My future is bleak: can I go on without the all-you-can-eat unlimited Premier Inn breakfast?

‘Only a fool (or cheapskate) doesn’t pre-book the breakfast.’ Rich Pelley tucks in. Photograph: Courtesy of Rich Pelley

It’s 8:25am and I’ve made it down, bleary eyed, to breakfast at Premier Inn – all the more miraculous because I haven’t even stayed the night. I’ve just come to eat. My visit comes hot on the news that Premier Inn’s owner, Whitbread, is to cut 1,500 jobs and sell off 126 restaurants as part of a £150m three-year cost-cutting drive, although it sounds as if they’ll still have some in-hotel restaurants for guests only.

You know the restaurants: usually large, noisy pubs run by the Brewers Fayre chain, although sometimes Beefeater, the other side of the car park from your digs. If you’re staying at a non-city-centre Premier Inn, they’re usually the only place to eat that doesn’t involve getting back in the car or dicing with death as you meander down a busy A road to a 24-hour McDonald’s.

Anyone who has ever stayed at a Premier Inn has thought: “Screw it, we’ll just eat at the hotel.” Plus, only a fool (or cheapskate) doesn’t pre-book the all-you-can-eat unlimited Premier Inn breakfast. Where else can you dine on Rice Krispies from giant glass dispensers, drink bottomless glasses of definitely-from-concentrate juice and help yourself to all the sausages, hash browns and bacon trimmings you like. Oh, and don’t forget to stuff your pockets with as many pastries that will fit on the way out.

I’m a big fan of Premier Inn. In a past life that involved travelling the country with a photographer, I like to think I stayed in the lion’s share of the 850 Premier Inns around the country. The biggest? London Gatwick (North Terminal) – 700 rooms. The quaintest? Godalming in Surrey – 16 rooms. The best view? Southend-on-Sea, where you get the romantic view of the moon setting over the beach, perfect for a honeymoon, I’d have thought. But the beauty of Premier Inn – in all its purpleness – is that every room is so similar, down to the paintings on the walls and the brand of remote control and telly. Wherever you stay, it feels like you’re sleeping in your second bedroom, even if the bathroom keeps magically swapping sides.

There’s fun to be had too. Lenny Henry – who started doing their TV adverts in 2008 – would be waiting in reception, albeit in disconcertingly-very-slightly-smaller-than-life, cut-out cardboard form. “Is Lenny here?” we’d ask, much to the amusement of the receptionist on a sliding scale of about -5 to three out of 10.

Plus, Premier Inn allows you to choose your title when you book. I would take great delight in booking in Ellis (my photographer friend) as Lady, Sir or Colonel. This backfired when Brenda at the Nottingham Castle Marina branch (who we considered a regular Premier Inn friend) got cross when I booked in Ellis as Mrs (way before specifying gender identity became a thing) in case there was a fire evacuation and they had to do an accurate headcount.

Ellis had the last laugh when, on a personal trip with his girlfriend – now wife – he booked himself into Brighton as Professor, and all the staff referred to him as “Professor” because there was an academic conference going on, much to her bemusement. Ellis also implored me to remember my greatest Premier Inn mishap: I once booked on my phone, standing in the forecourt, very late at night. But as it had just turned midnight, I accidentally booked for 364 days in advance and they wouldn’t let me in because they were full. I had to stay in a Travelodge – my worst nightmare.

Anyway, back to the food. There’s a theory that you can just wander into a Premier Inn and eat without paying. I wouldn’t endorse it, but it’s certainly come up on Fesshole, where people confess anonymously to doing so. Perhaps that’s why Whitbread are closing so many restaurants? If 100 people stole a £10.99 breakfast at each of the 850 Premier Inns, that would be nearly a £1 million in breakfast fraud a day. Rest assured I’ll be claiming my honest £10.99 back on Guardian expenses.

The secret Premier Inn trick is to ask the chef to do you fresh eggs instead of the lumpy scrambled, congealed eggs warming under the orange lamps. They say that you can rate any chef – and hence, establishment – by their poached eggs, and today’s poached eggs – cooked under my eyes and served with a smile by my personal chef, Naveen – are a work of art. I love Premier Inn and could eat here every day. And so should you while you still have the chance.

Rich Pelley is a freelance writer