If you come to this pub expecting a quiet few drinks with your friends and you're not a local, don't forget to bring a wooden cross, the family bible and a full canister of bear mace.
I can say without hyperbole that the landlord of The Dolphin (affectionately nicknamed 'the sharktank' by it's younger clientele, possible due to the unappealing nature of the women who frequent it, the shit attitude of everyone who works there, the general odour of the place, or, indeed, a combination of the three) has, along with several socially crippling physical deformities, a case of 'short man syndrome', the severity of which would have given Napoleon himself a run for his money.
The brown floor, brown walls, brown ceiling and brown lighting are, as I took it, a clever ruse by the establishment in attempts to stop the patrons recognising the bottles of sainsbury's basics vodka lining the back wall, the mildew inhabiting the cracks in the walls (which actually served to add life to the building), the school tie sticking awkwardly out the barman's pocket (who was blatantly about fifteen) and the look on the adolescent bartender's face, a look which (amongst the erupting whiteheads) could be read as 'I would rather be at home masturbating over my sister's friends' Instagram posts'.
My first encounter with one of the regular patrons was in the designated smoking area, and was in the form of a hunched, impossibly wrinkled (I presume) man, who seemed to have no identifiable age barking insults at his much younger but similarly worn-out girlfriend - 'smokin' a roll arp', 'facken slappa' and 'that was the last of me facken mefadone ya silly slag' were about all I could make out from the otherwise incomprehensible stream of verbal diarrhoea spouting from his rollie-hole. Thankfully, the walking OxyContin dispensary left shortly afterwards, with instructions vaguely along the lines of 'you can keep her, she's a slag anyway'.
The aggressive demeanour of the staff, the variety of drinks (ranging from Fosters to Fosters), the bleak atmosphere and the stench of BO and fry-up (seemingly emitted by the fat bloke who sits in the corner by the door) are, amongst countless others, significant factors in my decision to avoid 'The Dolphin' at all costs.
The only reason this place hasn't been demolished is that the building is listed, due to the abundance of previously undiscovered wildlife living amongst the floorboards as a result of never having been cleaned. read more