DECOR ** (red for danger) DRINK ** (lager, lager, spirits and, ooh, lager) PRICE * (doesn’t match the venue) ATMOSPHERE * (smells like mean spirit) STAFF *** (capable enough) FOOD ** (like school dinners with less lumps)

FREEZING my nuts off in the snow waiting for the train to take me on the first leg of this month’s pub crawl in Bexley would be romantic in some epic Russian love story.

But this ain’t Dr Zhivago and I’m no Omar Sharif.

So cursing the eternally unprepared British transport system for once again grinding to a halt at the slightest sign of bad weather, I dropped my plans, trudged out of Greenwich station and headed next door to Belushi’s in the hope of a pint and a meal.

However, as I squeezed past the burly bouncer, indiscriminately harassing punters at the door for ID like a scorned Nazi zealot, it suddenly dawned on me.

With a plethora of charming, attractive boozers in the area, the only reason this dive is consistently busy is because it is the warmest place within spitting distance of the next train home.

This pseudo-American watering hole is as grimy and unsavoury as the grubby travellers packed eight to a room in the hostel attached or the foul mouthed chavs downing pints of lager in the corner.

As I jostled for space at the bar, lined with pie-eyed punters gawking at the ubiquitous TV screens showing endless sport, suddenly freezing to death on the platform seemed like a more attractive option than living and breathing the same sweat scented air as Belushi’s less than salubrious clientele.

Then again, at least I had nuts to chill. Which is more than can be said for the poor old turkeys who, after a special Thanksgiving festival at the pub chain, didn’t even have testicles left for last week’s icy snap to nip at.

Those unlucky birds had their bite-sized crown jewels deep fried and dished up to drunk, genital hungry customers for three days in celebration of the annual American tradition.

Much to my disappointment they were all out of bird balls when I visited so I was forced to settle for the sickeningly creamy carbonara pasta (£6.95), which if you hadn’t already from just looking at it, will make you want to vomit after finishing the entire plate.

I quickly washed the gloopy mess down with my pint of Sagres lager, which at £3.40 a pint is quite a sting for the resident backpackers.

The pub’s one saving grace, perhaps, is the small intimate Greenwich Playhouse theatre upstairs.

It’s a charming venue staging productions of classic plays as well as more avant garde fringe.

And if panto is about as appealing as sticking Widow Twanky’s chopsticks in your eyes, then you might want to check out their Christmas production of A Woman Of No Importance.

Anxious to escape soon, I ordered a less time consuming gin and tonic (£3.40) and took a closer look at my surroundings.

With its red walls and matching lamp shades, you’ve got to hand it to the interior designers for at least trying to make a statement.

Unfortunately the colour seems to be more a stark warning to stay well away rather than come in and fall in love.

Pub Spy is now on Twitter. To follow him, visit twitter.com