Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in London
If you have a hotel in any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Abbey Wood, Anerley, Balham, Barking & Dagenham, Barnes, Battersea, Belgravia, Bermondsey, Biggin Hill, Blackheath, Brixton, Brockley, Camberwell, Canary Wharf, Catford, Charlton, Chelsea, Chessington, Clapham, Dagenham, Deptford, Dulwich, Earls Court, Earl’s Court, East Dulwich, Eltham, Forest Hill, Fulham, Gipsy Hill, Herne Hill, Kennington, Knightsbridge, Lee Green, Malden, Merton, Mortlake, Mottingham, New Cross, New Malden, Nine Elms, Norwood, Parsons Green, Peckham, Pimlico, Putney, Rainham, Romford, Rotherhithe, Sloane Square, South Bank, South Kensington, South London, South Norwood, Stockwell, Streatham, Surbiton, Sydenham, Tatsfield, Thamesmead, Tooting Bec, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
For UK travelers going abroad, we recommend Tenerife, with feel of the UK yet all the sun of Tenerife. Read an extract below from More Ketchup than Salsa, the story of a English couple who left the UK to set up life in Tenerife. Info on how to buy the book can be found below.
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Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
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While Al sipped on the water, creasing his face as if it was medicine, David filled me in on the morning’s activities. They had had a busy breakfast time and then it had gone dead. The brilliant sunshine and temperatures in the 90s had presumably sent everybody scuttling for the beach. Well, at least the British. Other nationalities had probably headed for the wisdom of shade or a siesta. It was Wednesday, the day after changeover Tuesday so we were bound to see the usual assortment of flaming red hues in the bar tonight. The Brits tend to parade sunburn like trophies. The more defined the lines between pre- and post-sun the better. Behind the bar we were often treated to the sight of pallid groins neatly crowned by fire-red bellies as pants were tugged down and tan lines were compared. Blisters on the males were even better, like battle scars. ‘Nope, can’t feel a thing,’ they’d say, having just ingested four pints of the local anaesthetic. The real test was in the morning when they woke up and wondered why someone had swapped their soft cotton bedclothes for sheets of sandpaper, and why acid was coming out of the shower rather than water. No amount of fabric softener would reduce the abrasiveness of barbed wire T-shirts nicking away at raw shoulders, and the flimsiest of flip-flops would feel like bear-traps clamping down on swollen red feet. But after they’d contemplated their pain, where would they head? Straight to the beach again of course, to make doubly sure that on their return to the UK nobody could be in any doubt that they had been abroad; it was like a wearable souvenir. Outside the bar, the two Johns were teaching pool to a couple of teenage girls, trying to get them to lean further over the table as they practised cueing up. ‘Smooth action. That’s it. Let it slip through your hands slowly then bring it back,’ said John Two. ‘Slowly. Smooth. Imagine you’re making love to your boyfriend.’ Aye, like you’re giving him a hand job,’ added John One. The girls giggled. ‘Got a right pair ‘ere, John. Think they know what a hand job is?’
Abbey Wood, Anerley, Balham, Barking & Dagenham, Barnes, Battersea, Belgravia, Bermondsey, Biggin Hill, Blackheath, Brixton, Brockley, Camberwell, Canary Wharf, Catford, Charlton, Chelsea, Chessington, Clapham, Dagenham, Deptford, Dulwich, Earls Court, Earl’s Court, East Dulwich, Eltham, Forest Hill, Fulham, Gipsy Hill, Herne Hill, Kennington, Knightsbridge, Lee Green, Malden, Merton, Mortlake, Mottingham, New Cross, New Malden, Nine Elms, Norwood, Parsons Green, Peckham, Pimlico, Putney, Rainham, Romford, Rotherhithe, Sloane Square, South Bank, South Kensington, South London, South Norwood, Stockwell, Streatham, Surbiton, Sydenham, Tatsfield, Thamesmead, Tooting Bec, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
I had worked on Bolton market for six months, forcing myself out of bed at 3.30 every morning to spend 11 hours knee-deep in guts and giblets, selling trays of dubious fish and chicken at three for a fiver. The freezing cold and the smell I had grown used to, but the pinched expressions of fellow passengers on the bus journey home still brought about a great deal of embarrassment. It couldn’t be denied, in the inverted language of market traders I was lemsy (smelly) from deelo (old) fish. Word inversion was useful when you didn’t want customers to understand. ‘Tar attack!’ would have all the workers scuttling for higher ground onto splintered pallets or battered boxes of chicken thighs stacked at the back of the stall as a rat the size of a bulldog decided it was time for mayhem. Originally dubbed ‘the poor man’s market’ in what was a working man’s town built on the prosperity of the local cotton mills, Bolton market was subsidised by the council to provide cheap food and clothing for low-income workers. (In a flourish of affluent delusion it has since been completely refurbished and modernised. The rats get to scamper around on fitted nylon carpets amid designer lighting franchises. An elegant coffee shop offering vanilla slices on dainty china now occupies the spot where once the best meat and potato pie sandwiches in Lancashire were messily consumed by fishy-fingered stall workers like me.) It was an undemanding job both physically and mentally, which suited me fine. Stress was for the rich and hardworking, characteristics that were never going to be heading my way. That’s not to say that I was content. A string of menial jobs had taught me that contentment is not always found on the path of least resistance, but I had found myself meandering towards that monotonous British lifestyle of schooljobpensioncoffin, and something needed to be done fast.
The young couple spoke in singsong Wolverhampton tones, an accent that I’m ashamed to say I find hard to take seriously. It was as such when Wayne announced on the last day of his holiday that he’d be back in a few weeks. Sure he would, I thought. However, one morning after a frenzied breakfast rush, Joy and I sat flicking baby cockroaches across the bar top when suddenly, Wayne appeared in the doorway. ‘All right?’ he waved. ‘Us told you I’d be back, didn’t I?’ He was alone. Becky had not been as convinced as him about stepping out of the dole queue in Wolverhampton to make a new life for herself overseas. ‘Us dumped her, us did. She wasn’t for moving, boring cow.’ Wayne was one of the many wannabes who we had automatically strung along with half-hearted suggestions of employment if he ever returned, which naturally we thought he wouldn’t. ‘If you come back, look us up. We might have work for you,’ we said. It’s surprising what benevolence four large beers can evoke. Fortunately for Wayne, he arrived at a time when we were wondering who we could find that would work for low wages in appalling conditions, and be trusted to put more pesetas in the till than they would take out. We had all liked Wayne. He was cheeky but sincere. He had no reservations about telling us of his dodgy past and short spells spent at her Majesty’s pleasure, then quickly adding ‘but that was all in the past’. We decided that we would give him a few DIY jobs, coupled with a few hours collecting glasses during the busy times. In return, we could pay him just enough money to afford rental on a studio apartment and would also provide him with a meal while he was working.