Nightingale, Romsey

Backstreet pub bordering between the unspoilt and the squalid but tending to the latter. The presence of handpumps with a couple of Flacks Manor beers aroused hope; sadly its condition matched that of the pub. One extended room with the bar to the side and a pool table at the rear. Could be a gem. Isn't.

A dreadful town centre pub that could and should be so much better. Upon entering, I realised too late there was no ale available and chose a pint of guinness, for which I was charged the exorbitant sum of £3.40. I sat in a corner yet could not escape the twin invasions of trance music on the stereo and Jeremy Kyle on the television. I wolfed down my stout and made a quick exit. Truly one of the worst pubs I've ever had the misfortune to stumble into.