Four-posters, blocks of ice, skid-row fleapits – Arthur Smith has slept in them all. Here he recounts his most memorable nights in 

Today I would like to pay tribute to that great object, beloved throughout many centuries by idlers from around the world. It hosts wonderful dreams, profound relaxation and sometimes sexy adventures. For most it is where we are born, procreate and die.

All hail the humble bed!

From my deep (Google) dive research, I learn that the earliest known beds date back over 70,000 years. Archaeological discoveries in caves in South Africa revealed layers of compacted grass and leaves arranged deliberately for sleeping. And who doesn’t like lying on weeds? Apparently these early humans selected specific plants with insect-repelling properties, showing that even prehistoric snoozers cared about comfort and protection.

In ancient civilizations, beds became more structured and, eventually, in Egypt they grew legs and were raised from the ground. This was great for me as a child as I loved lying under the bed pretending to be a crocodile and biting my brother’s ankle. Some of the richest Egyptians had ornate beds decorated with gold and ebony, and some were buried with their beds, reflecting beliefs about the afterlife.

I have slept in hundreds of beds over the years – cots, couches, cribs, couchettes, futons, hammocks, brass beds, pine beds, bunk beds, flower beds (twice) – even a few hospital beds. Of these, only two were not particularly welcoming. The first was in a cheap hotel room where a used condom had been left between the sheets. The second was in the Ice hotel in northern Sweden where my bed was a large block of ice overlaid with a reindeer skin. Yes, I had an arctic sleeping bag but it was -15°C, which was not conducive to a deep sleep.

I once did a series of short films for The One Show where I slept in famous people’s houses and beds. I did not sleep with the famous person – this wasn’t some dodgy reality show, and besides, they were all dead. I spent a memorable night chez Henry Moore in Hertfordshire where I wandered around the huge abstract sculptures in his garden by moonlight. Another time I stayed in the Brontë parsonage in Howarth, Yorkshire, where the rooms danced with all the stories composed there and my heart broke to learn that the Reverend Brontë’s wife and children all died long before he did. The next day I walked across the moors and pretended I was Heathcliff and that Kate Bush was on her way.

Another night saw me head to Sigmund Freud’s final home, now a museum in Hampstead, where I sneakily lay on his famous chaise-longue and thought about my mother. Sadly, I have never laid on the famed and glorious Great Bed of Ware, magnificently displayed in the V&A. I was about six when I first saw it and found it thrilling; the intricacy of its carved figures, the extravagance of its mattresses, all spoke to my young mind.

Of all the things ever said to me from someone in a bed, the most shocking was last Thursday when an old friend climbed into our spare bed and said: “This is a treat because my own bed is crawling with bedbugs.” I am housetrained enough to be able to read my wife’s face at such moments, and it reminded me of that time she opened the washer door and found a mouse on the grey rubber rim, washed clean in death. My worst fears were confirmed when, two days later, I entered the spare room and found bedbugs had devoured the lot. Mattress, pillows, quilt, bedframe, all gone. I stood a moment in its baying absence.

Well that’s the end of my Tedbed talk. If you found it boring then I suggest you go straight to you know where.

PS: A final note to Sting if he’s reading this: you once sang a song called “The Bed’s Too Big Without You”. Here’s my advice Sting – buy yourself a single bed which I’m sure you can afford.

This article is from Idler #110.

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