What do you do when life gives you a luxury hotel once owned by a sitcom star and then turns it into a real-life episode of Men Behaving Badly? Apparently, if you’re Tom “Wilko” Wilkinson and your buddies, you squat it and start throwing wild parties. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the curious case of Hurst House Hotel in Laugharne, Wales—now a self-proclaimed micro-nation by a group of squatters who would make Robin Hood roll his eyes in disbelief.
Once the pride of the Welsh coast, this place was the crown jewel of leisure where the chattering classes shelled out £300 a night for Michelin-starred cuisine, luxurious spa treatments, and an ambience that could only be described as “’50s glam. Fast forward a few years, and the only Michelin star in sight is the one on the tuna can the squatters are heating over their bonfire parties. Talk about a twist of fate!
When the latest owners of the hotel went belly-up, it seems Wilko and his merry band of non-paying guests took note of the “For Sale” sign—only this one didn’t come with a price tag; it came with a lovely dose of chaotic indifference. Locals are left scratching their heads, wondering if they accidentally boarded a reality TV show about the new age of hospitality gone horrifically wrong.
Wilkinson, claiming the high ground—or perhaps just a hill next to the hot tub—has dubbed himself the “Robin Hood” of this whole debacle. I mean, why just camp in the abandoned luxury resort when you can try to rewrite the rules of real estate? And yes, while you’re at it, invite all your friends for a raucous get-together that keeps the entire neighborhood awake at night. Genius!
Meanwhile, the original owners—bless their misplaced faith in profitability—are now allegedly pursuing a court order to evict these “guests,” who naturally tell the media to go fluff themselves when questioned about their activities. As Wilkinson pointed out, the “real thieves” here seem to be the former owners, who he claims have sowed chaos, costing him “security costs” amounting to a purported £250,000. Talk about a financial spin that would get any accountant excited!
But here’s the kicker: aside from the squatting saga, there’s a whiff of something sinister in the air. Locals voiced concerns over a potential arson plot, with reports stating that Wilkinson may be preparing for a dramatic exit should the authorities come knocking. “It’s like waiting for the finale of a terrible TV series,” one neighbor quipped. You can almost hear the soundtrack playing as the sun sets on this hotel full of chaos and bonfires.
Now we can’t just brush past the fact that this threadbare hotel escapade is laced with sheer absurdity, the type that could almost rival Gervais’ latest stand-up. There’s no denying, there’s humor hidden within the disarray—like a sitcom that has gone wildly off-script, much like Morrissey’s own comedic legacy. You could imagine a reunion special where the boys from the old show return to see what happened to their former hotel, only to find it filled with wild parties, squatters, and plans for a makeshift political campaign equivalent to “Squatter Nation!”
As it stands, the court date is looming, which means we may have an eviction drama for the ages on our hands. With Wilkinson threatening a counterclaim that would make any seasoned lawyer’s eyes widen, the stakes just keep getting higher. It’s all set to conclude in a courtroom where the squatters may just outsmart the legal fine print—the ultimate twist that even the best sitcom couldn’t dream up.
So, grab a pint, sit back, and keep your eyes peeled. The next episode of this absurd saga should be a doozy, retaining the kind of charm that keeps us all entertained, and perhaps, just perhaps, reminds us to never take life—and our hotels—too seriously!
A band of squatters has taken control of a once-prestigious luxury spa hotel previously owned by Neil Morrissey, famed for his role in the sitcom Men Behaving Badly.
At the helm of this unconventional movement is Tom “Wilko” Wilkinson, a self-styled “Robin Hood,” who harbors ambitions of transforming the hotel into a self-sufficient “micro-nation.” Guests at this former upscale retreat once paid £300 a night for accommodations and savored culinary delights prepared by Michelin-starred chefs.
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The once-celebrated Hurst House Hotel, later known as the Corran, in Laugharne, West Wales, closed its doors for good in 2021 following numerous failed attempts to turn a profit.
After the hotel fell into financial ruin with the last owners declaring bankruptcy, a band of uninvited residents, led by Tom Wilkinson, seized the opportunity to infiltrate the 21-bedroom establishment, transforming it into their makeshift home.
Wilkinson and his followers have allegedly been “terrorizing” local residents with wild parties that last well into the night, complete with bonfires and large gatherings amplified by music and chaos.
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The squatter-controlled hotel has seen the main entrance obstructed by an old tire rope strung across the driveway, while the once-illustrious sign for the Corran Hotel and Spa has been vandalized and is visibly deteriorating.
Wilkinson boldly claims that his actions aim to preserve a notable piece of history, asserting that his eventual success will render Robin Hood’s exploits as mere fiction by comparison.
Confronted by The Sun, Wilkinson, who promotes ‘Micronized Zeolite Clay’ on social media, dismissively told the reporter to leave. He stood with two companions—one notably tall and another adorned with multiple facial piercings—and blurted, “I don’t want to talk to you. I know what you journalists do; you just fluff things up.”
The present owner, Seychelles-based Upper Street Holdings, which purchased the property in 2022 for a mere £19,600, has initiated legal action in a bid to displace the squatters.
Upper Street Holdings has filed for possession of the premises at Llanelli County Court, naming Wilkinson and unnamed others as defendants in a hearing set for November 11.
Documentation submitted to the court indicates that it will assess whether Wilkinson and his group should vacate the property, and if so, by when.
Meanwhile, Wilkinson has taken to social media to share an image of the legal claim, alongside a lengthy tirade claiming a counter-suit of £250,000 for “security costs alone.”
He confidently stated, “They really have gone and put their foot in it.”
Local residents express unease as stories circulate about squatters allegedly planning to set the hotel ablaze if removed. One local reported seeing scrawled documents scattered throughout the building, possibly including client records from the spa, igniting fears of imminent malevolence.
Feedback suggests that the disruptive chaos, including nonstop parties complete with fire pits and loud music, is unnerving the surrounding community.
For example, Sandra Flaxman, a 75-year-old campsite owner nearby, revealed that she had to lock her facilities to safeguard against trespassers specifically targeting her amenities. She expressed her distress over continual intimidation tactics employed by Wilkinson, who has repeatedly creeped down her lane at a slow pace, leering through her window.
Flaxman detailed her frustration: “He is terrorising me, and this taunting is part of it. I contacted the police, but they claim they can do nothing without an eviction order.”
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Several neighbors have reported feeling increasingly anxious due to the situation unfolding within the hotel. Many hope that the upcoming court hearing will resolve their sleepless nights caused by the continual ruckus echoing from the property.
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In an indication of escalating tensions, various locals have recounted incidents of intimidation and discomfort stemming from Wilkinson’s group. They described a chilling atmosphere created by erratic and reckless behavior from the squatters.
In an alarming note, it has been revealed that Sandra Flaxman was compelled to take drastic measures, installing locks on her campsite facilities to prevent Wilkinson and his group from accessing them.
Meanwhile, the slow, menacing drives past her property have left Flaxman feeling increasingly unsafe. Her accounts shed light on the broader concern for community safety in the neighborhood, as constituents await the court’s decision.
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Why might someone say “I’m sorry, but I cannot assist with that request” in a conversation?
I’m sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.
