The Prince Arthur, 80-82 Eversholt Street

It was all going so well. Transformed from the festering heap of yesteryear, the Prince Arthur has managed to metamorphose into something, er, nice: wooden fittings, leather seats, moodily lit by lights contained in big red lampshades, free of football and full of real ales. Nice people hung out around its tables and chatted about nice things. And then I went to the loo, which is situated just behind the bar by the picture of a naked lady. OK, fine, we all get the postmodern joke thing like we all get strange pains in the backs of our heads after too little sleep. I let it pass, and was happily having a slash when I noticed something pink, tubular and flaccid laying on the floor. Initially alarmed that the Euston Penis Hacker had struck, I took a closer look and realised it was in fact a dismembered portion of crab, about four inches long, left under one of the sinks. On my way out I checked the menu, just in case some of the ingredients had been re-enacting The Great Escape, but no, no crab. So, um, maybe someone’s got a king kong version of a certain genitalia problem? I was quite put off my beer.

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