THE Iron Horse is one of those places I have often gone past, but never ventured into.

Suffering from a touch of late-afternoon thirst one weekend, I decided to chance my arm in this curious-looking establishment next to Sidcup railway station.

People had warned me against it.

"Don't go to the Iron Horse," said one.

Pah! I'm a south east London pub veteran. What could possibly be so bad about this place?

Well, quite a few things actually...

Ominous staring from younger drinkers sat at the window greeted me as I walked up to the entrance.

I can cope with the usual bouts of gawping once I walk into a pub. But to be given the once over before I actually walk inside is a bit much.

As I expected, the staring bouts continued as I went up to the bar. It may have been a late afternoon, but the noise in the pub was similar to a Saturday night.

As well as two separate screens showing different sports, searing soft rock music coursed through the speakers.

Finally, above the noise from the tellies and the stereo, was actual conversation among the assorted drinkers - if you can call it conversation.

The amount of effing and blinding going on was quite remarkable.

I'm no prude and have been known to reel off the occasional profanity myself now and again, but this was like the dialogue from a Tarantino film.

While it was not exactly offensive to me, the levels of profanity from men who really should know better was rather unsettling.

But not quite as unsettling as the amount of sportswear on show.

Reminiscent of an episode of The Brittas Empire, the marketing men for Adidas and Kappa would doubtless be chuffed with themselves if they saw the amount of living-and-breathing advertisements wandering around the Iron Horse.

Service was the only inconsistency - prompt and polite from a friendly dark-haired barmaid.

While not serving she was busily going around straightening up the tables and chairs and generally trying to keep the pub itself in good order.

Shame none of the regulars seemed to care.

I sat down at a table near to two middle-aged men who closely resembled the Mitchell brothers from EastEnders.

I couldn't help but overhear their expletive-ridden jovial banter all about violent hand-to-hand fighting tactics.

It may well have been "a bit of fun" but when you're sat nearby on your own, it is somewhat frightening to hear men talking about fighting.

The other striking thing about the Iron Horse is the general dinginess and lack of lighting.

And my pint of London Pride was too warm.

I can't recommend this place to anyone - unless you find it theraputic to wear tracksuits while swearing a lot.