Like namesake Tony, the Tudor Blair Inn is not to everyone's tastes... If you like grime, disappointment and bad watercolours, this place might be the one for you.

 Upon arrival, guests are treated not to a key, but to a small, brown (a recurring theme at the hotel), plastic card which is apparently "ever so simple" to use. It's not. It's a bit crap. Not a man to be deterred by the failings of a brown plastic key, I entered the room after traipsing up several dank staircases to be met by a sight as depressing as a sandwich dropped in a puddle. A sagging bed, cramped furniture (brown, inevitably) and a television cruelly stolen from its true home in an electronics museum... The TV had been considerately positioned pointing high towards the ceiling - great if you're a giraffe, less good if you're not. 

A cup of tea would solve everything, and luckily a kettle was provided... Less lucky was the penis drawn on the mirror that was revealed as the water boiled beneath it. Still, at least the powdered whitener for the tea did enough to (almost) put me out of my misery. 

Call me a traditionalist, but I like to come out of the shower cleaner than when I entered... The shower curtain (held up by a few re-used paper clips) was probably quite nice when it was new, but it looked less good after its apparent use as back-up toilet roll. The bathroom was big enough to crouch down very tightly in, and the opportunity to wash my hair whilst also standing at the toilet was a novelty I'll remember for a long time.

I asked if breakfast was served and what a fine rendition of a morning at a concentration camp the Blair Tudor offered. A slice or two of rank bread, accompanied by the mournful gazes of other souls remembering with sadness the money lost on this dingy hole.

This hotel did have some redeeming features, namely a vast selection of tourist guides. It was nice to see the owners were aware that visitors would need plenty to do to keep them away from the Auschwitz of South London.

If you like pink (stained) walls, repeated disappointment and a penis on a mirror, then head to London's finest hotel named after a former prime minister called Tony.