As you know, the Cotswolds are monstrously pretentious.

All the normal, sheep-dating, straw-chewing, pitchforking folk were carted off a long time ago to somewhere less bucolic and replaced with herds of west London creatives, the sort who like to tell each other how pleased they are to have moved out of the smoke – even though they haven’t, because the Cotswolds is just Chiswick with the odd organic cow.

Where gates are painted in Farrow & Ball to match the window boxes with ornamental lettuces in them. Where there are no pubs, only gastropubs with aïoli and cracked pepper and shiitake-mushroom omelettes. And where there are no shopkeepers, only artisans.

Sorry. Anyway, rumour had it that a hotel had opened that was pretentious even by Cotswoldian standards. Its name, rather irritatingly, is Cotswolds88. In its sensible old days, it was the Painswick Hotel. Unsubstantiated reports at Tripadvisor.com were by turns scathing and praising.

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Rumour also had it that the owner, Marchella De Angelis – who is into vibes and feng shui and numerology (hence that “88”) – wanted her new pad to be for people of a certain lifestyle, that she wanted to create the right atmosphere, that she might even refuse inappropriately attired guests at the door. It is reported that one unfortunate was asked to leave after complaining about the piped music.

So, in the interests of all you common folk, you chaps who might struggle to meet a benchmark of style and good taste, I was dispatched to check out the rumours.

How would Marchella and her staff at Cotswolds88 cope with a man of unsophisticated tastes and appalling dress sense? (I’m a terribly good actor.) First, I attempted to book a room online ... and failed, because this is a website wedged firmly up its own cyber-sphincter.

You can’t click on rooms, restaurant, facilities or anything normal. Instead, there’s The Discovery, The Experience, The Essence, The Art of Taste, each filled with the sort of utter drivel that makes you want to hurl into a sick bag, then post that sick bag to the web designer.

So I phoned. That went better. Then I pitched up at the hotel in a car that was not an Audi estate and attempted to stay the night. Disappointingly, despite my white shoes, bad jeans, football top, bum bag, train-spotter’s cagoule and brightly coloured rucksack, I was welcomed without so much as a curled lip.

I would even go so far as to say that the girl at reception was charming. She was also beautiful. I wanted to explain to her that I don’t normally wear a bum bag, that it was all just a ruse, that I was cool and trendy, but I kept my cover. I even asked for a Daily Express in the morning. She didn’t bat an eyelid.

She showed me to my room. It was everything that has gone wrong with the world. It was a box with a shower attached. For £155. Isn’t that a lot of money for a night in a box?

It had a smattering of apparently trendy furniture, a tiny TV bolted, motel-style, to the wall and, oh, how exciting, some Kiehl’s products. The view of the Painswick valley was as good as any view in the world ... but £155!

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