CAGES, severe haircuts and cushioned seats.

What might sound like a rather plush prison was actually the scene that greeted me as I waltzed through the doors of Brewdog in Brighton’s Grand Parade.

As I glanced around I noticed the average drinker’s uniform of choice tended to include having the sides of their head brutally trimmed.

As a result, I felt somewhat out of place with my receding short back and sides. But I persevered nonetheless as, by this time, I was gasping for a post-work pint and some sort of sustenance.

The decor of the establishment was dubbed as “trendy” by Mrs PubSpy.

But, as someone who makes an involuntary low groan every time they rise from their well-worn sofa, trendy is not an adjective I feel I can relate to particularly heavily.

A series of seats were set across a series of levels, divided by metal caging.

Several retro arcade games stood in the corner while an old cinema boarding behind the bar displayed an impressive array of pints on offer.

A far cry from my usual haunts where country cottage-esque interiors are the order of the day.

I swiped a menu from the first table and headed for the bar.

Mrs PubSpy had recently watched a Netflix documentary which had persuaded her to try vegetarianism, and wagered me I would be unable to do the same.

I am rarely one to shy away from a beef burger, but make a point of never turning down a challenge, so plumped for the alarmingly named “Hail Seitan” burger topped with “crispy kale, sun-kissed tomato chutney and hummus in a beetroot brioche bun”.

I was flying blind in this decision, but was later informed that seitan was a vegan meat substitute.

Mrs PubSpy opted for the far less hellishly named “Clucky This Time” which also featured the alien ingredient.

We both gave the pub’s “Soy Division” burger a swerve amid fears the tofu, something we have yet to sample, might tear our stomachs apart.

The menu suggested I pair my meal with an Elvis Juice, a peppy IPA which, at 6.5 per cent, packed a punch.

I decided to take them up on this offer and asked the barmaid (who had been attentive and pleasant throughout) for a pint of the stuff.

“We serve this in two thirds of a pint glasses I’m afraid. I can get you a pint, but it will be about £8.”

I felt my right eyebrow raise alarmingly high up my forehead.

Fortunately they have a long way to go on account of the aforementioned decline of follicles on my fringe.

“I’ll stick with the two thirds thanks,” I answered, my voice cracking like a nervous schoolboy as I reeled from the news.

Mrs PubSpy and I took a table near the door and the food arrived shortly afterwards.

Now, I never had myself down as a devil-worshipper, but this seitan malarkey certainly drew a lot of praise from the pair of us.

Occasionally we would take a break from the delicious meals to make approving grunts and astounded comments along the lines of, “this tastes just like chicken dear” and “I can’t believe it’s not beef”.

The pint, though pricey, was also a welcome accompaniment.

Light and fruity, it refreshed my palate after the rich, barbecue flavourings of the burger.

I had mine polished off in no time and, when it was done, I sat back for a moment, nodding in approval.

Finally, before we departed, I headed down a dimly-lit staircase at the back of the pub for my obligatory visit to the bathroom.

There was nothing extraordinary to report here. The toilets did their job ably and appeared to be well maintained.