Alex Polizzi: The hotel inspector checks in "But you can't take off all your clothes," he said. I simply won't allow it. Alex Polizzi at her recent visit to the Clover Hotel & Spa in Birmingham Protective? Jealous? I was secretly flattered by my husband's passionate objections - he really does want me all to himself. But I was adamant that I had to experience what the hotel had to offer as any other guest would. "No, no, no - what I mean is that any viewers who found you attractive might think otherwise once they have seen you parading in the buff!" he responded rather hurtfully. I did run that risk for my art - although when my husband asked whether I had stripped off, I said I hadn't - it was all just clever camera work, you see. As it happens, I don't think I have the true makings of a naturist: however hard I tried to keep looking everyone else in the eye at our final naked garden party, surrounded by naked men, in the rain, playing naked croquet and letting it all hang out at the bar, it was hard to escape the fact that, really, most of us just look a lot better clothed. This summer, as never before, it will be the quality and service of our hotels, restaurants and b & bs that will be laid bare, as millions of visitors descend on Britain for Wimbledon, the Olympics and the Paralympics. It will be interesting to see how we manage under the scrutiny. There are, of course, some ghastly, overpriced places to stay in this country, run by hapless hoteliers. I am not trying to deny it - after all, they are my stock in trade. I'll not forget Filo (First In Last Out), a b & b in Winchester that I visited last year, which had the distinction not only of failing to live up to its name in spectacular style but also of being the first establishment I have ever refused to sleep in. I am not squeamish (four years of helping Britain's worst hotels and b & bs turn around their fortunes ensures that), but I was confronted by a shared bathroom whose mould-covered tiles looked like a home-grown attempt to create penicillin of which Sir Alexander Fleming would have been proud. Out came my trusty dirt detector, a digital tool used to measure cleanliness levels, for a reading of 74,242 (anything over 1,000 is unacceptable) - and in came the industrial cleaners. I am happy to report that my advice was heeded. When I returned things had improved markedly - the owners had put in a new shower, the cleaning regime had improved, it was more comfortable, and they had even renamed a room after me. The Polizzi suite, anyone? Hard to forget, too, were the urine-stained floors at the pub-with-rooms in Norfolk, and the owner of the hotel in Lewes, East Sussex, who insisted on wandering around his property barefoot. And the owners of these places knew that I was coming. Hygiene and cleanliness cost nothing, but to the paying guest they mean everything. Decor is another bugbear: a former casino owner installed a dance pole and mirrored ceilings at a quiet retreat in Kent, and a woman who ran a five-star country retreat in the Black Mountains of Wales thought erotic art and phallic ornaments were the best way to attract custom. But poor taste is excusable; it is delusions of grandeur and pig-headedness that are harder to remedy - those people who won't listen to their customers, family or friends, let alone the demeaning silence of the empty till. But it is not all bad. I know we always like to think, in a rather Eeyorish way, that we do everything that much worse here than they do anywhere else. But actually it just isn't true. Yes, Britain is undeniably expensive, but that is news to no one. Certainly, my travels throughout Europe in particular do not seem to suggest that our rooms are any worse value for money than those on the Continent. It was five years ago that I underwent an epiphany while on honeymoon in Italy. My husband had given me carte blanche to book wherever I wanted to stay and I took full advantage: in the three weeks we spent away, I introduced him to 10 of the top hotels in the country, places I had always dreamed of staying at, driving mile upon mile in the process. What I discovered is how rarely a hotel lives up either to the hype or the price. I often felt that the hotel hadn't been worth the money: the rooms were ordinary; the service was lackadaisical; the food was overpriced. Of the 10 hotels we visited there were only three that I would want to go back to (Il Pellicano, Argentario, Santa Maria in Constantinopoli and Hotel Splendido in Portofino) even though each hotel was in a prime location and had won numerous plaudits. I have always told my own teams in every hotel I have worked at that service is what sorts the wheat from the chaff; on my honeymoon I proved that to myself. The art of complaining Our expectations as customers are higher than ever before; as value for money becomes more important, so we have become more ready to find fault and complain. Competition is fierce in this industry. Customers not only vote with their feet; they now also warn off other potential guests by means of internet review sites. Guests write detailed critiques that can skewer underperforming hotels right through their dirty, sloppy hearts. I am not an unadulterated fan of these sites: criticism can often be unfair and the sites are open to abuse - because they are anonymous, people feel free to write anything. That said, if you see that one hotel is receiving a constant litany of complaints then you would probably do best to avoid it. My robust rejoinder to hotel owners who blame all complaints on professional envy, or impossible clients, is to make sure that they take the plank out of their own eye before trying to remove the splinter in someone else's. My love of the hotel industry is due, in large part, to my grandfather, Charles Forte, who could be said to have reinvented British hotels after the Second World War. But how different things were in his day! Kind viewers of The Hotel Inspector have sent me a couple of his replies to complaints, one about the cost of a brandy in a Stafford hotel in 1974. It is fascinating to be reminded of how laborious a chief executive's job was in the days before computers and faxes. The hotel business has changed a lot since the 1970s This one complaint justified a two-page, handwritten reply, couched in much more courteous terms than I have ever received from any big company today. Usually I receive the standard, faceless, "Thank you for your comments" and nothing more. Call me old-fashioned, but I would always recommend that you complain directly to the person in charge as soon as a problem occurs, so giving the hotelier the opportunity to put it right there and then. This has the benefit of ensuring you enjoy your stay, instead of spending your time there aggrieved, and also of permitting the hotelier the chance to spread glad tidings of the wonderful manner in which he dealt with your problem. I have always thought that the inability to complain face to face is a peculiarly British disease. Opening your own place If you are considering starting a b & b as a retirement plan, make sure you think long and hard before you do - and then think again. Remember, when you have a b & b you are your own kitchen porter; your own room maid; your own chef; your own receptionist. It's a tough grind if you're busy, and it's incredibly depressing if you're not. You will never have worked so hard, for so little money, and however well you get on with your partner when you start, you will, I foresee, loathe him or her one year in. You need a lobotomy and a trust fund for this dream to succeed. In fact, I would say never, ever, go into business with your nearest and dearest. Should you ever be tempted, stab your thigh, hard, with a fork once or twice first and then see if you are man enough to take the pain. The whole family business thing is, of course, wonderful when it works, but the seventh circle of Dante's Inferno cannot compare with the agony when it doesn't. Picking the perfect hotel My grandfather instilled in me the importance of service: it must be charming but professional; friendly without being intrusive; ever-present without being noticeable. Then there is the tricky-to-achieve combination of location, decoration and attention to detail. Lack of pretension and a genuine interest in every part of the guest experience is harder to quantify, but essential. The guests, too, have to play their part in this matchmaking process. I think the main thing is to be honest about what you want from a stay. If, for example, you want a quiet, romantic weekend away, ask the hotel to guarantee that there won't be a wedding that night so that you're not being woken at 4am by people throwing up in the bushes under your window. I like a really big bed. My husband snores, and he's an octopus, so if we're in a small bed then it's misery. I like to be able to roll far enough away for him not to bother me, so I always ask what size bed we are getting. At home I've got a 6ft 6in bed and if the hotel staff say I'm getting a 4ft bed, I don't want it. Think also about where the hotel is. Many a time at Hotel Endsleigh, I have had guests aghast at the poor mobile-phone reception, and really bad weather leaves quite a few urban escapees at a complete loss when faced with an expanse of shop-less countryside. So whatever you're looking for, get the hotel to tell you what you're getting. But it is here that I may be able to help. Every month I will be travelling the length and breadth of Britain (and beyond) and looking at the best, and worst, in accommodation for all budgets, types and interests. I will be revealing my worst gripes and selecting the hotels, guesthouses and b & bs that I feel truly have made the grade. And, like my husband, you may be relieved that in future I will be keeping my clothes on. The new series of The Hotel Inspector returns to Channel 5 on July 5 at 9pm Alex Polizzi's monthly column for Telegraph Travel begins on July 21.