A friend recently went to view a flat for sale. When I asked her what she thought of the property, she replied: “It had nothing to recommend it.” This uncharitable phrase popped into my head frequently during my stay at Dukes Hotel in Mayfair. Normally, I would be chuffed to be in St James’s Place. Byron lived near by, Green Park is on the doorstep, and there is a gun and rifle shop on the corner. What’s not to like?

Plenty, actually. The room, even though it was a junior suite, was poky. Dukes has been refurbished, but it looks like the designer either got fed up halfway through and walked off in a huff, or was fired. Our room was painted a dull sort of grey. The prints on the wall were of flowers; so, too, were the curtains. The cupboards were mahogany, and the bathroom black. Very black, and completely tiled. I liked this, although I did feel as if I was shaving in a batcave.

A book had been left in the room, presumably to entertain guests, called Hotspur: Eighty Years of Antique Dealing.

There was no view. Actually, that’s not true. There was a view, when I managed to fight my way through the net curtains. A clear, rather grand view of HSBC’s Mayfair branch. I resisted the temptation to check on my overdraft. The bankers had all gone home anyway, or, more likely, out for drinks on my money.

I went first to the health club. It was tiny and in the basement, so I went to the bar instead, which was humming like a StairMaster, due in no small part to the presence of several Italian-looking men in white coats who were dispensing Martinis. I had one. It was an impressive process: a spray of vermouth, a twist of lemon and about half a pint of vodka.

I enjoyed it so much that I had another. This was a mistake. I had dinner, but little recollection of what I ate. Some fish was involved – hake, possibly – but I didn’t think much of it and nor did my sober companion. There were also some asparagus spears and a duck’s egg. It’s possible that I went dancing with Amy Winehouse afterwards. I don’t know how she felt the next day, but I at least was ready for rehab. It didn’t help that I was woken by the sound of rubbish being collected at seven in the morning.

Was there nothing to like? There is rather a nice green carpet on the stairs. I was also keen on the wood-handled razor they gave me. Now that I can recommend.

Bottom line: Rupert Wright paid £404 for a junior suite. Full English breakfast is £19.50. Dinner for two with drinks was £132.75.
Need to know: Dukes Hotel, St James’s Place, London SW1A 1NY (020-7491 4840, www.dukeshotel.com).
Sampling the fare: Martinis are magnificent. The food was British – asparagus, fish, meat – and generally uninspiring.
Access all areas: No.
Best thing: The location.
Worst thing: The curtains.

Room: 4 out of 10.
Food: 6 out of 10.
Service: 6 out of 10.
Value: 4 out of 10.

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