A: The hotel entertainer

The hotel entertainer

I was in an AA/RAC two-star rated hotel in a back street of Ilfracombe
in north Devon for five nights' B&;B. Two stars are better than none
in such places. I arrived late on a Sunday afternoon just before a
coach party of OAP's from Cumbria. While I was checking in I got
marooned at the desk, all paths blocked by a sea of suitcases as they
were unloaded from the coach. I had to wait as each case owner found
and claimed their own and made their way to their room before I could
eventually investigate mine.

Hotels are always slightly strange places, apart from being junctions
of permanent transience, there often seems to be something else that
isn't quite right. It might be to do with your room, a wardrobe door
that swings open at irregular intervals or a radio that will only
receive one station where they're permanently discussing sheepdog
handling. Sometimes it's the design, you get lost in a seemingly
endless sequence of corridors, none of which lead to your room. In this
case it was the d?cor, in particular the wallpaper. They must have got
job lots of patterns that no-one wanted fifty years ago, never mind in
the 21st century. The effect of some of them on the eyes was
devastating, particularly in the bar, where it was possible to feel
inebriated without touching a drop of alcohol simply by crossing the
room.

Fortunately, my bedroom was relatively sober in this respect and,
despite a seagull who could squawk for England being resident directly
outside my window, it was quite satisfactory. While unpacking I decided
that I would eat at the hotel that evening, I was tired after the long
drive and didn't fancy restaurant hunting. I phoned down to reception
and they said it would be fine. I made a cup of tea (one of the major
benefits of a British holiday), turned on the telly and sat on the bed,
doing my best not to fall asleep before the evening meal.

I remember as a child that they would actually sound a gong in smaller
hotels to signify the start of meal times. It would stand in the
entrance hall and reverberate through the whole building when struck,
thus alerting any dozing guests that feeding was imminent. No such
nannying these days, you just have to rely on a nagging stomach
instead. I decided I'd go down to the bar where I was sure that the
wallpaper would dispel my drowsiness.

When I got there, a number of the OAPs had gathered already and were
tucking in to glasses of wine and G&;T. They were all having lively
conversations about the journey from Cumbria and obviously enjoying the
refreshments. Some were physically more doddery than others, such is
our genetic lottery, but they were in the main a set of mentally bright
and lively sparks looking forward to being intelligently guided around
the sights of the West Country. Not for them to be plonked in
deckchairs staring idly out at a repetitive sea.

The door to the restaurant was opened and I entered, among the party,
looking to see where I might sit. A couple of waiters, however, were
herding everyone into one section and it appeared that everyone would
have to share tables. So I sat at a largish round table and was soon
joined by two men and two ladies. There were two things I didn't know
at this point; there was a small table reserved for me out of sight
around the corner of the L shaped room and the waiters thought that I
was with the coach party. The reserved table was circumstantial, that I
could understand, but how could they possibly have thought that I was
with the coach party? Everyone else was at least 30 years older than
me. Had my life really taken that much toll on my appearance?

Once the situation had dawned on me I had already eaten my starter and
begun chatting to my table mates, so I decided it would be a bit rude
to up and leave them for my exclusive table at the posh end, so to
speak. I was sharing with Bob and Harry, both widowers and Mary and Amy
both widows. I didn't get the impression that I was spoiling a double
date, as the men only spoke to each other and me and the women only
spoke to each other and me. The men mainly talked about the food and
the coach journey, but it was the women who asked me questions. I tried
not to give too much away so that they could have a good time
speculating about me for the rest of the week.

When dinner was over, I was quite tired and decided just to spend the
evening in the hotel bar, wallpaper and all. I was quietly sipping a
pint when a man dressed up in a dark suit and bow tie started bringing
in various pieces of equipment and setting it up on the little raised
area which would normally serve as a dance floor. As he did so, most of
the coach party gradually descended on the bar again and sat round
watching the man as he positioned his microphone and sorted through a
little pile of CDs. Obviously we were going to be entertained.

I nearly made a rapid exit there and then, but I had a strange
curiosity to at least see how the performance would begin. Eventually,
the man went to the bar and was handed a pint of lager, which he
brought back, sipped and then placed on the floor behind his speaker.
He then pressed a button to start a CD which contained his backing
music, went up to the microphone and delivered the memorable line,
'Good evening everybody, my name's Tony. Welcome to beautiful
Ilfracombe and the wonderful world of entertainment.' , and launched
into a medley of songs.

Any anticipation of a good evening showing on the faces of the audience
soon disappeared. For starters the CD music was a bad recording of a
cheap electric organ, probably done by Tony himself. Secondly, he had
an incredibly boring and expressionless voice. It wasn't out of tune,
at least this would have given it some comedy value, it was just
lifeless. For the coup de gr?ce, the songs he was singing were already
old hat by the time most of this audience were born, having been mainly
devised to placate the populace during the first world war. Now they
were having the reverse effect.

Even worse than all this was that everyone in the room knew that once
the singing had stopped, he was going to start telling bad jokes. I
couldn't bear it. I downed my drink and as soon as the music stopped I
made a swift and silent exit into the foyer. I stopped for a moment
just to make certain and sure enough, the punch lines were flatter than
a Dutch mountain and being met only by embarrassed laughter.

I went off into the town and came across a pleasant pub where I whiled
away the next hour, feeling sure that most of the audience I'd left
behind would wish that they'd joined me. I sat and wondered what they
had done to deserve such poor entertainment, concluding only that Tony
must genuinely think that all older people like creakingly old songs
and limp, lame humour. It would take a considerable degree of both
sadism and masochism to deliberately deliver such rubbish to an
audience on any regular basis. Were all hotel entertainers like this
when faced with a room full of pensioners? Was I doomed one day to be
faced with my own Tony who'd finish me off with a combination of Cliff
Richard and Arthur Askey?

When I got back to the hotel at about ten, I was astonished to find
that the 'show' was still going on. Only about a dozen hardy souls were
left out of the original forty or so, apparently determined not to let
it spoil a good drinking session, the rest, I assumed, having gone to
their rooms. Tony was desperately trying to conduct his version of
'Play Your Cards Right' a television game show, but no-one was now
paying him any attention. When nobody would volunteer to be his
assistant, he said, 'Yes, well I don't blame you, I think we're all a
bit tired now', and decided, for his grand finale, to launch into a
medley of World War two songs, having finally staggered into the
teenage era of his audience.

His Vera Lynn homage (or should that be damage?) complete, he finally
wrapped up, came over to the bar where I was now standing and started
talking to the barman. 'Well, at least they didn't all go to bed
tonight', he said cheerfully as the barman handed him another pint of
lager. He was drenched with sweat, slowly boiled in his suit and bow
tie. I decided to risk asking him a question. 'Do you do many of these
evenings?', I enquired, not prepared for the answer I would receive.
'Seven nights a week', he responded, 'It's a full-time job.'

I was genuinely stunned. This brought the sado-masochist element onto
an entirely new level. He did this every night of his life. How on
earth did he manage not to get sacked, if not lynched? I'd noticed that
there'd been no sign of the hotel management around in the bar. Perhaps
they just didn't care as long as they fulfilled their part of the deal
to provide 'entertainment'. And it wasn't solely in this hotel, his
seven nights were split between several hotels who subjected their
'third age' coach parties to this man. Tony downed his lager having
packed up his gear and chirped 'See you Wednesday' to the barman on his
way out.

Next morning at breakfast the confusion over tables had been sorted out
and I'd been instructed where to sit. I made a point of going over to
see Bob and Harry and Mary and Amy when I'd finished to have a quick
chat. After the pleasantries, Mary looked at me in a straight talking
sort of way and said, 'You saw that idiot last night didn't you? What
did you think of him?' I replied that I thought they deserved a lot
better. She looked round at her fellow travellers and said, in the
loudest voice she could muster, 'My arse could put on a better show
than him.' After a couple of seconds half of the restaurant was in fits
of laughter which must have been quite a relief after Tony's efforts. I
didn't hold out much hope for him on Wednesday.