I got into this fantasy vision. A gorgeous, juicy Big Mac with gherkin, mayo, ketchup, Christ I would even accept cheese. This beautiful and delicious concoction would tickle over my lips, succulent, teasing, licking me, loving me, pulling me in, engorging me with its richness, making me satisfied, sane again and lying down happy.

But no I was at the execrable Nevill Crest and Gun - a Brewers Fayre abomination on the edge of Tunbridge Wells just chasing into the countryside. I wasn't mugged, I'd been to the bloody place before and in my review in 2001 I moaned about its burnt toast and all manner of things "combo".

Q and I stopped here for all the wrong reasons - knackered, slightly edgy, kids just woken up, gagging for something to eat and a pint. We deliberately got "small meals" or do they call them "light bites" just because we thought they would be less offensive. For chrissakes, Wetherspoons do this kind of thing perfectly, but no, Holy God no, my beefburger tasted like it had been cooked at the time of the Blitz - hard, tasteless, no relish - and Q's Cod in Parsley sauce was undoubtedly out of a packet but did it have to taste of the packet? Chips were hard, had been cooked hours before clearly, and Q didn't get the promised mash with her "fish" but more of the sad chips that I had. Nobody bothered to ask why we hadn't even dented the awful food on the plate. Somebody should really be shot for this. Ten quid down the drain. Terrible, absolutely terrible and has to be the worst food in Britain. M