For some, hotels aren’t an everyday thing and are a bit exotic. I get that. But hotels are my life. When you’ve got work the next morning, there’s only so many times you can be kept awake by the sound of an amorous gruntfest before you decide that the only possible course of action is a swift and devastating mood kill.

That’s why from now on if I’m being kept awake by a body fluid swap going on next door, I’m going to play The Birdie Song very loudly.

Why?

It’s impossible to feel sexy or romantic whilst listening to The Birdie Song.

To demonstrate my point I’ve edited a clip from The Notebook, which is often held up as one of the most romantic films in all of creation.

‘She was ill. At least, she said she was ill. Anyhow, the date lasted seventy minutes in total.’

Hey ladies.

I can’t remember which one of us suggested it to start with, but we soon found ourselves daring each other to go speed dating next weekend. A few days later, she bought us both tickets.

We were going speed dating. We had become speed daters.

We had even settled on a code phrase. If things weren’t going too well for one of us, we would ask the other if they wanted a JD and Coke. Why JD and Coke? Neither of us drink it, so that became the code for ‘I’d like to leave now’.

Saturday came around the same way it always does (following Friday). We got ready and headed into Central London.

I was somewhat nervous. Fifteen men. Fifteen women. Four minutes at each table. It’s difficult enough being interesting for one moment. How on earth could one be expected to be interesting over fifteen rapid fire encounters?

Stereotypically, speed dating attracts some odd folks as well. Was I setting myself up to find myself in a bath full of ice, sans kidneys?

We were led into the venue by the evening’s compere. In the corner there was a bloke with long hair and an unironed shirt. He had his head between his knees and was quietly hugging himself. This was not what I wanted to see.

In a gesture of maternal protectiveness, I placed my hands over my kidneys.

If my life is ever turned into a film, I want the man with the creased shirt to be played by Steve Buscemi.

After a while, more people arrived. They looked more well adjusted.

We were given numbers and pieces of paper, and asked to sit at the corresponding places. My housemate and I were sat on different tables.

There were two dates to a table. The man with the creased shirt was next to me.

‘For fuck’s sake. Fucking Hell.’ He kept quietly saying to himself, meticulously folding the piece of paper he had been given.

‘You alright, mate?’ I asked.

Just for a moment, he looked up. He had that same look a dog will give you if you try to take its food. I didn’t try to strike up any more conversations with him.

“But Liam,” you might be asking, “why were you talking to him at all? Why weren’t you using your best lines on the laydeez?”

Well, turned out that a load of the women had decided not to turn up. And don’t say ‘ladies’ like that. It’s weird.

There were fifteen men, and seven women. The speed dating had become a painful reminder of every house party I went to as a teenager: a handful of nervous looking females facing an onslaught of desperate-to-impress males.

The blokes glanced around, quietly passing judgement on their competition. All except for the man with the creased shirt. He was too busy drawing a series of black squares on his paper. I’ve never seen someone shade so angrily.

‘Let the dating begin!’, shouted the compere.

Except there wasn’t anyone at my table. With the exception of Creased Shirt, of course.

The dateless men were shepherded into a corner of the room. Had we been draped in blankets, we would have resembled a refugee camp.

The compere was very apologetic as he explained that we would have to work on rotation, based on our numbers. Some of the men would have a couple of dates, a long wait, and then more dates. Some would just have a very long wait before they could start.

My number was lucky. I had a short wait, followed by all of my dates. You can’t glean too much from someone in four minutes, but here were the highlights:

• Meeting a jazz-funk musician who does James Brown covers.
• Talking literature and procedural programming languages with an English teacher.
• Finding out that accountants for one major supermarket are expected to do six days of in-store shelf stacking per year.
• When asked what Disney character I’d be, I jokingly answered ‘The Little Mermaid’. My date then proceeded to tell EVERYONE.
• The date ordering meant that Creased Shirt was always behind me. Often the dates would finish, and you’d both try not to leave things mid-conversation. Creased Shirt wasn’t having any of this. On a few occasions, he gently pushed me out of the way so that he could begin talking.

NO! IT’S MY TURN NOW.

Then it was over. Wasn’t bad at all. To Man Date Corner I went. My housemate still had a few dates to get through, so I was waiting for her. I’m glad I stuck around.

Without the whole ‘four minutes to prove your worth’ schtick, it was much more relaxed. The gender skewing led to a sense of camaraderie among us. I felt guilty for being so quick to judge them at the beginning of the evening.

As well as the typical Central London slew of investment bankers and lawyers, there were some very interesting conversations to be had.

I met a fellow Yorkshireman who played American Football at uni and had been scouted by the Miami Jets. When in training, he would eat 8000 calories and be in the gym eight hours a day. Then he broke his back, which led to a career change. He had just come back from working in the Middle East.

I discovered how patient some people can be. One chap was trying to explain to me how corporate bonds work, and how the bond market is different from the stock market. After three attempts to explain, I still didn’t understand. He tried. He really did.

We jokingly talked about football, beer, and making things out of wood, like proper blokey blokes. Man Date Corner was fun. But what’s the etiquette? You can’t just ask another straight bloke at a speed dating event  ‘I THINK WE COULD BE RIGHT GOOD FRIENDS. WHAT’S YOUR NUMBER?’ I’m not entirely proficient in the bro code, but that’s probably contravenes of one of the subsections.

The compere clapped his hands together. ‘And that’s it for the evening! I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves.’

I did. My dates didn’t demolish my self-confidence, and I still have all my vital organs. Hooray! The gender skewing made the evening awkwardly hilarious. I’d be happy to meet some of my dates again. We’ll see.

‘Now. For those dates that went well and you’d like to see them again, you can mark them as a “yes” or a “friend”.’

One of the women put their hand up. ‘What if you’ve met someone the same gender as you who you’d like to stay friends with?’

I found myself pondering the same question, but my housemate had just asked for a JD and Coke.

A mattress retailer that has won the Observer ethical award in 2008, 2009, and 2012. This got me a-pondering. What happened in 2010 and 2011? What caused the fall from grace? Did they suddenly start conducting business in an unethical manner?

Instead of doing research, I decided to write a story. It is likely that this definitely didn’t happen.

Limits

‘You’re better than this, you know.’

I first met Warren in 2007. Back then, I was a street performer. My routine? I’d make mattresses in the likeness of people, tourists mostly. Every day, I’d set up in the same spot. I’d position my mattresses of Robert De Niro, Angelina Jolie, and Bob Holness against a shopfront. I’d lay my bowler hat on the floor and place some coins in. I’d get out my needle, thread, fabric, stuffing, and springs. Then I’d get to work.

My act wasn’t one for big payouts. Street performing relies on keeping the interest of passing trade, people in a hurry. You need to be quick to keep your audience’s attention. Quick crescendos. Bang bang bang. Money money money.

Unfortunately it took me over eight hours to make a single mattress. Usually the person I was making a likeness of would run away when my back was turned, leaving me with another half-finished piece.

I had fallen victim to another runner when Warren approached me. He said his name was Warren Evans. He had a warm, salt of the earth kind of smile. He seemed like a stand up bloke. I liked him immediately, in spite of his hemp jumper.

‘Your mattresses. They are well made. Comfortable. Solid. Capable of supporting flat and side-sleepers. You have a gift, lad. You shouldn’t be wasting your skills on street performing.’

And that was that. I went to work for Warren. He taught me everything he knew about ethical mattress making. He had principles, and he stuck by them.

One night in the pub, he told me of his dream.

‘I want to win the Observer ethical award.’ He told me the criteria. We met all of them.

Warren pursed his lips. ‘There is one thing we… well, I mean ‘I’, currently do that means we can’t win the ethical award…’

No one has ever been able to explain why Tarquin Gondolier, the head of the award’s committee, made the rule, but the rule was there and no award would be given to anyone who broke it.

#67- Ethical businesses will never listen to 2 Unlimited’s 1993 eurodance hit ‘No Limit’.

I somehow managed to provide a link to the track in my last sentence, even though I’m saying this out loud to you. Technology these days.

Anyhow. Yes. The pub. I burst out laughing, spraying a fine mist of beer and spit on to Warren’s face. I asked him why on earth Tarquin Gondolier would make such a rule?

‘I have no idea. But it’s there. No one has managed to get him to agree to take out that rule.’

The problem, Warren, explained, was that he loved ‘No Limit’. It’s what inspired him to get into producing ethical mattresses in the first place. We talked a lot that night, and eventually Warren agreed to stop listening to the track.

After that, the business went from strength to strength. We won the Observer ethical award in 2008. Overnight we went from being a small boutique mattress manufacturer to being a key John Lewis supplier. We went on to win the award again in 2009.

Warren… Warren didn’t do so well.

It was as if he aged overnight. Without ‘No Limit’ in his life, he looked lost. He became thinner in the face. His confidence vanished. He began doubting himself, and couldn’t make decisions for the business. He said that he had become aware of his limitations, and they terrified him.

I bought in to the business and became a co-owner. I handled the day to day running. Occasionally I would check in on Warren. He had started listening to other groups from the same era. Ace of Base. Snap!… Nothing worked.

By this point he weighed six stone.

New Years Day, 2010. I had some work to do, so came into the office. Warren was wearing dungarees, absentmindedly waving a glowstick and slowly blowing on a whistle. It was as if he was trying to get as close to 1993 as he could. If he couldn’t listen to ‘No Limit’, at least he could be near it.

This has gone too far, I told him. We were big enough to sustain the business without the ethical award. I dusted off the cassette player, and played 2 Unlimited.

The old Warren returned. The spark came back. He gained weight, started smiling again, and was full of ideas for the business. The orders kept coming in.

That was until the 2010 Observer ethical awards. Tarquin had caught wind of Warren’s single track playlist, and refused to give us the award for a third year running.

‘Think you can break rule #67 and get away with it? Well, sunshine, you’re fucked.’

I didn’t believe him at first, but then the clients started leaving us.

‘Sorry,’ said John Lewis, ‘we have an image to maintain. Unethical mattresses aren’t part of that. It’s nothing personal.’

As much as I pleaded, they took their business elsewhere.

By 2011 we had laid off half of the staff. The company was going under. Warren wasn’t happy with the situation, but 2 Unlimited kept him confident in his own abilities.

We had a crisis meeting. Eventually, Warren agreed that it was best for him to leave the company. Before he left, we shook hands.

‘You’ve come a long way from making fluff filled faces on the street, lad. I’m looking forward to seeing what you achieve.’

I never saw him or his hemp jumper again. We kept the Warren Evans name, with Warren’s blessing. In 2012, we won the ethical award again. The orders piled in. We took on all of the old staff and were able to give them higher salaries.

Warren… Things didn’t go so well for Warren. Without the business to give him a sense of direction, he became unhinged. By the end, he was listening to ‘No Limit’ on his Walkman 24-7. Some ramblers found his body in the Scottish highlands. According to a diary entry, he was attempting to run the length of the United Kingdom without sleep, food, or water.

‘There’s no limit.’ Read the final sentence.

I miss him.

Why?

Other people.

They say that familiarity breeds contempt. No: Facebook breeds contempt.

This is my News Feed:

e-Cards:

Reposting of implausible bollocks:

Angels. Always with the sodding angels:

Oh, and let’s not forget the  ‘O SHITS YOU GOTS TO REPOST THIS OR YOU’LL DIE’s.

I joined up to social media to connect with people. Now I just want to be alone.

Everyone tells me that you can’t live without Facebook, but I wanted to find somewhere that I can go for some quiet time. So I reached a compromise.

I decided to set up a new Facebook account. And I’m not adding a single person.

It’s lovely. Look at my uncluttered newsfeed:

Not sure why Facebook thinks I know so many Russians, though.

I can go there and be away from the photos of people’s dinners. I don’t have to read the casually racist posts from casual acquaintances. I don’t have to see any more whining about the new layout.

It’s my little sanctuary. It fills me with calm. Might start meditating there.

My day job means that I spend a lot of time in hotels. Usually four nights a week. This sounds cool, but boredom can soon set in.

To help relieve my hotel ennui, I decided to write an email to the Holiday Inn’s head office regarding the Will Young I’m subjected to Every. Motherfucking. Day.

Hello,

I am a long term resident of your hotels. So much so that I recently worked out that I have enough loyalty points to buy one of those Dyson vacuum cleaners with the ball. Boom. No more unwanted cat hairs up in my joint.

Anyhow. I am not here to discuss the merits of vacuum cleaners, though I do think that the Numatic Henry hoovers give the Dysons a run for their money.

I am here to discuss International Hotel Group’s choice of music for their hotels’ bar areas. I imagine that the music choices are dictated centrally as opposed to being chosen by individual hotels. As such, I’m sending this to your head office.

‘Light my Fire’ by Will Young? Seriously guys, come on.

I was having a perfectly nice evening sat on my own. Again. In the bar. Again. Eating a bowl of fruit after my chicken salad. Again. When Will Young came on. Again.

I’ve been staying in your hotels for six months and must have heard it at least once a day.

Now, I’m certainly not saying that Will isn’t a capable singer. I’d feel awful if you thought that. Of course he’s capable. He sings in a very measured and controlled style. Can’t fault the bloke on technical merit.

He’s very talented. The way he was able to win a national talent competition, all the while worrying that the gutter press might out him? Most people would have cracked. Not Will.

But Will’s cover of ‘Light my Fire’. Ugh. Is you for real?

It’s a song about passion, lust. When Jim Morrison sang that track, it oozed sex. It was raw. When Will Young sings it, he has all the conviction of an airline attendant running through the safety procedures.

Soulless. Sterile. Vacuous.

Come on folks. You’re going to have to do better with the bar music. Every time I hear it the food in my mouth loses all flavour and the world goes a little greyer.

I’m scared that I’ll reach a low that no amount of loyalty points will be able to fix.

Yours,

Liam Butler

In my ceaseless quest to fix my spine, I decided to take a friend up on their offer and accompany them to their Friday evening yoga class.

Goodness. It was probably the hardest hour and a half of my life since I sat through Mamma Mia.

I had so many misconceptions about my body. All of them brilliant. I had no idea bending in counterintuitive poses and defying gravity could be so exhausting.  My friend had warned me that it was hard. My inner monologue scoffed. ‘Yeah. Whatever. I ran a marathon. #Swag.’

How wrong I was.

Ten minutes on. They had had me planking. Doing prolonged bicycle crunches. Performing a load of poses with funny sounding names that I can’t be entirely sure they weren’t making up on the spot. It was hard. Very hard. They had broken me. I was one sweaty newbie.

No one else seemed to be perspiring. I felt very self-conscious. Being next to my toned and graceful classmates made me realise just how flabby and shambolic a body I have. It was awful.

I regretted having a cooked breakfast that morning. I bet the yoga class didn’t have breakfasts with a high salt content. They probably had granola with cottage cheese, or something else my dad would disapprove of.

It didn’t help that we were made to perform our stretches in front of a mirror wall that stretched from floor to ceiling. Not only could I see myself, but everyone else in the class. They all looked brilliant. I, on the other hand, looked like a 4:3 video of a melting ice cream sculpture of Nicholas Hoult, being stretched across a widescreen television.

This is an approximation. And quite a flattering one. No way I can grow a moustache that good.

If their mortal coils are tightly wound watch springs, precise and elegant, my mortal coil is a tangled slinky, lying mangled on the middle step.

My joints screamed. People were effortlessly twisting themselves into ninety degree angles. My joints protested. ‘Mate. We don’t go that way. Stop it. No. Seriously. Stop it. We will hurt you.’

The downward dog. Possibly the least dignified position I’ve willingly put myself into. Apologies to the classmate behind me.

New joints presented themselves to my consciousness. I heard clicks from places where I didn’t even realise bones joined together.

There was a lot of planking. I was informed by the instructor that I have a saggy plank. I doubt this is the last time in my lifetime that I will be informed of this.

Plank.

After an hour and a half of stretches, holds, and music that sounded like an extended solo on one of the trippier tracks on ‘Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, the session was over. We relaxed, did some breathing exercises. When I thought no one was looking, I wiped the sweat off of my brow and stopped sucking in my belly.

My back? Feels brilliant.

My pride? It’s going to take longer to fix that.