‘I can’t hate the whole glittery, meretricious shebang, because the staff are lovely’
Obviously I go to Trump Turnberry with prejudices fully erect. Of all the lies the orange plank spouts on an hourly basis, I particularly enjoyed his “The people of Scotland love Trump International Golf Links” and “I have a 93% approval rating in Scotland” tweets. Newsflash: there is nothing the people of Scotland love about you, #presidentbawbag. Nor me: I’m claws unleashed, drooling with the wrong kind of anticipation.
And, yes, there’s a lot to loathe. I dislike being told, on phoning for the hotel’s preferred taxi number to pick us up from Girvan, to grab one from the taxi rank. Women at the otherwise deserted, sleet-strafed station laugh at us: “Haw, naw. There’s no a rank till Ayr.” Pointing this out to hotel reception, we’re told: “A lot of people take helicopters – three grand from Prestwick airport.” I dislike being hassled to sign up for a “Starwood Hotels Preferred Guest” account. And I hate that the hotel celebrates Scottishness in a way only a tourist can love: charming doormen waft you indoors in full kilted regalia, complete with soaring feathers in bonnets; here’s the Scottish Tartans Authority on how to wear the kilt: “Festooning yourself with sword, dirk, targe, powder horn and – a cardinal sin – feathers in your bonnet, are not the way to go.” Me to cheery, costumed chap: “Do you like wearing that?” “No, I’m bloody freezing.” There’s even a poor piper compelled to skirl into the kitchen a hapless crew eating at that horribly entitled concept, the “chef’s table”: eminently detestable.
Related: The Patricia, Newcastle upon Tyne: ‘A little belter’ – restaurant review | Marina O’Loughlin
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