#so until the roadworks were finished they stayed with us - a literal 8-minute walk away from the arena

[lotstradamus]

the image of manchester united being dumb lil shits at your hotel has very much made my evening, thank you. (though i am sure you do not feel the same on this being actually on the receiving end.)

omg I wasn’t allowed to talk about it when I worked there, and then when I left I just plain forgot because I have no cause or desire to think about football, but for your entertainment here is my personal favourite story SLASH NIGHTMARE that happened to me: 

the hotel is within walking distance of Old Trafford, so when Man Utd stayed before games they were sharing the hotel with four other floors all packed full of - if we were lucky - mostly oblivious fans. naturally, they arrived at the quietest possible time, through the back, and didn’t leave their floor. as front office staff we weren’t allowed, under pain of yell, to confirm the presence of Filthy Rich Twenty Year Old Pro Athletes in the building. Manchester Evening News posted pictures of them walking into the hotel, but if someone said ‘hey, so Man Utd are here?’ we had to be like ‘WHO???’ (after the first time they stayed, people started booking with us BECAUSE Man Utd did, which was why they eventually had to start sneaking in through the back, but I did once get to tell a little kid ‘No, sorry, Man United aren’t here, but tell your dad you should definitely be standing in reception at 9pm tonight’ and he got to meet Jesse Lingard and it was precious.) 

anyway, they brought their own security guards with them and posted them at either end of the corridor to make sure no one who shouldn’t be there snuck onto the floor, and DEFINITELY to make sure the players didn’t just come down into the reception in the middle of check-in time and walk straight into lobby full of Man Utd fans because they were told to GO DOWN THE EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRS AT THE END OF THE HALLWAY and they DID NOT LISTEN and were just like Haha, I’ll Get In The Lift ! Weeeee ! (this happened.) truly just epic dinguses. and BECAUSE they were Epic Dinguses, they would constantly call the front desk because they forget to pack a toothbrush or got locked out of their rooms. CONSTANTLY. one shift I talked to what felt like EVERY MEMBER OF THE 2018 TEAM on the GODDAMN PHONE. 

so one time, Ander Herrera (yes I had to google the roster) calls the desk from the massage room and says he was visiting someone else’s room and now he’s locked out of his. a regular degular occurrence; no cause for alarm. I said I would bring a new key up to the massage room for him. the ‘massage room’ was a really poncy name for what was basically a hotel room that housekeeping had taken the bed out of so they could set up their widdle massage tables, and the lock on the door was disabled so everyone could just wander in and out of it without needing a key. despite hearing the words ‘the massage room’ and saying the words ‘the massage room’ and, indeed, understanding the concept of a ‘massage room’, I DID NOT GRASP IT. I WAS TIRED, AND STRESSED, AND EVERY TIME I WENT TO THE FLOORS I HAD TO FIELD 478279 QUESTIONS FROM THE BAR STAFF ABOUT WHETHER I HAD BEEN TO A FOOTBALLER’S ROOM, AND I WAS JUST NOT FIRING ON ALL CYLINDERS.

I get up to the third floor, Foot Ball Habitat, and I’m like ‘hey security guard, Ander Herrera in 315 is locked out of his room, he asked if we could bring a new key to the massage room.’ and then I held out the key to the security guard, assuming that he would take it to The Massage Room. I was mistaken. idk if I was radiating I’m A Huge Professional Who Does Not Care About These Men energy or what, but he was just handwavingly like ‘no problem, you can take it down to him!’ and because I WAS a huge professional who did not care about these men, I TOOK IT TO THE STUPID MASSAGE(!) ROOM(!) MYSELF. 

I knock on the door. I hear ‘it’s open!’ I push the door open. and what am I greeted with? 

of course, I am greeting with the inner workings of A Massage Room!

there are two Manchester Utd players getting massages with tiny towels over their derrières. there are three more Manchester United players just hanging out, wearing tiny towels around their nèther règions. there is half fucking dressed Ander Herrera sitting on the sofa, waiting for his kèy. AND I HAD TO WALK INTO THAT HELLSCAPE AND GIVE THE MAN HIS KEY!!! 

listen: when I say my soul left my body, I am not exaggerating. I felt what only can be described as pure calm settle over me. my consciousness ollied THE FUCK out, and a customer service robot took over. I managed, through sheer force of will, to go totally blind. I have never IN MY LIFE been more professional. I don’t know if my face did anything other than turn freakishly blank, but I said ‘here’s your key’ and Ander Herrera said ‘thank you’ and I said ‘no worries’, and the customer service robot who was Ratatouilling my body got me the hell ass outta there. I even said thanks to the security guard who was partially responsible for the trauma I was currently living on my way past. he had no idea what had Happened To Me. 

I must have been slightly Gone behind the eyes still when I got back downstairs because the guys at the bar were like Uh, Are You Good? and when I relayed what had happened in what I’m sure was a completely normal voice they nearly cried. my front desk colleague wouldn’t let me answer the phone for the rest of the shift just in case nude football players needed anything else bringing to the massage room. (they did not.) when the general manager of the hotel came in on Monday morning he was like ‘sooooo I heard Man Utd gave you a strip tease?’ and I WASN’T. ALLOWED. TO TELL. ANYONE. 

to sum up: you literally never know WHAT is going to happen when you clock in for a shift at a hotel, and Ander Herrera if you’re reading this I hate your guts