 2010 will understand it when I say this is like Morecambe’s Premier Venue – the Carleton (R.I.P) – but for those who didn’t, the Carleton was basically like this, but with stickier floors, cheesy music, and people throwing up everywhere (not always me) after one too many of the venue’s signature cocktails, named ‘stiff’uns‘. Maybe that’s what happens to this place at night, too. That’s something I’ll have to find out next time.

I head to my room and elect to take the stairs over the elevator, on account of only being on the first floor. Room 151. If this was the North Stafford Hotel – which incidentally belongs to the same chain as this one – Room 151 would probably be between rooms 312 and 543 on floor 7, but here, the numbers do seem to run in a logical order. On my floor, at least.

Room 151 is in the very regal sounding ‘C Wing‘, although some odd kerning on the signage makes it read more like ‘C WIN G’. To get to C WIN G I must walk down a very long corridor. A very long corridor.  One which I’m not sure even has an actual ending, and quite possibly doesn’t. I walk along and am enveloped by a smell that evokes memories of visiting my much missed grandmother in her care home shortly before she passed away. It’s both a comfort and a discomfort and it leads me to ruminate, but I’m quickly detracted by a piece of paper stuck to a door on which a note has been scrawled and highlighted with a blue Stabilo marker pen:

“KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING PLEASE“

I make a mental note to keep my door locked, and wonder what sort of commotion has been ensuing along this very long corridor recently.

I enter my room, and am pleasantly surprised. The reviews and articles I’d read had evoked visions of walking into some sort of bog with bricks for beds and stained underwear for curtains. Instead, I walk into a light, bright space which upon first inspection seems clean and tidy, although the artwork is a little terrifying:

Lute, or weapon?

My room is – unfortunately – on the wrong side of the building for a sea view. Instead, I am proffered stunning views of the car park, and the Sunshine Bar and Grill over the road. Still, it’s better than the view of vents and discarded Styrofoam containers I had at the North Stafford. Another thing I have here, which the North Stafford didn’t offer, is a full on ironing board and iron. Just in case I fancy straightening out any creases in my luggage whilst absorbing the beautiful panoramic:

I make myself a coffee and notice what appears to be Pot Noodle dust peppered around the spout of the kettle, but it’s nothing a little wipe can’t fix.

I’d been hoping to use my time pre-party to check out the sauna, but the swimming facilities were closed due to staff sickness, so I decide to have a bath instead. It’s during this initial venture into the bathroom that I discover the previous occupant has failed to flush the loo (I wonder if they had been burstin, and just forgotten to flush in the wake of overwhelming relief), and there is no sign that there has ever been any shower gel in the shower gel receptacle. I draw a bath anyway, and become perplexed at how the bath tap seems to activate the sink tap too. Multitasking! The running water alternates between trickles and full on downpours, but we get there eventually.

Bathed up and dressed, I decide to head down to the bar area for a coffee. And to be honest, it’s all absolutely fine. It’s busy – proving that even in spite of the reputation, the hotel remains popular – and I appreciate the range of dialects I can overhear. Scottish. Irish. American. I’m proud to live in a county so attractive to tourists. It makes me feel like I’m on holiday, too.

I choose the comfiest looking piece of worn furniture and am shortly joined by a noisy group next to me, where one lady in particular is enjoying herself and appears to be a little inebriated. She starts to empty the contents of her handbag all over the table. One of the items is some lipbalm:

“Sharon’s never seen me without my Carmex, and we’ve been friends for 20 years!“

She then cackles out an incredibly loud innuendo about the lipbalm that’s too filthy to put into print, and people turn to look for from whom that exclamation came from. She doesn’t care, she’s enjoying her own joke too much, and I actually quite admire the hubris. Good for her, I think to myself.

Coffee consumed, I decide to venture out in the sunshine to grab a sweet snack and test my theory that everybody always looks deadly serious when eating ice cream cones. I return a few pounds heavier, having witnessed no challenges to my hypothesis.

Back in my room, I make a phone-call, and whilst gazing ahead notice what appears to be a blob of snot affixed to the wall. Of everything I’ve experienced in this hotel so far, this is the one thing that crosses a line, and makes me physically gag. I reassure myself I’m only here for one night, and by the time I return from the party it’ll be hopefully too dark to see it. Or not. It’s pretty fudging massive, like it came out of the nostril of a hippo, or some other megafauna. It’ll probably even illuminate the room overnight with its green glow, I guess I’ll find out later.

A short while later my ‘neighbours’ arrive. I don’t see them, but I can definitely hear them:

“No, please don’t, you’ll set off the alarm. You’ll set off the alarm. YOU’LL SET OFF THE ALARM!”

“Oh, alright then, I won’t!”

Phew.

I then hear them comment on their impressions of their room. They, too, are in awe of the ironing board. They also rate the beds, and have an early start in the morning. A sheet of toilet paper dividing the rooms – like the one I found in the loo perhaps – would provide more sound insulation than the existing walls, I’m sure.

***************************************

I return from my evening out around 11.30pm and walk over a pile of crushed tortilla crisps that have integrated into the hypnotic carpet. No salsa. The bar is busy and full of life, and accents from all over the world. I love it. It feels like the entire planet has compressed itself into this little tatty cruise ship shaped building in East Kent, frozen in time since the ’80s. The nautical theme also makes it feel like the cross-channel ferries I used to take with my grandparents around the same time, watching the ashes from Nan’s fag drip down into an aluminium ashtray whilst nibbling on a Toblerone too big for my infant-sized mouth.

Back in the present, I hear only laughter, people conversing with strangers, others burstin into song, and the likes of ‘Time of my Life’ emanating from the ballroom. I see people smiling and enjoying themselves within the craziness of it all. I hear an American comment that life is not about money, but community, having fun, and eating tasty food. Last night, he ate the best prawns he’d ever had in his life. He “even took a photo.” I love him.

If this hotel is ‘bad’, then I’m not sure I really care about ‘good’.

Character over perfection, every single time. I’m burstin to tell you, that places like these are so much better than you think they’ll be, and they will almost always make you smile, and even laugh a bit. They’ll also save you a fair amount of money, so you can afford to come back again.

Now there’s an idea…

WHY I’D RATHER BE IN WETHERSPOONS

| sophiekemsley

If I could go back in time and tell myself that there’d come a day when one of my favourite ways to spend a Saturday morning is in Wetherspoons, there’d be two kinds of response, dependent on how far back we’d gone:

18-23 year old me: “Ahh wicked, pitcher of Blue Lagoon and some Apple Sourz to welcome the weekend innit!”

23- sometime in the mid-30’s year old me: “Well, that’s just depressing. What a waste of a Saturday.”

I’d assume I had turned into one of those people I pass spilling out of the local establishments having a pint at 9.30am and regretting my life choices. Yes, that would feel depressing if it were so. That’s still not a point I’d ever like to reach.

But that’s not the reality.

I very rarely drink alcohol in Wetherspoons, but I’m here a lot. Usually with a £1.56 refillable coffee and a notebook, and on the really special occasions if I want to treat myself: a bowl of nachos, made to a recipe that hasn’t changed in at least 20 years.

A thoughtful gift from a friend

To me, Wetherspoons is about so much more than the historic connotations with cheap drinks and sticky tables. It’s a cornerstone of the community, a national institution, a place where people from all walks of life can feel that a decent meal out is a bit more within reach than a lot of other places.

Wetherspoons is a place for everyone… except the more snooty among society perhaps. And who wants to be around people like that anyway?

It’s a place that leaves you to it. A place that doesn’t pressure you to leave as soon as you’ve finished your drink so that a new customer can occupy your seat. A place where even the backs of toilet doors will encourage you to stay for as long as you like – undisturbed – if it helps you to feel safe. And often, when I look around, I sense that a lot of the clientele come here for that quality. Like the octogenarian – we’ll just refer to him as ‘G’ – who frequents my local branch for lunch every couple of days and explains how for him, it’s a place where he can come and feel in good company compared to the loneliness he feels at home.

“It helps me feel connected here” G once shared with me, “I love to see familiar faces… there are so many people my age who come here and have so many great stories to tell about their lives. You’d never know just from looking at them just how many remarkable things they’ve done. I’ve found out all about them just by chatting here.”

G tells me his own life stories as we sit and chat. We’ve spoken a few times because our favourite tables are next to each other (by the windows, to enable the act of people watching outside). Although 80% of the dialogue is from G’s side of the script, I find him a joy to listen to, and he always thanks me for the chat as he leaves, even though I’m not really sure I’ve said that much.

A recent study found that around 30% of UK residents experience regular feelings of loneliness. Whilst Wetherspoons may not be the solution for all, it’s important to acknowledge this value when critiquing the place. As somebody who lives alone in a quiet estate and predominantly works from home, I find that an evening coffee trip (decaf by that time) to ‘Spoons is an important injection of life, people and reality after a virtual day, and can understand why many feel similar.

The chain has a lot of critics, for various reasons. One of the more common concerns is that through its cheaper prices, it takes valuable custom away from the traditional, independent British pub. This is a particularly valid concern at a time when the hospitality industry is under enormous pressure – not least from recent rises in alcohol duty – and many of our beloved ‘locals’ are pulling their final pints left, right and centre. 

However, what many often forget is that the two places are very different. The top two selling drinks at Wetherspoons aren’t even alcoholic. They’re Pepsi Max and coffee/tea. More to the point, it’s entirely possible to both support your local pub with your custom, and appreciate your local Wetherspoons. I’d usually pick my cosy local if it was something alcoholic I was after or if I was meeting a friend, but I’m not sure my local would necessarily appreciate a whole table being taken up for a couple of hours by someone who’s just after a coffee, and that’s fair enough. You can make the most of both, it doesn’t have to be a case of either or.

The food is another characteristic that often attracts criticism, whether it’s the fact that the chip count can vary (as attested by the 250k strong membership of a particular Facebook group where members share / compare / condemn counts) or that it all tastes like it’s been “made in a microwave.”

Well, so what? I mean really, so what! Quite frankly, if it’s produced in a hygienic environment, is hot, tasty and edible, then I couldn’t care less if it was prepared by a teenager monitoring a microwave or Nigella Lawson poring over her aga oven. At least you always know, no matter what branch you’re in, what you’re going to get. Wetherspoons is a complete opposite of Forrest Gump’s infamous box of chocolates, (unless you’re focusing on the chip count). There may be better quality meals available elsewhere, but the reality is that they’re a lot more expensive, and most people can’t afford this as regularly. Sometimes you just want to have a break from cooking without breaking the bank. Sometimes you just want cheap stodge.

And where do we start with the iconic buildings themselves, and their carpets? It’s a little known – but absolutely incredible no less – fact that each of the 850 Wetherspoons establishments in the UK has its own unique carpet, designed around something to do with local culture, history or heritage. Take a look the next time you go into your local ‘Spoons. I am in awe of the likes of Kit Caless, who visited hundreds, set up a website and even released a book to document them. A book I proudly own and which has taught me a lot about notable figures and history from other areas:

The book really exists, and it’s amazing

As for the buildings, you’ll often find that those now hosting the chain once served a purpose as something entirely different, and the history is usually palpable upon entry. One of my favourite Wetherspoons buildings is The Palladium in Llandudno, Wales, not least because it means I must be near Snowdonia, but just because of the general feel of the building. Before it became what it is today, it was a 1920s theatre, and as you gaze at the various boxes and balconies around you, you can almost hear the echoes of decades of historic performance. You order your scampi, chips and mushy peas thinking about how the people a few decades in front of you in the queue were ordering their ‘ices’ at the interval, and not only does it feel exciting, but it also feels like a sentimental connection to the local past.

The Opera House in Tunbridge Wells has a similar history, and the reverberations of a former art deco cinema are felt immediately as you enter The Peter Cushing in Whitstable (a branch which recently won platinum prize in the UK’s Loo of the Year awards, in what I’m certain was a ‘sparkling’ ceremony). I’m not entirely sure what my local branch, The Leading Light in Faversham, used to be, but I believe it was a carpet store, which is a little less exciting than those above perhaps, but also quite fitting when you consider the pursuits and passions of Kit Caless and Co.

Should this have piqued your interest in your own local branches, then it’s worth checking out the Wetherspoons website, which contains a lot of contextual information about each branch, including explanations for the name.

Additionally, it’s a firm belief of mine that there’s a Wetherspoons for every occasion, but to take inspiration from the menu and add some variety to this post I’ll represent this as an amateur poem as opposed to a paragraph – a small plate compared to a main – if you will:

Turning 18 with a pitcher of Purple Rain.
A bowl of nachos before catching the train.
A pre-holiday pint before boarding the plane.
A cheap breakfast whilst taking shelter from the rain.
Buying a cup of coffee, and filling it again and again…

There’s just one more characteristic about Wetherspoons I wish to praise, out of a raft of many more which I could possibly feature, and for this I’ll tell a true story:

It’s February 2020. Storm Ciara has swept up the UK and caused carnage everywhere, not least cancelling all the trains to London from Lancaster, where a friend and I have been visiting our former University haunts. We’re cold and miserable about it and have had to book an extra night’s accommodation and buy emergency underwear in Primark, as well as inform our respective works that we won’t be able to come in on Monday. Once we have accepted this fate we head to The Sir Richard Owen, which just so happens to be next to our hotel. In the spirit of student memories we order a Smirnoff Ice each and my friend tells me about a trend whereby people post their Wetherspoons table numbers on Twitter and people order food for them via the app. I struggle to believe this is true, and so she offers to try it.

Within minutes of her posting on Twitter, a side of baked beans arrives unaccompanied by anything else, sent by a mystery donor. We laugh. A lot. And then try and work out the best way to distribute them. British tapas.

It’s utterly bizarre, utterly hilarious and also utterly Wetherspoons. Which is a way in which I’d also describe the pandemonium of Summer 2024 when a bird flew into the Faversham branch and mesmerised an audience of a couple of hundred customers, who all got on board with the rescue attempt of encouraging it to fly safely back out, which it eventually did.

And really, there’s so much more I could possibly say, but I’m making myself hungry, so instead I’ll shawarmachickenwrap up this post to include a soft drink. £5.70 each. Ordered via the app.

Never, ever change, ‘Spoons.