Inside the Tune hotel, 'Westminster', London

To Lambeth, a corner of London that is forever… well, now, how does one put this? Let’s think for a moment. It’s a corner of London that is forever real, and gritty. A mixed bag is Lambeth. I mean, it has the Oval cricket ground, and some grand Georgian houses, but it also seems to have the world’s largest concentration of branches of Chicken Cottage, or variations thereof.

And here, opposite the Chicken Palace (a more inappropriate name there has never been), is where you will find the latest big thing in the hospitality industry: the country’s first proper no-frills hotel. At the Tune Hotel – an ugly concrete thing that overlooks an even uglier empty office block and a Costcutter shop – you pay for the room, and the bed inside it, and then everything else – towels, television – will cost you extra.

It is the hotel equivalent of Ryanair, without the general contempt towards customers from staff. Then again, it’s only been open a week. Give it time.

There are Tune hotels all over Malaysia and Indonesia – they were founded by Tony Fernandes, who also runs the low-cost airline Air Asia – and over there they even charge you for the air-conditioning. This being Britain, they have kindly let us off that cost; what would be the point when even in August it feels like November?

On the website, the hotel describes itself as being in Westminster. But on finding it, I realise that it is no more Westminster than my flat is Buckingham Palace. Westminster is a good 10-minute walk away, over the bridge, Waterloo a five minute stroll. But at this price – as low as £9 a night – I am not sure that beggars can really afford to be choosers.

The entrance is more like the reception of an office block than it is a hotel lobby. The lighting is stark, brutal even. Vending machines replace room service. They don’t ask for my credit card details in case of incidentals, because the room contains no incidentals – no mini bar, no phone, nothing but a bed, and a television, which will be absolutely useless to me unless I spend £3 to unlock the freeview for 24 hours. Oooh, what a treat.

Wireless internet is another three quid for the day – not bad by hotel standards, actually – and the safe costs £2. A hairdryer will set you back the princely sum of one pound, a clean towel and soap £1.50. And not for this hotel a “wink-wink, nudge-nudge, you naughty girl” approach to a late check-out. Nope. That’ll be £15, kiddo.

My room, on the fifth floor, has commanding views of… well, a church, an office block, and a Boris Bike docking station. But at least I have a room with a view; some are actually windowless.

It is tiny – like being a cat in a wheelie-bin – but nicely done, with teak floors and pale-green, patterned wallpaper. The shower isn’t quite over the loo, though not far off. Brilliantly, you don’t have to pay for hot water. Somehow, this feels like a small victory.

The room is cleaned before you arrive, and then every third night – you can have it done more often if you pay £7.50. Worryingly, I find myself picking tiny grey hairs off the crisp, white bed linen, and out of the sink. I tell myself that, seeing as the hotel is brand new, they probably came from a brush. Gulp.

This is basically a place to get your head down, and once you do – me oh my! The bed, a small double, is one of the most comfortable I have slept in at a hotel. They tell me it is a Hypnos, used at five-star hotels across Europe. I struggle to get out of it. The sudden reminder of where I am helps launch me into the shower.

How best to describe the Tune hotel, of which there are to be 15 more over the next five years? It would be as good a place as any to go for a lunch break with the secretary you are having an affair with, but you probably wouldn’t want to take your wife there for a romantic weekend (now I think about it, I’m not even sure that you could fit two people in the room).

But its perfect customer? The politicians, 10 minutes across the river, who are currently moaning about having to sleep under their desks due to the “abortion” that is IPSA. Nine quid a night for a comfortable bed and a short walk to work should soon shut them up.