DECOR ** (dated) DRINK **** (good range) PRICE **** (cheap but for a reason) ATMOSPHERE ** (claustrophobic) STAFF **** (friendly and helpful) FOOD * (a culinary disaster of epic proportions)

WITH only one small window at the front providing a modicum of natural light, the Catford Ram is a highly recommended drinking spot for emo teens, goths, Twihards and vampires.

Gloomy and depressing, this town centre boozer is like an international airport in some dreary Third World country.

Time zones no longer apply and getting inebriated at any time of the day is perfectly acceptable because it appears to be permanently night.

Despite its cavernous interior, the lack of fresh air, musty odour and dark red carpet give the pub a suffocating and claustrophobic feel.

Granted, it’s an old fashioned pub, but instead of feeling a nostalgia for a time when boozers were the heart and soul of the community, the Ram simply looks tired and in need of a modern makeover.

Short of knocking through a hole in one of the walls to let the light in, replacing the carpet with polished wooden floorboards would help lighten the place up a little.

And the random pictures of everything from Prince Charles pulling a pint to art deco whiskey ads does nothing to give the pub character.

With a selection of Young’s bitter and ale on tap, as well as your bog standard range of lagers, spirits and wine, punters at least have a choice of drinks to numb the pain with.

So, ordering a pint of the St Austell brewery’s Tribute ale (£2.75), I took a seat and waited for my cottage pie (£5.50) to be cooked.

I say cooked, but what I mean is re-heated in the microwave.

And I say re-heated in the microwave, but after taking my first mouthful of stone cold pie, I realised even that was inaccurate.

Resembling road kill, the only things fresh and hot on my plate were the accompanying chips and overcooked mixed vegetables.

After the apologetic staff sent it back to the kitchen to be warmed up, five minutes later it returned to my table looking like the last meal of a nuclear holocaust victim.

The once firm and fluffy pie seemed to have collapsed in on itself, the chips were now a soggy mess and the vegetables had been turned into an inedible mush.

Hungry, I shut my eyes and thought of those starving children in Africa as I swallowed the bland, radiated mess on my plate, which had a strange, inexplicable aftertaste of vinegar.

One of the pub’s few saving graces is its widescreen television which, during footie season, I hear is a fabulous distraction from the less than salubrious surroundings.

God knows what working in this dingy dungeon does to your sanity, but the staff are mercifully helpful and friendly.

Pushing the remains of my so-called food to one side, my stomach began to churn and I realised it was going to be a while before the memory of this frazzled feast faded.

But it’s nothing a vodka shot in the dark can’t erase.