DECOR * (drab and charmless) DRINK *** (adequate choice of beers, wines and spirits) PRICE *** (standard but you definitely don’t get value for money) ATMOSPHERE ** (like a funeral parlour) STAFF **** (friendly and laid back)

FOR most people with ears and good taste, jazz is like fingernails on a chalkboard or Britney Spears without the autotuning (sorry Brits, it’s true).

But for some, however, listening to a couple of hours of squealing clarinet, wailing sax and the aimless plucking of a double bass, all accompanied by the excruciating vocals of woman who sounds like a kitten being flayed alive, is better than sex.

For thousands of these sado-masochists, Greenwich’s Lord Hood pub is a mecca for the music genre and last week saw fans cram into the modestly sized boozer for the 27th Greenwich Riverfront Jazz Festival.

Sadly, because of Cameron and his blood-stained axe, the annual event has lost some of its all important funding and this year’s may have been the last.

Bass player Dave Silk helped set up the event with other musicians over a pint at the pub in Creek Road and at its peak the festival attracted up to 10,000 music fans and put on 115 gigs across 36 venues.

So it seemed fitting for me to pop along and make a farewell toast to a festival which was once boosted by the chance arrival of the HMS Ark Royal, when 2,000 seamen descended on Greenwich.

Disappointingly, there were no drunken sailors when I visited.

In fact, despite it being around 5pm on a weekday, there was almost no sign of life at all — only a lonely-looking barmaid listening to Magic FM.

Nevertheless, she and the stale smell of beer and old socks greeted me warmly as I walked through the door and headed straight to the bar.

After ordering a pint of Heineken (£3.30) I found a bright spot by the window to settle in and admire my handiwork in the latest edition of News Shopper.

It’s a standard price for a pint in this neck of the woods, so it would be petty to moan about the price tag, but sinking uncomfortably into the crappy brown cushioned bench, I felt like singing some blues of my own as I drank in both my lager and the dreary surroundings.

The depressing, dead looking plants and flowers lined along the top of the bar give the place the feel of a funeral parlour.

While other curios, including giant brandy glasses, decorative porcelain plates, novelty Toby jugs and, bizarrely, an old broken television, scattered haphazardly about the place, plonked anywhere there is a ledge, are eccentric but charmless.

It’s a shame, as next door to the popular Up The Creek Comedy Club, it would be a perfect spot to grab a drink before watching some rib-tickling stand-up.

However, the only amusing thing which happened when I popped in was the barmaid belching so deeply I thought she was coughing up a hairball or maybe even a kidney.

The loss of the jazz festival will be a blow for the boozer, as apart from a pool table and dartboard, there’s little in the way of entertainment here to keep punters from instead wandering over to one of the many better pubs in the area.