DECOR * (teenage kicks right through the night) DRINK ** (small selection) PRICE *** (not bad, but not exactly a bargain) ATMOSPHERE ** (like an episode of Jeremy Kyle) STAFF ** (friendly but can’t pull a pint)

WHEN a town’s only tourist attraction is a giant fish sculpture mounted on a roundabout, it’s an early warning sign to keep driving, do not pass go and do not collect £200.

With my expectations so low my over-inflated ego was in danger of imploding under the increased subterranean pressure, I followed a bare chested tattooed chav into The Ship pub.

If the name of this scuzzy looking boozer rings a bell then it’s probably because it hit the headlines recently after police found cocaine in the bogs and the landlord was forced to shut up shop for a month.

Now apparently drug-free and with more checks and security measures than Belmarsh prison, the pub is open for business once again.

It’s hard not to feel uneasy when you walk through the doors and large, aggressive signs plastered on the walls warn against drug use, point to the CCTV now in use and threaten anyone under the age of 25 to cough up an approved proof of ID or go home thirsty and sober.

Fortunately, the fake comedy moustache and nose I received in my Christmas stocking finally came in use and the friendly, but frankly hopeless, barmaid happily poured me a pint of Amstel (£3) without scrutinising my credentials.

I say poured, but it was more like frothed, as she naively forgot to tip the glass as she pulled the tap and my Dutch lager ended up with a bigger head than the love child of Ted Danson and Christina Ricci.

Her sloppy effort at pulling a pint was perhaps because she and the rest of the punters were glued to the television, which was blaring out an episode of Jeremy Kyle.

As he passed his God-like judgement on some teenage mum, who may or not have been prostituting herself as a means to raise her bastard child, the drinkers bobbed their heads like those nodding toy dogs, as if picking up tips which they could later use in their own sad lives.

I once thought the repulsive chat show’s guests were simply fictional caricatures but gazing around the pub in amazement I realised these people were far from just middle class fantasies.

They were here, drinking and mocking the show’s down-trodden oiks, not realising they were actually watching a mirror image of themselves.

Perhaps disturbed by the same thought, the grubby workman on the bar stool shuffled off his seat and frantically fed the fruit machine some silver.

Along with a pool table and dart board, it’s a welcome distraction from the unimaginative decor.

With posters of Oasis, Scarface and beaten-up boxing champions, it reminded me of a teenage boy’s bedroom.

All that’s missing is a bong and a dog-eared edition of Playboy.

The Ship is by no means a hell hole, but to recommend this pub is a bit like advising a staunch pacifist to join the Mujahideen — dangerous and against God’s plan.