Losing my last trace of self-respect, I managed to blackmail my girlfriend into blackmailing an ex-work colleague into getting us a friends-and-family rate at Cliveden House. It has been on my list for a long time, but upon the spa closing for a refurbishment last year it got further and further delayed. Receiving this at substantial discount would, of course, reduce my normal levels of complaint down to a mere whisper in the wind. You take a train to Slough. Yeah, that Slough.
But I will. Imagine, if you will, a war torn Baghdad, liberated from the the clutches of evil. To celebrate, a football match is held to boost the morale of the locals, but unfortunately a mix-up takes place and the invites are sent out to all the worlds elite hooligans instead. The aftermath of this is akin to Slough. Luckily technology has caught up with the times and you can call an Uber and find yourself no longer in Slough, but about 20 minutes away in Cliveden House.
When we arrived, we were warmly greeted by the invisible doorman, who I imagined gave us some kind words of encouragements whilst we took our own luggage into the hotel. I was whisked away by the large rush of nobody bolting towards us. For clarity, it is near Slough. Luckily, once again, it realises the error of its ways and manages to avoid looking anything like it.
Set on National Trust grounds that would not look out of place in a Tim Burton fairytale; one where all the common folk descend upon the beautiful grounds at the end to celebrate the demise of somebody, most likely a woman, as all good fairytales do.
Cliveden House is the kinda place where once upon a time, a rich, giant, dickhead lived, and now plebs like me get the joy to visit. And I mean everyone. They put as much effort in as a Brexit negotiator puts thought into their actions. It took me back to the dark, dreary days pre-stay lists when arriving at a hotel was met by the wonder of what the room looked like.
