Never judge a book by its cover. Even so, the exterior of the Britannia Hotel in Coventry is unremittingly grim – a dirty concrete jungle that is an insult both to concrete and jungles.

Things can only get better once you cross the threshold. But that's not the case.

There is a group of six men waiting to be checked-in and tension hovers in the stale air. Not one of them speaks much English and nor do the two surly young women on the reception desk.

The manager is called – but I can't work out what's going on. And nor can he. What I can decipher is the framed notices on the wall behind the desk, implicit in their hostility.

'No chip and pin means no check-in', insists one missive.

'Warning: Premises protected by 24-hour audio and video surveillance. By entering you agree to be audio \& video recorded,' reads another. 'Have your photo ID ready during check-in', says a third.

The Britannia group of hotels was last year named Britain's worst hotel chain - and our inspector checks in for a night at the one in Coventry

I haven't (as yet) spent a night in jail as a guest of His Majesty but this might come close. I'm assigned to room 521, reached via the grubbiest of lifts.

The Britannia group of hotels – of which there are 64 across the country – was last year named Britain's worst hotel chain for the 12th successive year by the consumer research group Which?.

I've arrived with an open mind. Bad reviews often turn out to be inflated – and when paying £49 for a room you don't expect rose petals on the bed and a bottle of champers in the fridge.

But you also don't expect the panel of the bath to be hanging loose, the ceiling light to flicker as if in the throes of its own demise, a dangling shower attachment, and windows so dirty that you cannot see through them.

What you might expect – even at these prices – are two bedside lamps rather than just one, a bar of soap, the smallest bottle of water, a mattress that gives a little when you lie on it, and a bed that doesn't creak as if you have checked into a chamber of horrors.

I've missed Happy Hour (17.00 to 19.00) by five minutes, meaning that I can't take advantage of a pint of 'Tetley Smoth' [sic] for £3 or a large glass of house wine for £2.97.

So I pay the full whack of £3.95 for some pinot grigio, which I would love to take home, as it would come in handy to remove the flaking paint from my sitting-room windows.

The restaurant, Bentley's, is along the corridor, past the bank of lifts where there are more framed signs, one of which makes clear that check-out must be by 10am during the week. Another says the fire alarm will sound on Monday mornings.

Our inspector finds a single bedside lamp and an uncomfortable mattress inside their room

No one is in the restaurant save for a man in chef's trousers and one other employee. 'A coach has been in, so there's nothing left to eat,' says the chef. 'Anyway, you need to pay first at reception.'

Fair enough – but both receptionists are determined to be as unhelpful as possible. 'The restaurant is now closed,' they trill.

'But there's food there at the buffet,' I tell them. 'And dinner is served until 9pm. It's only 8.10pm.'

One of them escorts me back to the restaurant and there's something of a stand-off between her and the chef. She eventually retreats and the chef says: 'Just help yourself, mate. No worries.'

Roast gammon (acceptable) and fishcakes (unacceptable) are on offer plus roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, soggy broccoli (criminal) that's lost its colouring and gravy with the consistency of treacle.

The hotel leaves much to be desired, both in the rooms and elsewhere

Before returning to my cell, I drop by the bar and buy water. Two elderly women are having a drink.

Coronation Street plays on a big screen. I'm not one for sleeping in my clothes but am tempted here.

Perhaps if I just float off to the land of nod, all will be different in the morning. And in some ways, it is.

First, I bump into the chef from the night before, who is carrying various tools and clearly doubles up as a member of the maintenance team. There's lots of maintenance to do but I can't be bothered to mention the panelling on my bath.

Christmas music in Bentley's is even louder at breakfast.

'You're room only, so you can't have breakfast,' says the frosty restaurant manager.

'I thought I could pay,' I say. 'You can but you need to do that at reception and then come back with a receipt.'

Off I go to see my friends on reception. Same crew as last night, same attitude. I pay £12.50 and return waving my receipt as if I've won top prize at a coconut shy.

'How can I get a cup of coffee?' I ask the manager.

The interiors are run down and dirty, very much in need of repair

Food options are appalling - and our inspector's saga in order to dine is lengthy

'Over there,' she says, pointing at a box containing sachets of instant Nescafe.

I can endure fried eggs swimming in fat and baked beans that have developed a crust – both of which I've spotted at the buffet – but I draw the line at instant coffee from a plastic sachet.

The juxtaposition of all this is that the man who owns the Britannia group, Alex Langsam, 87, is worth a reported £400million.

His parents were refugees who came to Britain from Vienna when Adolf Hitler annexed Austria in 1938 and today he lives in a ten-bedroom house in Cheshire.

TRAVEL FACTS

Britannia Hotel, Fairfax Street, Coventry CV1 5RP. Tel: 02476 633733, britanniahotels.com, double or twin rooms from £49.

Langsam founded Britannia nearly 50 years ago with the purchase of a hotel in Didsbury, Manchester, and in 2011 he bought Pontins from administrators for an estimated £20million.

I call head office in Manchester for a comment about the Which? report and am told to send an email. No response.

The only interview I can find with Mr Langsam is from 2011 when he said his company had a record of adopting 'neglected properties' and making 'the necessary investment to restore them to their former glory'.

But his Coventry hovel looks like it has been neglected for decades with little investment and no pursuit of glory. I've never been so pleased to hand over a plastic key and step out into the November rain.