I HADN’T eaten for nigh on nine hours so I had a quick tinkle on the web and found what looked like a cracking pub on New Street. The Old Greyhound? Good food they say? I’ll be the judge of that!

I thought, the Zafira is in need of a good punishing so I put on my best slacks, blazered up, thrashed her into third and hit the road.

My back seat was occupied by at least five superficially damaged Easter eggs. The chaps at the garage did warn me: “You’re gonna get diabetes old boy!”

I chuckled and lied, “Ah, they’re not for me, they’re for the step kids. Don’t tell the wife!”

Navigating the one-way through the city centre was a doddle in the Zafira and there I was swerving into a space with no complaints. You never lose it.

First in line, I smacked four fingers on the bar and said “so what do you have for me captain?”

In my head I was really thinking, I’m Mr Pub Spy, do your worst!

I gave the menu a quick once over. Everything seemed in good order. Had another glance at the old particulars and the mixed grill smacked me with a right hook. Crash, bang, wallop.

It was the Now That’s What I Call Pub Classics type of affair. All the favourites – lasagne, scampi, curry, gammon.

Money and success don’t make me happy but a cracking mixed grill does.

Seven quid you say? I’ll take that. Guinness? Yes please.

Quick glance over the bar. Mahogany is it? It was smooth to the touch.

I said how’s that then skipper, you don’t mind if I call you skipper do you? You look like a man that knows his onions.

Come on then son, show me the damage. All of that for less than twelve pounds? That’s mad value!

How do you want your meat cooked? I said in the pan you silly sod. Boy, did we laugh.

I tore three new five pound notes out the money clip and gave the nod to the man beside me with the impeccable moustache. I’m a man in caramel corduroy from the waist down and I’m not afraid to admit it.

Top work, sir. Always nice to entertain the troops with some lively back-and-forth.

Ten minutes or so later, over she comes.

What lay before me was an unfathomably handsome plate of food.

I’ve got to admire the tremendous piece of crockery that my assorted meats came out on. Excellent width, superb girth.

Thick salty gammon? Gateway to heaven. Result. Steak? Average. Sausages. Seven out of ten. Chips! Chips! Chips! Not the worst, not the best. Top that off with a nice wedge of chicken that blew my socks off. Unhinged.

The grub made me want to stand right on the table and say, ruddy hell that was good.

Not that I would mind, don’t want to go down that hygienic rabbit hole. 400,000 bacteria on your slip ons is no laughing matter.

Other things worth noting - first rate carpet. Lovely bit of tartan. No salt and pepper on the table. Rock and roll. The 40 best power ballads of all time? Oh go on then.

Would I go again? Without a doubt.