Filth, squalor, stains, dodgy electrics – I spent the night in Britain’s worst hotel and what I saw will haunt my dreams
WITH its foul smell, stained bedsheets and dead insects on the walls, guests have described Minster Garth hotel as like something from a horror film.
Foul-mouthed owner John Dixon was in court last week after falsely claiming the rundown Georgian lodgings in the market town of Beverley, near Hull, was a four-star guest house.
John, 60, who has been likened to John Cleese’s nightmare hotelier Basil Fawlty, received a suspended jail sentence after claiming he had now refurbished it.
So is the “hotel from hell” a bit more heavenly now?
We sent Josh Saunders to stay a night . . .
11:00: At just under £45 for a room — nearly half the price of nearby places — I book into the allegedly four-star hotel.
Reviews online are enough to make anyone think twice, though, with an average of one and a half stars on Tripadvisor.
And of the 416 reviews left on the site, 294 rate it as “terrible”, while a surprising 29 consider it “excellent”.
One negative comment reads: “People should be paid danger money to go there rather than themselves have to pay. Her Majesty’s Prisons, I suspect, offer better accommodation.”
A second compared staying at the grotty lodgings to a Bushtucker Trial from ITV’s I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of here!.
15:30: Just a stone’s throw from the gothic masterpiece of Beverley Minster church, the rundown hotel appears to be a stain on the area.
Outside, in pride of place, sits a rusting toy dog and boat, the latter filled with old electric cables.
Empty Stella Artois cans, a broken comb and a decomposing gardening glove rest on gravel near the hotel’s sign.
With no reception, guests text the owner to receive codes for the front door and for a lockbox that holds the keys for their bedroom.
Within minutes my code arrives, and when I step inside, the smell of cigarette smoke stings my nostrils.
The hall contains a ragged armchair, vending machine, leaflets for nearby attractions and a security camera, twisted so it faces cobwebs on the wall.
A sign nearby reads, “Ring for attention. Please wait three to four minutes” — but the doorbell has been removed.
15:45: In my room I’m hit by another waft of smoke and a musty, bog-like stench.
The chipped white walls are covered with stains, from coffee to black finger marks and a mysterious yellow gunk.
Every light fitting has a thick layer of cobwebs and dust. It is so deep on some that several spiders appear to have been mummified.
A painting of Parisian art district Montmartre has a worrying red zig-zag stain that appears to be dried blood.
I raise the window blinds, only for them to fall back down like in a comedy sketch — but what’s behind them is no laughing matter.
The window sills are blackened with mould and appear, in parts, to be rotting.
On a night of heavy rainfall I think I’d need to go to bed under a brolly.
16:00: As I go to hang my coat in the wardrobe, I see three squished spiders on the wall and crumbled paint on the floor.
Spotting several white marks on the bed’s blue quilt, I feel a bit queasy and walk into the bathroom, which only intensifies my sick feeling.
While shower gel has kindly been provided (or left behind), it’s clear the owners have forgotten to clean.
A dark black ring of dirt runs along the inside of the toilet, while dust coats a broken fan.
As I stare in the bathroom mirror I’m alerted to another red blood-like stain on the door frame behind me.
I increasingly feel like I’m on the set of a horror movie.
Spotting several white marks on the bed’s blue quilt, I feel a bit queasy.
16:30: Wandering through the property, which has an unlucky 13 rooms, it is silent and eerie. Dotted around are multiple “Covid-19 hygiene stations” with hand sanitiser. I wish they had as much consideration for cleanliness inside the rooms.
Outside, down an overgrown alleyway, the courtyard is like a building site, with bags of soil, tools and even a rickety ladder stacked against the walls.
17:00: I become the unofficial doorman and welcome a gang of four contractors who are banging on the door.
Sad expressions soon spread across their faces as they look around.
“It’s not so bad,” one says optimistically.
“Are you on crack?” teases a second, while another sighs as he says: “What a s**thole.
“I’m probably better off sleeping in a tree or on the bench outside.”
17:30: More quirks become clear in my shabby room, including a tear in the carpet, several gunshot-like holes in the wall and a dodgy-looking electrical socket by the bed.
MYSTERIOUS POWDER
I notice a purple rag, covered in dust, stuffed behind the TV. When I remove it the screen wobbles and tilts at an odd angle.
Inside a grubby drawer I spot pencil shavings, hairs and mysterious white powder. In another there is a laminated flyer from the management with smudged blue ink.
Addressed to guests, it ironically instructs: “Please be so kind as to leave any items clean on departure.”
18:00: At the nearby Lord Nelson pub, locals smirk when they hear where I’m staying. “You mean the Monster Garth?” one lady says with a chuckle.
“That’s what everyone calls it here and we call him Willy W***er because he walks around wearing a top hat.”
18:30: Outside, retired Grice, 73, tells me: “It’s an appalling place. It’s well known in the area. It used to have a sign saying women aren’t welcome.
“I wouldn’t stop there even if you paid me.” Kathy, 61, who works as an administrator, flatly brands it “a s**thole”. She adds: “It’s run-down, tired, dirty, old. It shouldn’t be advertised as a guest house.
VERBAL ABUSE
“The people who stay there tend to be visitors or tourists from overseas, so they don’t know the area and don’t spot the red flags.”
Most locals refuse to give their names out of fear, but claim to have witnessed weird goings-on over the past several years.
Several express concern about the guests staying there, describing some as “undesirables, the homeless and addicts”.
Others claim to have been yelled at or witnessed others receiving verbal abuse while walking past.
As I lie down, the sharp prod of a mattress spring stabs my shoulder blade.
19:00: Back at the Minster Garth my belly is rumbling, but apart from what’s in the vending machine, there is nothing to eat.
I pay £1.50 for chicken-flavoured instant noodles — which turn out to be five months out of date.
I take my chances anyway and boil the kettle. As I eye the limescale inside, I see a small bug scurry around on the table.
There are no plates, bowls or utensils. When I texted owner John about it earlier in the day, he told me: “If you want to extend your stay I can bring plates tomorrow.”
It would take more than that to make me want to stay another night.
So I crumble my dried noodle block into a mug and tuck into it with a teaspoon.
21:00: Starting to get a little tired, I peel back the bedcovers and shudder after spotting two reddish marks on the sheets. I try not to think about what a UV light might unveil.
As I lie down, the sharp prod of a mattress spring stabs my shoulder blade.
22:00: Loud thudding outside interrupts the sound of boy racers darting up and down the road. “Open the f***ing door, NOW,” a male voice yells.
“I spent £90 to stay here, I want my money back.”
He is arguing with someone by the doorway and shouts: “I’ll spark you out! Come on bro, let’s go! I’m 20, I could spark you out!”
I hear a loud smack and pained noises.
A gentleman lies on the ground. He is sporting a fresh black eye and marks on his legs.
As I go to him, he tells me: “He asked for some tobacco but then demanded money from me.
“I was punched and kicked. The guy was off his head, his eyes were all over the place.
“He was kicked out because he had multiple people in his room. I don’t know why he attacked me. My friends call this place Amityville Horror, I can’t wait to leave.”
Back in my room, I double check my door is locked.
01:00: I’ve tossed and turned for hours.
Despite sleeping on top of the quilt and in my clothes, with my jacket as a blanket, my skin feels oddly itchy.
I can also hear a constant mechanical bleeping noise in the distance and I wonder if I’ve gone mad. I force pillows around my face in a bid to drown it out or suffocate myself to sleep.
ITCHY SKIN
02:00: Unable to nod off, I trace the offensive sound to an archaic box that looks like an old fire alarm system on the first floor.
On the screen I see the word “fault”, but with no one to complain to, I retire to my room.
06:00: After maybe a couple of hours of sleep I am woken up by light shining through several slash marks in the blinds.
Checkout is not for a while but I’m not hanging around.
Hours later, when I put my findings to owner John over the phone, he tells me: “I’m afraid my wife doesn’t want me to say anything and I have to respect her wishes.” He hangs up and ignores all follow-up messages I send.
Before that though, I’ve headed for an early train — and the relative paradise of the Hull railway station waiting room.
My night in the house of horrors is finally over and I have lived to tell the tale.
Just.