DECOR * (what decor?) DRINK *** (fair choice) PRICE ***** (a bargain with a pint of Fosters or Strongbow at only £2) ATMOSPHERE * (you’ll be lucky) STAFF ** (rude and unhelpful)

AS THE barmaid stared blankly into space and bit her lip at the challenge of spelling the name of the pub she was serving in, I had a sinking feeling the Anglesea Arms in Woolwich wasn’t a regular drinking spot for MENSA members.

“Bet you don’t know how to spell that,” laughed the bald punter at the bar as the surly barmaid struggled to write me a receipt for a pint of Stella Artois (£2.50).

“Actually, you’re not wrong,” she shamelessly replied, recovering from a momentary loss of consciousness but still unable to rub together the two dormant brain cells floating limp inside her head.

While baldy spelt it out for her — “A-N-G-L...” — I took my beer to one of the few tables in existence in this bare, shabby and depressing boozer.

Shuffling uncomfortably on my blue plastic chair as if waiting at the dentist’s for root canal surgery, my eyes strained to focus on anything of beauty or interest in the room.

Two dartboards with large score boards are the piece de resistance of decor in this pub and some weedy looking trophies, scattered haphazardly along the walls in a desperate bid to fill the empty spaces, are evidence of regular tournaments here.

As if to prove the Anglesea wasn’t as lifeless as it appeared, the speakers suddenly came to life, blaring out 90s house music so loud I felt I should be speeding down the A20 in a pimped-up Fiesta with the window rolled down and my hand banging the roof to the beat.

Not in the mood for dancing, I polished off the remainder of my pint as a stench like stale beer mixed with urine was thankfully masked by the cigarette smoke wafting in from the open doorway.

Returning to the bar for something a little stronger (a Jack Daniel’s with a dash of coke for £2.40), I tried to listen in on the scintillating conversation being had between the punters.

Unfortunately, in between the F words punctuating every sentence, it was a stream of apparent gibberish, like a Lady Gaga song played backwards.

Presumably it was all just good hearted banter.

But without a translator to make sense of their unintelligible ramblings, I felt like a Brit abroad, unable and unwilling to speak or understand the lingo, but yelling as if talking to a five-year-old Martian with hearing difficulties, “Dooo yooou speeeeak Engliiish?”

Frustrated, I retreated to the loo to release some of the tension.

Worryingly, the bogs were the pub’s only redeeming feature and were both clean and fresh.

Leaving the pub, I turned and said goodbye but the barmaid’s silence was deafening.

For all their Britishness — a huge St George’s flag hangs behind the bar — I felt very much a foreigner.

Like many local pubs in England, only familiar faces are rewarded with genuine hospitality.

However, I would take a warm foreign welcome any day over the cold hello I received here.