To The Pig in the Forest for my beloved wife’s birthday, an annual excursion that is now part of our DNA. It’s something I recommend to all, pass through the reassuringly sturdy gates and the world in all its shittiness suddenly cannot touch you…

Oh Lord it can! A young couple on one of the many splendid couches in the common areas are virtually having sexual intercourse – and they’ve taken their shoes off. One of them obviously has rich parents (I’d bet a kidney it’s her) as it’s £450 a night here – while stud-boy is seemingly having a bit of a laugh until he gets back to his ‘proper dirty’ girlfriend in Southampton. One hour later and they are still grinding away and licking each other’s rosy cheeks.

And here’s the rub… if this was a gay couple engaged in such activity there would be strong words with the management about ‘this sort of thing’ being shoved ‘in our faces.’ Yet Tamsin and Rupert can exchange bodily fluids on the Chesterfield as they’re normal healthy young folk. Grrrr.

The hotel serves 58 types of very expensive gin so I cool my anger at the over enthusiastic lovers by getting stuck in to gin that is flavoured with stuff I have to Google. As it ominously slides down rather too easily I begin to watch the people who don’t go to expensive hotels – oh man they’re so easy to spot! A nervous sweat is always upon them when confronted by the toilet etiquette – the joint male/female bog really throws ‘em! I usually piss in the immaculately tended shrubbery whilst having a fag/vape as it keeps things simple. ‘It’s just wrong’ thinks Daily Mail reader Dave from Havant who is here for his mother’s 93rd birthday. Mum will probably piss herself later anyway Dave, so just enjoy it…

I tell my wife how I imagined Stephen Hawking’s performance on Jeffrey Epstein’s Orgy Island would have panned out and we splutter and chortle. This gag surely has legs once it is fine-tuned.

I take a break from being brim-full of vitriol to check the hotels demographic:

*Botoxed blonde MILFs: 2
*Botoxed blonde GILFs: 4
*Trustafarian girl on couch: 1
*Trustafarian girl’s boyfriend with a semi: 1
*Flustered white mothers with spoilt kids: 12
*Slightly pissed husbands of flustered white mothers who’d rather be in Rhyl than with said spoilt kids: 12
*Far-right old white men over 50 who know their world is surely gonna end one day: 11
*Not quite-so-far-right men under 50 who have fantasised about Suella Braverman sucking their cock: 11
*Unhappy alcoholic wives of the above who would shag you behind the tractor shed if you asked: 22
*Very serious Chinese students who have no idea why they are here: 2
*People who’d rather be at home watching the Masked Singer but feel they ‘ought to go somewhere nice for the weekend’ : 18
*Very pompous and horrifyingly judgemental bastards: 1 (hello)
*Cute perfect wife of above: 1
*Children: too fucking many.

Whilst vaping at the magnificent entrance that is framed by stone hunting dogs and dressed with Spirograph standard raked gravel I put aside my ‘fresh mint’ vaperesso mix to be fascinated by the personalised number plates on show, each fixed to a Land Rover Discovery or one of those really stupid huge Porsche people carrier things (I thought a Porsche was a fucking sports car?). Hmmm. Who is 8 BEN S? What unknown pleasure does ST8VE get every morning as he gets into the tanker-sized Audi with blacked-out windows? Does he bash one out before pressing his thumb to the ignition button? I want to sign my name on the registration card at reception as ‘GL54DLJ’ but I feel it might fall on stony ground…

The wonderful staff are mostly ginger, and I am convinced they are all not-so-distantly related, the exception is a charming and intelligent young man with a mop of black hair like a Greek girl’s fanny who surely deserves better than to be in a pink shirt and a pinny serving a bastard like me on a Saturday. I am so nice to him I’m convinced he’s nervous that I’m going to make an offer of ‘something nice in the tractor shed.’ He, like all the splendid staff, are surely only here for the short-term until their careers in the Foreign Office or Investment Banking take off.

48 Hours Later

I don’t believe it! The face-eating couple are still here, in the same clothes (like rich people do) and still surgically attached to each other’s faces – it’s now like the first Alien movie on the sofa. I am so close to ‘saying something’ or complaining to the management. I want to prise them apart with a tyre iron and douse them in freezing water pumped from the sheep trough…

“Moses on a bike! It’s pathetic! Go upstairs; or do what we had to do at your age and fuck in a field, I hadn’t seen the inside of a hotel until I was twenty, and you indulgent odd-smelling posh narcissists are leaving fluids all over the Chesterfield in the Drawing Room.” And I bet they don’t vote.

This does not happen. Live and let live ducky; as the great Allan Bennett told us. I decide a mango ice tea vape will cool my anger and it does – I admire the gnarled wonder of the New Forest trees in January, Long Tailed Tits dancing across their moss coated boughs. This alleviates the never-ending rage I feel towards selfish white upper class idiots whose time has surely come…

Have we been here before?