As I sit in The Chicago Boston Celtics Hotel in The Loop, Chicago, I am interrupted by another revised itinerary being slid under the door. This time the "team meeting" (lunch) is being postponed and "the match" (dinner) will be served earlier around 5PM to compensate. I sigh, my stomach grumbling in pointless protest at something beyond our means to resolve, with all the tenacity of a #main regular. Rather than letting that spoil my day, I decide to make a new entry for my fledgling travel guide.

I'd been passionate about writing every since I was a youngster forced to endure awful performances at the Chicago Stadium every Saturday by my parents. Fortunately I had been given a notepad one afternoon by a shifty looking hot dog vendor and scribbling in it had helped me pass the time. My early efforts had mainly been making "Marleau Sucks" signs and distributing them out, much to the delight of the 6 other spectators.

Once I grew tired of that I began to write about the things I had seen and enjoyed or not enjoyed (Chicago Stadium) as the case may be. I had been doing that intermittently ever since and today was going to be no different. 

Having embarked upon a career in the American underworld, I found myself in Seattle, a charming city on the West Coast, founded in 1851. Mob activity seems to be thriving in the area based upon the amount of corpses littering the streets and the lightning bolt that split Curtis in two is still fresh enough to cause the copious hairs on my knuckles to stand on end. There is a real buzz of excitement (note: this is gold, DD, you should do more of these) in the air and high hopes for the future.

I was fortunate enough to be welcomed into the headquarters of a-true-soprano, reputed leader of P.U.R.G.E - a sizable operation established within Pioneer Square - wherein I was shown to a charming ocean-view room although I was made to carry my own bags which I was a little underwhelmed by.

The room had all the features one would expect for a budget hotel on a peaceful city break; reinforced interior door, new fangled double-glazed windows complete with steel bars, to drown out the barking of the guard dogs patrolling the perimeter and even a small wooden desk where one could compose their thoughts on the differences between a true and fake soprano. The answer? Nobody cares.

The strength of the fortifications are a real selling point for P.U.R.G.E. I survived an attempt on my life whilst enjoying a Indian head massage from the on-site spa without even noticing who did it; the maimed leg of Bombay hanging limply from the barbed wire around the 20 foot perimeter wall the only clue anything had occurred.

Sadly, it isn't all sunshine and rainbows. Social Activies Director Bin-D1esel left a lot to be desired and his innovative but ultimately unrewarding nightly perusal of the lost property didn't really hit the mark with my fellow residents. This was quite disappointing, especially when I had heard that there was a spot in New York where they engaged in riveting debates around the "Hawthorn Affect" and the "Bystander Affect", at least some of which was likely focused upon the difference between effect and affect. Even though I knew that level of entertainment would be difficult to replicate, I still expected a little more.  

I was also particularly dismayed to find that their mapping room was entirely empty without a Durden in sight. Cartography has clearly been not been prioritised, however their '-48 hours Gangster Viewing Post' was in full working order albeit coming at the price of "no rank restrictions on upper structure", which was a little beyond my budget.

Overall, if you're looking to spend a couple of weeks out West enjoying the sights and sounds of the world famous Grinble Beach (note: make sure you visit here before publishing to make it seem active), safe in the knowledge that the local dweebs aren't going to be able to get you, you could certainly do a lot worse than staying in P.U.R.G.E.

7/10. Would come back. 

Pablo Ryman had recently been spending time in Seattle working on his shooting, working on it so long he had missed his flight back.  Cromwell had insisted on shooting training to start straight away and with everyone knowing that the best basketball franchises outside Chicago were found at the courts in Pioneer Square Pablo Ryman had headed Way Out West.

It was a pleasure to hear that Grinble Beach was still up and running.  Pablo Ryman had learned to play on the local Pensacola Nine Holer and fancied testing himself on the longer links course.  What a gift!

"Thank you for this Grin-DD, it is great that you are doing this hard work reviewing the cities.  It can be so hard remaining focussed on each upcoming game as they come thick and fast that we can miss the things going on in front of our faces."

Having spent an on again off again career at the NY Orlando Magic Ron was overjoyed to be joining the number one franchise of boston based chicago.....oh I don't know, what Cromwell says.

I like my basketball like I like my sex, one on one with as little dribbling as possible.

Lets play ball!

Having spent a significant amount of time watching the Basketball Battles of Seattle & having some ties to the Sonics, Cognito had read the Grin-DD review, nodding at the depravity of the Chicago Stadium.

A fair, yet humble review of Seattle sir, I do hope this will be a regular guide!

Startled by Rons proclamation Cognito had to question

You've had sex? 

Why indeed I have Ian_Cognito

and very efficient it was too.

Grin-DD's casual nature surrounding his travel guide had led to malcontents like Ryman_Branson getting their greedy little paws on it before it was ready for final publication. He had discovered the robbery when he retired for the evening, having spent a melancholic evening in The Chicago Boston Celtics' Common Room swapping stories about LEGEND. The franchise stalwart had been gunned down before his chance to shine in the playoffs, reputedly not due to a 1 in 100 gun calamity like so many of his contemporaries, but instead a victim of a gunman who's rod only got hard by making others' experiences miserable. Vic-Reynolds had begun by trying to shoot mob bosses. When this no longer kept his pecker hard, he turned his sights even higher, to the fabled #6 of the Chicago Boston Celtics. A tragedy.

Grin-DD hadn't known LEGEND and yet after that evening he felt like he had done. The palpable sadness had eventually become too much though and he finished his drink, adding it to Cromwell's tab, before heading upstairs. Upon his return, the unmistakable scent of unwashed try-hardiness together with the tread marks of clubfooted golf shoes seldom removed had revealed the identity of the thief. Branson had stolen it and distributed it with all the glee of a #main never-achiever chancing upon a steaming pile of shit not yet fully stirred. 

A hastily made return to the Common Room found Ryman, standing in front of the locker with LEGEND's name on it, reading the latest entry aloud. 

Having enjoyed my time in Seattle, I had an urge to head east and to a quiet little spot in South Philadelphia. Bookings in this place are hard to come by and despite making numerous calls, I had never received an answer. I thought I would chance it anyway and as I pulled my bags through the weather-beaten timbers of the reinforced front gate, I was greeted by an empty reception. Self-catering, I assumed.

A few chimes on the bell at the concierge desk later, I spotted a note pinned haphazardly across one of the pigeonholes behind the desk:

Half capacity. Not arsed. Take a key, leave your money on the desk. Or don't, who even fucking cares?

The swearing told me that the resort was probably adults-only, which was a big selling point for me at that moment in time; I didn't need to hear kicking and screaming over every little thing that didn't go someone's way. After all, I could step out for coffee in the most popular spot in the country and listen to that any time I wanted. 

Trusty room key under my arm, I was pleased to discover that the fortifications surrounding the leafy hotel, although a little aged, were still more than a match for incompetent bumpkins like GailTheSnail and Stanleysteamer, each battling the other to trip over their own shoes the fastest and bungle the hit.

I was surprised to find that despite it being deathly silent within Untitled Project, more than half of the rooms were occupied. Knocking on the doors of my fellow residents yielded no responses and their "Do Not Disturb" door hangers discouraged me from entering. I thought at one stage I caught a glimpse of the proprietor of the establishment out by the tranquility pool, however when I went down to investigate it was a bit like looking for Selena's witness statement, a search in vain. 

Aside from that, I was left entirely to myself to take-in the facilities for the duration of my visit. I savoured a relaxing first evening in the empty rap battle bar and followed it with a morning of blissful serenity in one of 15 unoccupied sun loungers adorning the roof terrace. Once I was a healthy crimson, I walked the grounds, pleased that the tasteful birdsong, artificially pumped around the venue via an intricate speaker system, did a good job of drowning out the lame threats of impotent old Osiris, restricting them entirely to his own cave. 

Tired from my exploits, I chose to forego an evening in the empty restaurant and instead enjoyed a platter of homemade sandwiches in my room.

Overall 6.5/10. Good for a weekend break, tedious if forced to stay longer.