When did high-vis jackets become a number one fashion item and who decided they should be worn with thongs and failing tracksuit bottoms?

I ask because more people in Walkabout were dressed in bright orange than weren’t. I felt quite out of place in a T-shirt and jeans.

Mind you, a combination of the fluorescent lighting and these safety jackets did make it easy to avoid being crashed into by these worse-for-wear revellers as they cannoned around this cavernous West Street monster pub. Is it perhaps some sort of bizarre fancy dress challenge?

Gaining admission is a challenge in itself and I’m not sure I want to frequent places that force you to have your passport scanned. If this level of security is really needed it’s a good guide to the scale of the issues they’re expecting.

There were plenty of folk in, but they still rattled around so it wasn’t too tricky to avoid the orange missiles.

I selected a seat where the smell of urine was at its weakest, but this left me perilously close to what I assumed must be the designated DJ area as the circular walls were covered in dodgy old 1980s’ speakers. This wasn’t too bad pre-9pm as there was some lad selecting reasonable music. However, cometh the hour and on came the “professional” DJ who was dreadful, bring back the lad.

We were then treated to a couple of delights – firstly Post Malone’s Rockstar and then Trabajo from DJ Pirata, which, if anything, was even worse.

I was soldiering on through my pint of 4.4 per cent Pacific Aussie pale ale from Thunder Road which was fresh and tropical enough though a bit underwhelming and was never going to keep me off the lager.

Then some dipstick started applauding the DJ, which was completely uncalled for, until I realised they were clapping because he was stopping to make way for karaoke.

To the total disdain of the pub, four mates got up to belt out Abba’s Mama Mia really badly – even so it was better than the offering from the 9pm DJ. Next a couple of guys in a group with a massive pot of self-serve lager on their table foolishly left the booze to the others to knock out a surprisingly decent version of See You Again Guys.

I’d moved along to a seat at a surfboard table as I was hoping cats hadn’t visited this section, sadly I was wrong, and the trendy table wasn’t great either.

Most of the pub looks like a back alley, fully of corrugated metal and graffiti, maybe it’s being used like many local back alleys. In fact, the boyz toilet downstairs is just about the most hospitable area of the pub, not to mention the most sweet smelling, but why put boyz and girlz on the door? It’s just trying too hard.

There are more TV screens in the place than I could even bother counting so watching sport must be the most positive thing to do here.

And, the two pool tables on the right as you come in were in constant use all night – maybe it’s because it the furthest point from the karaoke, or Walkabout customers love pool or perhaps because the cat hasn’t visited here. I asked the barman what time they would be closing, and he said it could be anything – 11pm midnight, 1am or, at the latest, 3am. It just depends how full the bar is as the witching hour approaches.

Free shots were now being offered for anyone prepared to murder September Song by JP Cooper. Step forward the girl in the striped shorts, her mate in the ripped jeans and red top and the fellow with the sunglasses who fancied himself beyond belief. The girls’ voices were absolutely atrocious, but he took the bar even lower. I don’t know about serving them shots, they should have been. Even the terrible DJ ignored this trio.

I shifted across to the Moretti, but this was, and for the lawyers I’ll chose my words carefully, lacklustre. The DJ was back on and there were no more karaoke victims stepping forward. I didn’t fancy the even more graffitied outside area with all the white lights or sections which smelt more like the gents than the gents, so I bid the bouncers good night.

This isn’t one I’d rush back to, unless I was hammered and totally desperate for a late-night drink. Most punters had a resigned desperation etched on to their faces and looked as if they’d been told they weren’t allowed to leave.

I’m sure it gets hectic for the door staff later and at weekends, but they looked capable of dealing with “issues” – so I left them busily scanning in passports.

79 West Street, Brighton

Decor: * 
It looks awful, but it ought to be easy enough to hose out regularly

Drink: **
An average pale ale, followed by a Moretti (which I won’t comment on for legal reasons)

Price: ***
The Aussie ale was £4.75 and the Moretti 5p cheaper

Atmosphere: ** 
It felt depressing, as if people couldn’t think of anything better to do 

Staff: ***
The bar staff were fine, and if you’re interested they’re recruiting for more.

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