JAMES ALLEN: The polite art of hotel theft isn’t really stealing, it’s a misunderstanding of ownership

I don’t steal from hotels out of need. I steal out of curiosity. Anthropological curiosity, if you will, because, well, let’s keep this whole thing less “felony” and more, “classy”.

Because what are hotels if not strange moral ecosystems where otherwise law-abiding adults become magpies blinded by allure and opportunity?

Ownership becomes theoretical the moment you check in. The robe is simply hanging there — speaking in warm, hushed tones that whisper connection and desire. Slippers? They practically throw themselves at you on entry, eager to strike certain rapport and walk towards becoming, ahem, sole-mates.

I’ve a friend — whose name definitely doesn’t rhyme with Matrick — who picked the pocket of a Berlin service cart (a seriously superior move) in a hotel that boasted robes done in collaboration with Margiela. I’ve since seen him sporting that thing front-row. And to the pub to watch Friday night footy. Played, sir.

If I think back then my gateway crime was probably a pen. Then a pencil. Yes, that’s the order. Then the bedside notebook that exists purely so as guests can pretend they’re the sort of person who has thoughts at night worth recording. Pfft.

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From there you could call it selective appreciation. Toiletries that aren’t meant to leave. Matchbooks that clearly are. Umbrellas. Glassware. Hangers. Yes, hangers. The good ones.

Pepper grinders remain a weakness, especially when made by a certain French automotive marque. They present — these decent grinders — with confidence and well-formed opinions about Bordeaux, Macron, divorce. And hey, if a hotel bistro leaves one unattended long enough it’s essentially asking for adoption. Non?

I’ve nicked laundry bags and shoe trees. Coasters, too. The leather ones too handsome to live under the sweating glass of people who clearly don’t respect their function or appreciate their form.

There was a corkscrew, no, a “waiter’s friend” that was heavy and utilitarian and which immediately spoke of a future life together, a joyful life measured in decades and the celebratory opening of various bottles of worth. We remain together to this day.

Then there’s small jars of things that had no business being that delicious — hotels should never make condiments charming — and which are ripe for December regifting.

Once, in a hotel bar somewhere between midnight and poor judgment, I left with a candle the size of a small cathedral. Then there’s a thick leather do not disturb sign from a Roman hotel that took privacy very seriously.

It reads better in Italian — si prega di non disturbare — because what doesn’t read better in Italian? And it now works overtime flexing on the study door that sits between the kids’ bedrooms.

We all do this. Don’t we? We do. I know we do. Yes? No judgment, either. Because I also know a man — whose name definitely doesn’t rhyme with Monathan — who is a fiend for plush hotel towels. He’s a system, you see, rolling them into neat suitcase burritos. He prefers them monogrammed — don’t we all?

I’ve another friend — whose name definitely doesn’t rhyme with Menevieve — who “accidentally” acquired a hotel bike. It was a fetching cream racer with a British green racing stripe and padded seat. It was London fashion week. A tube strike made taxis impossible and she wasn’t walking in those Louboutins. Oh no. And her intent was never theft per se, though she did fail to return the two wheels after a decent post-show kick-on at The Blind Pig. See no evil.

In the end hotel theft is polite pilfering — is it not? I’m sure some hotel types will disagree, though the lines of loss are forecast annually and well ahead of the unfurling of light fingers. And besides, it’s never grand theft, nothing so vulgar as a TV.

I feel the real question here isn’t why we do it, rather, why we feel entitled to?

A hotel is a liminal space, neither yours nor entirely theirs. The rules soften. Ownership blurs. You become a better version of yourself in the lobby and clearly a worse one in the bathroom — someone willing to give in to acts of well-upholstered rebellion.

And then you leave — the Rimowa lined with soft triumphs and trophies, bathed in the cheeky warmth that comes from getting away with something.