DECOR **** (stylish and modern) DRINK **** (great tasting beer and win) PRICE * (sky high — not one for people feeling the pinch) ATMOSPHERE ** (chilled but pretentious) STAFF *** (friendly enough)

ONE only has to flick through the blood-stained pages of your weekly News Shopper to realise Deptford is no Shangri-la or even Canada for that matter.

But despite the grim crime statistics, Deptford is a fascinating melting pot of cultures and has a lively arts scene.

It is also home to nearly as many penny-pinching students as there are hooded yobs lurking in the shadows and half-eaten doner kebabs dumped every 10 metres, like ominous markers pointing the way to the nearest greasy takeaway.

So taking into account the area’s likely punters, the owners of The Duke seem to have missed a trick by turning what was, admittedly, a rundown and crumbling traditional boozer into a slick, polished gastro-pub.

Situated just over the bridge from affluent Greenwich old town, it’s like the proverbial elephant in the room or street as the case may be.

Its sky high food and drink prices are enough to make you want to distill your own moonshine from the leftover cabbage leaves and baked beans you’ll be forced to survive on after just one night out.

The Timothy Taylor Landlord beer was a refreshing and hoppy paale ale, but daylight robbery at £3.40 a pint.

And with grub on their adventurous menu clocking in at around £10 for a main, your wallet better be fire proof or you might find a few cash leaking holes burnt into it after you’ve had your fill.

Like a pauper reaching the gates of heaven, only to discover there’s a pricey entrance fee, I whinced as I handed over £3.50 for a small glass of their deliciously fruity Chilean Monte Verde Sauvignon Blanc and ordered some mixed olives (£2.50).

As expected, drinkers in the pub were not from the student halls of residence next door, but were young professionals and City snobs whose faces immediately contorted into looks of horror at the sight of a thirsty construction worker walking through the door.

After the barman stared blankly back at him when he requested a pint of Nelson Mandela — “that’s Stella,” he quickly explained — the group of Pinot quaffing yuppies lounging on the sofa practically lurched out of their skins and checked for signs of leprosy when he asked to borrow a lighter.

They looked relieved when he retreated to the depressing rear-facing roof terrace to enjoy his pint and cigarette.

It’s a pleasure he’d probably earned working on the flash new apartments being built opposite — a lavish tower the stuck-up punters downstairs will no doubt be moving into when it is completed.

The pub’s air of pretention is definitely out of place considering its location, but it is, nevertheless, a stylishly decorated and relaxed place to enjoy the finer things in life.

However, surely a cheap, funky boozer with a hint of Bohemian cool would have been a more guaranteed cash cow rather than this bloated over-priced gastro?