Hot Tub Time

We need to cut hot tubs some slack and appreciate them for what they are: heaven on earth

I HAVE ALWAYS been a hot tub person. I’ve loved them since I was eight years old, when I first hopped into a hotel jacuzzi (which felt delightfxully transgressive, because there was a “16 & Over” sign, and my fellow bathers were a 30-something couple sipping Pina Coladas). I still recall the fragrance of the eucalyptus tree, sheltering us from the Sardinian sunshine. It was pure heaven.

I am always outraged if a posh hotel or spa fails to provide me with a hot tub. Indeed, if I worked for VisitBritain, I would automatically refuse five-star ratings to any establishment that lacks one. My favourite get-away ever was to an all-inclusive in Mexico, which had a hot tub in each bedroom. IN. EACH. BEDROOM. Who needs booze?

I know they’re naff, but this strikes me as try-hard snobbery, like pretending to dislike Dairy Milk. Bubbles + heat = pleasure, simple as that, and it baffles me that saunas are considered to be serious and sexy and Swedish—whereas actually they’re stifling shallow breathing torture chambers—while hot tubs (champagne for the skin!) are derided as vulgar and gauche and obscene, as if somehow we’re all supposed to deny the pure truth that it feels awesome to be vibrated around in a whirlpool of warm soapy suds (so long as you can supress any suspicion you have about what else might be floating about in there…)