Pat the back of the Alsatians jacket you gasping 10 years.

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About 14 days ago I stayed in a hotel in Coventry.

It was a motorway hotel that the place where the middle management of Tesco

would hold a conference. A hotel on a motorway, a hotel that effectively knows you're kind of trapped.

I don't believe in an afterlife, but if I was to imagine what

purgatory would be like, it'd be a motorway hotel, a hotel, and a motorway.

It's a transitionary space between two destinations. You're neither coming or going. You're not dead nor alive. You're in a hotel and it's on the side of a motorway and you can't really leave because then you're walking on a motorway and who wants to do that. You can't really drive anywhere either because it's a motorway hotel. The nearest town is maybe a half an hour, 40 minutes away. It's a motorway hotel. You're stuck. Aesthetically a motorway hotel is

identical to an airport hotel. They both have that overarching sense of

we don't give a fuck about you. You're stuck but an airport

hotel has got there's passion and there's emotion in an airport hotel because you're either really excited to go on holidays so you don't

care about the airport hotel. I are upset that you're coming back from holidays so you

can really feel something about an airport hotel but

it's quite a challenge to find any meaning in a motorway hotel everything in a motorway hotel. It's a little bit more depressing.

Everything you do, everything you do in a motorway hotel becomes something you do in a motorway hotel.

You can't go to the bar and have a pint.

Because when you get the pint, it's not just a pint anymore, it's a pint in a motorway hotel.

I tried to have a cup of tea. I even brought my own mug and my own

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