8:37am Monday 8th September 2008
By Telegraph & Argus
“Scribbler, do you know that hundreds more hotel rooms are going to be built in Bradford?” asked the Assistant Editor With Special Responsibility For Firing Searching Questions At Reporters In The Hope Of Catching Them Out. This time, at least, The Scribbler was prepared.
“Yes, I know that,” he replied confidently, tapping the copy of the T&A that he always carried with him like a badge of loyalty. “I read it in our very own trusty organ only the other day. A hundred here, a couple of hundred there…Soon the entire population of Bradford will be able to have a hotel room apiece.”
The Ass Ed frowned. “Do I detect a hint of cynicism there, Scribbler?” he demanded. “Banish that negativity. Hundreds more hotel rooms means hundreds more visitors coming to Bradford – spending their tourist money in the high-class boutiques that will spring up once the Broadway scheme goes ahead, holding their conferences here, patronising the many high-class pubs and bars, mingling with the cheery, colourful locals…” He spoke with an evangelical zeal that The Scribbler knew from experience had to be responded to with enthusiastic grins and nods.
“Sounds good,” he said, grinning and nodding enthusiastically.
“It’ll kickstart the local economy,” said the Ass Ed. “And what’s more, it’ll set new standards for existing hoteliers to emulate. That’s why I’ve sent for you. I want you to find a small local hotelier and get him to tell you how inspired he is by all this news and how he’s going to upgrade his own facilities to enable him to compete with the many new hotels that will spring up as Bradford booms.”
Later that afternoon, back in the real world, The Scribbler presented himself at the bar of the Boilermaker’s Arms where Boris the Landlord, in charge in the absence on other business of pub owner Wilf the Woolman, was peering out of the window, scouring the horizon for customers.
“Wilf’s what you might call a small hotelier, isn’t he?” asked The Scribbler.
“Few smaller,” said Boris. “He has to stand on a crate to reach the beer pumps.”
“No,” said The Scribbler. “I don’t mean his stature. I mean the scale of his hotel operation. How many residential bedrooms do you have here.”
Boris frowned. “Just the one,” he said. “And that’s not been occupied for a couple of years. But if all these tourists and conference people are going to start flooding into Bradford, like it said in the T&A the other night, maybe we ought to tart it up a bit and bring it back into commission. In fact, it’s quite a big room, so perhaps we could create two out of it.”
The Scribbler’s pen flew over the page of his shorthand notebook. This was just what the Ass Ed wanted to read.
“Could I take a look at it?” he asked.
With no other customers in sight, Boris left the bar and the two of them trailed up the back staircase. Boris unlocked a creaking door on the top floor to reveal a large and relatively bare room with a double bed, a teak-effect wardrobe (with one door hanging off), and one of those wartime Utility tallboys with a couple of drawers at the top and a cupboard beneath that had long since had its dark-oak finish painted over with magnolia gloss. In one corner a wash-basin was fixed to the wall, the cold tap dripping.
“Not en suite then?” noted The Scribbler.
“Well, sort of,” said Boris. He reached under the bed and pulled out a pot. “Oh heck!” he groaned, peering into it. “This room needs servicing.”
The Scribbler sighed and closed his note book. It seemed he would need to look further afield to find the inspired small hotelier the Ass Ed wanted.
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