When I actually considered that it would take roughly the same amount of time to travel from my Old Street door to La Gare du Nord as it would watching, say, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button on DVD, I took decisive and immediate action in booking a Yuletide sojourn to the City of Lights.

Paris was ascribed with this, its widely known moniker, on account of it being, in one epoch, the most lit city in the world. Indeed, in the early 19th century Paris, under the rule of Charles X, began lighting the Champs Elysées with gas lamps. It was the first city in Europe to do so.

Nowadays to see the city at its luminescent best, you’re advised to travel during the festive season, when the Champs Elysées’ ribbon of chestnut trees are littered in a sea of EDF charged twinkles. Standing at one end, looking up at this flat phallus of cobbles, the cinematic panorama is one synonymous with a quintessential translation of romance’s langue maternelle.

Proximity to the aforementioned was a prerequisite guiding my choice of hotel. At all costs I wanted to avoid the obligation of a daily peregrination via public transport, encountering an unnecessarily large amount of curt Parisian commuters – a seamless line of anger, wishing to engage you in Muay Thai kick-boxing – in order to visit the various castles of culture lining the Seine.

With this in mind, Le Bristol was perfect. A five hotel in a five star location within a five minute saunter from the five primary attractions (yes there are more, stop disrupting my flow will you), most important of which and the reason that I feel the need to regularly re-visit my town of birth, is the Eiffel Tower.

Not long ago Channel Five aired a programme called ‘Married to the Eiffel Tower: Strangelove’, which reported on a demographic of the sexually active population – oddly, exclusively women – categorised as ‘Objectum Sexuals’. These women were and are in love, with buildings and objects. As the title suggests, one woman decided that her feelings towards the Eiffel Tower should be formalised in matrimony. I, perhaps worryingly, feel empathy for this woman. It is truly the most marvellous building in the world. There are many reasons for this, but this is a hotel review, so I'm going to cut short a doubtlessly fascinating monologue exploring my malignant sexual deviances towards a gargantuan metal object.

And so to Le Bristol. It was all going so well wasn't it: the lovely big road thing, the married to a building banter, the amazing location and then we actually arrive at the hotel. There were, by my humble (expert) decree a number of reasons why, in this case, a five star hotel doesn't always meet the expectations of a five star service.

The room, although pallid in its colour and expression was a pleasant enough mix of neo-classicism and, uh, neo-classicism. Concomitant to the room was an excellent view of the hotel’s garden. As one of the hotel’s USPs, it is particularly charming. The typically French ‘man conquers nature’ garden design boasts open and cropped lawns, a small promenade, trigonometric hedging and more romance lighting. It amounts visually, to a space fit to stage an outdoor Shakespeare performance on some balmy Parisian evening. It was a shame then that we couldn't actually get out to enjoy it. Being intrepid young travellers we did of course make an attempt for the garden, but the expedition, sadly, was cut short by a member of staff shooing us away for being in the wrong part of the hotel. Charming.

After dinner that night we returned to the room to find another, more all encompassing, problem. Presumably the service room next to us had encountered a sewage leak of some sort. Resultantly, our dwellings became akin, in odour, to the wrong end of a festival camp; the 'long drop' end. This eau de toilet, in varying degrees, stoically remained with us throughout our stay.

The French, notorious I’m told, for their electrician-ship, had worked their magic on the hotel's primary lift. I received a number of regular, mild electrocutions every time I travelled in this medium. After careful deliberation on the subject it was decided that we indulge in some impromptu cardio work and take the stairs for the rest of the stay.

One of the hotel’s highlights was the penthouse swimming pool. A bijoux sized, nautically themed room with views across the city. Despite its size, it was an attractive proposition. Having annoyingly forgotten my swimwear, I was given assurance that the hotel would be able to provide me with necessaries to enjoy a socially acceptable swim. Upon my pursuit and retrieval of said apparel, I was then rather disappointingly informed that the hire fee would be €80. On principle, I declined and went naked instead…I wish I had the gall.

Back in our room things weren’t improving. The caveat of hotels being accredited with a five star rating is that their guests become deftly aware of when things aren’t running as smoothly as perhaps they would like. For example, I was surprised to see subsequent to the daily clean, that the drinking water had not been replaced, nor the ice cubes – a bowl of melted water, split and left on the side – or the complimentary fruit.

These are small matters of course, but if we are to believe the hoteliers maxim of ‘it's the small things that count’ these instances form a case in point.

Now, if you do five minutes worth of research on this here hotel, Le Bristol comes out as one of the world's finest. It has more awards than Torvill and Dean and has been universally eulogised for as much grace in service as my analogy has on ice. So why, the, f**k did they balls it up when International Life were there? I don't doubt their calibre in the luxury sphere for a second, but my confidence in their abilities made my stay non the more pleasurable.

Le Bristol, I implore you, pull your bloody socks, find your lost two stars, look after the little people as well as the presidents and stop relying so heavily on the benefits of your location. And maybe think about getting a new electrician. Failing that, I suggest stationing a personal trainer at the bottom of the stairs.