Saturday looked set for being as dull as a double-sinkful of dishwater, but was rescued at the last minute by lastminute.com who advertise hotels “within an hour of London”. Figuring that at 5.15pm we'd probably get even better deals than lastminute.com by calling places direct, we stuck a pin in the map, got on the phone, and got a half price deal in a 4* hotel. In Datchet.

Datchet is a small village near Windsor. This is the first of an extremely short series: We Go To Small Commuter Belt Villages So You Don't Have To.

The hotel dominates the village green, the exterior possibly dating from Tudor times but the interior having been refashioned into a fairly unpleasant haven for sexually frustrated businessmen. On lastminute.com they advertised the place as “perfect for a romantic weekend” with special deals on champagne breakfasts and Valentine soirées, but the first thing we saw was a group of 5 men wearing suits and lapel badges, guffawing loudly, while around a corner a 40-year old woman, freezing cold and clad in a raincoat, meekly asked a man carrying a hoover where she could get changed; I was paying little attention, distracted by the pastel prints and leather furniture, but later Jenny said to me “I can't believe they've hired a stripper.” Whether she was right or not, I've no idea, but if any stripping was to take place, our room was right above it. Right above us was the main Heathrow flightpath. A neat sandwich.

We explored the village, which took 8 minutes. Aside from the hotel bar there were 2 pubs, one with karaoke, pool and several men in leather jackets; the other one was designed for the more discerning drinker. That's us! I bought the drinks, Jenny sat down on her own, and was immediately assessed for chat-up potential by two swarthy men near the door. Jenny looked at her watch, to communicate the fact that she was waiting for someone, and made a point of not going over to them and saying “Hello lads! I'm new in town, and you look like the kind of boys to show a girl a good time.”

Back in the hotel, the restaurant was completely empty. This was because, as we later discovered, the food was expensive and unappetising. An odourless liquid referred to on the menu as “wine” came in at just under £20. Jenny ordered a main course but asked if they could refrain from including the advertised bits of ham; the friendly waitress said “of course!” and then returned 3 minutes later to say that in fact no, they couldn't do that. This conjured up an image of a pre-prepared “gourmet selection pack” which was distributed to all the hotels in the chain and simply shoved in the microwave. I could rant at length about this meal, but I'll just look snobbish and ungrateful, especially when I tell you that when we checked out the next day they didn't actually charge us for any of it.

On Sunday morning, in the words of Aztec Camera, we took a Walk Out To Windsor. Small fat boys played rugby, cheered on by large fat parents. As we crossed the Thames, Windsor Castle hoved into view. “Now that is just stupidly massive,” said Jenny. She was right. The Queen wasn't in. She'd probably gone to her pleasant 2-bedroom flat around the corner which she can at least heat properly with Economy 7.

In a beauty shop I noticed some “Silk Essence Body Splash” and “Time Correcting Creme With Line Blox Complex”. My Edinburgh Festival show about beauty products ticks along nicely.

In Body Shop I bought some moisturiser. The girl behind the counter looked at me. “Thank you sir. Do you have a Love Your Body card?” I looked back at her. We both burst out laughing.