Oft have I sat back and wondered what it’d be like to hear someone sing Soft Cell’s Tainted Love with their head wedged up a badgers arse. Though I’m yet to experience this feat literally, I watch Britain’s Got Talent solely in hope of this, I have now a good idea of what might sounds like thanks to the ‘singer’ in The Bull who was dizzyingly abysmal and accompanied by a Status Quo reject who was clearly hoping that slapping his guitar would disguise the fact that he’d just ballsed up another chord.

Given that it’s a paint by numbers shopping centre affiliated pub The Bull was always going to have an uphill struggle in my book but it’s really not helped itself on a number of fronts. I’ll kick off with the decor as it’s seared into my memory as being pretty much a patch work of union jack adorned items and chalkboards announcing all sorts of shite happening within the walls including ‘Westfield Wednesday’ and ‘Grown Up Party’. Seating is fortunately in abundance but if you’re sitting at a table you’ll have the misfortune to share it with goo adorned condiment bottles or sad looking house plants.

Unsurprisingly there is food and drink in this place and brace yourselves because there is a hilarious joke here. The food menu is entitled ‘Rations’ as if it’s still the war; now hold me tight because my sides have just split ha ha sodding ha. It isn’t ‘the war’ anymore though there are still lots of wars so stop laughing you insensitive arse. Drink is treated with the reverence it ought to be and there is a not unimpressive set of options for you to pick from though it is astoundingly expensive.

Incredibly annoying given that this pub was presumably only build in the last few years is that there is only one set of toilets and it’s on the third floor. If you’ve got a pint to bladder ratio as bad as mine this will soon become tedious.

Final nail in the coffin? Clientele. I’m not suggesting that I’m some sort of ultra refined social etiquette wizard like Paul Burrel clearly is… but the majority of people who find themselves heading for a pint after a trip to Sports Direct are best avoided and score alarmingly high on my Moron-o-Meter.

Other than the company I was in and my drink the only thing I enjoyed about The Bull was watching a man who was clearly sending an incredibly important tweet walk face first into a floor to ceiling window. Gazing at the face imprint on the glass as the singer prepared to attempt ‘Roxanne’ just about helped me maintain my sanity.

The opening phrase from The Bulls website reads as such.

‘An oasis of old-world comfort amid the whirl of Westfield, the perfect place to rest, recharge and soak up a restorative pint before re-embarking on your shopping expedition. You’ll need a strong will to avoid lingering though…’

No, no you wont.