Bloody hopeless

There then followed the most extraordinary evening in which, each time we hankered for food or additional refreshment or just the sound of an Australian voice, we had to go off and stand by the kitchen doors until we caught someone emerging. Some of the other few diners were doing likewise. During one foray I asked a man with an empty beer glass if he dined here often.

"Wife likes the view," he explained, and we looked across the room to a plump little woman who gave us a small but cheery wave.

"Service is a bit slow, don't you think?

Bloody hopeless," he agreed.

In the morning a new man was behind the front desk. "And how did you enjoy your stay, sir?" he asked smoothly. "It was singularly execrable," I replied. "Oh, excellent," he purred, taking my card.

"In fact, I would go so far as to say that the principal value of a stay in this establishment is that it is bound to make all subsequent service-related experiences seem, in comparison, refreshing."

He made a deeply appreciative expression as if to say, "Praise indeed," and presented my bill for signature. "Well, we hope you'll come again."

"I would sooner have bowel surgery in the woods with a stick."

His expression wavered, then held there for a long moment. "Excellent," he said again, but without a great show of conviction.

--Bill Bryson, In a Sunburned Country