Is a Premier Inn Plus Room Worth the Extra?

It begins, as these things often do, with a small death.

Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind involving violins or headlines. Just the slow bureaucratic suffocation of what used to be called “customer service.”

I arrive at the Premier Inn Birmingham City Centre (Exchange Square) — luggage in hand, optimism in pocket — and am greeted not by a human but by a gesture. A nod. A point. A kiosk.

“Check in there.”

No warmth. No theatre. No “Welcome to Birmingham.” Just me and a glowing screen asking me to confirm I am, in fact, myself. The machine hums. I comply. Somewhere a shareholder smiles.

Key card in hand, I enter the lift and ascend toward what is marketed as Premier Inn Plus. Premium. Elevated. Enhanced. Plus.

The word “Plus” carries weight. Plus suggests velvet ropes. Plus suggests something you can brag about in passing conversation. Plus suggests you didn’t just book the cheapest thing within walking distance of the station.

The doors open.

First Impressions: Three Stars Wearing a Better Watch

The room is… nicer.

Not five-star. Not boutique. Not “I shall Instagram this headboard.” It’s a solid, confident, well-behaved three-star room that has ironed its shirt and put on decent shoes.

Is it premium? That depends how loosely we’re using the word.

But here’s the trick: the room grows on you.

The Seduction of Small Things

There’s proper tea. Proper coffee. Not the apologetic dust sachets of budget despair, but something with intent. And there’s chocolate. Fancy chocolate. The kind that says, “You are not merely sleeping here. You are indulging.”

A comfortable chair sits in the corner with a footrest — a throne for the mildly important. Perfect for late-night TV or pretending to read something serious.

There is, however, only one chair.

If you are travelling as a couple, negotiations must begin immediately. This is not a room for egalitarian lounging. Someone gets the throne. Someone gets the bed. Choose wisely.

The Rainfall Delusion

The shower features a rainfall head — that modern symbol of hotel ambition. Water descends from above in soft, civilised surrender. The bathroom products smell reassuringly expensive, even if you know they probably aren’t.

Still — scent matters. Scent convinces the brain that upgrades are occurring.

The Broadband Reality Check

“Premium Wi-Fi.”

This phrase usually means disappointment at speed.

Here? Roughly 20 Mbps up and 20 Mbps down. Not enough to launch a tech startup from the desk, but more than enough to send emails, upload work, and avoid shouting at your laptop.

Functional. Reliable. Quietly competent. Much like the room itself.

The Real Luxury

But here’s where things shift.

It’s quiet.

Properly quiet.

No corridor stampede at 2am. No plumbing symphony. No mysterious mechanical drone. Just silence — and a bed that does what beds are supposed to do.

I slept. Deeply. Woke up before my alarm. That rarest of hotel miracles: rested.

And in that moment, all the small upgrades — the chocolate, the chair, the rainfall theatre, the decent broadband — began to stack up.

So… Is It Worth It?

The damage: roughly £20 more per night.

There is no single killer feature. No champagne tap. No butler emerging from the wardrobe.

But the cumulative effect of the little extras? It nudges the stay from “functional” to “enjoyable.”

And perhaps that’s what “Plus” really means.

Not luxury.

Not extravagance.

Just the subtle removal of irritation.

Would I book it again? If the difference is £20 and I plan to work, relax, or value sleep — yes.

Because sometimes premium isn’t about opulence.

It’s about chocolate, silence, and waking up five minutes before your alarm feeling like you’ve quietly won something.