IF YOU want a glass of water at Marwood, you’ll have to fetch it from a tap mounted on a shop mannequin’s groin.

And if you don’t like it, that’s tough. Last year the bar’s manager told a disgruntled customer he was a “miserable c**t”.

Unsuspecting punter Neil Masey was fed up with Marwood Bar and Coffeehouse in Brighton’s Ship Street, writing on Facebook: “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m not 21 any more, I prefer sitting on a chair rather than a scaffolding plank.

“I don’t like zoning (laptop only areas, laptop-free zones etc), moody teenage servers are NOT cool and I prefer to not pay through the nose for anything (Greggs was busy).”

Writing from the Marwood Facebook account, the manager replied: “You sir are a miserable c**t, stick to Greggs.”

The Argus wrote up the story and the newspaper clipping is now framed on the bar. The accompanying picture of Neil Masey’s face has a pair of red devil horns sketched on it.

The thing’s mounted on the till like a head on a spike, a warning to Marwood’s critics.

Fortunately, the place is brilliant. Not that dismembering a corpse is entirely out of the question here. Odd body parts are scattered about the place like decorative confetti.

A plastic sheep’s head mounted on the wall functions as a light. If you head out, you’ll have to shake hands with a doorknob made from a mannequin’s wrist and a Cyberman’s head grafted on to the body of a teddy bear hangs above the bar.

It feels like the twisted, mutant-making devil child from Disney’s Toy Story may have had a hand in the interior design.

To be fair to Neil Masey, the place does have a touch of a teenage bedroom.

But those “moody teenage servers” he so disliked are in fact – the manager confesses – jolly 30-somethings “pretending they have real jobs”.

They make the place leagues more entertaining than some of the zombie-run dives I’ve had to traipse through this year.

And Masey’s complaints about “zoning” sound a little snowflakey, to my mind. Just like we were warned avocado shortages would bring millennial life to an end, “zoning” is a newfangled dread that doesn’t really materialise at Marwood.

Neil is closer to the mark about “paying through the nose” here. A wodge of vegan cake with dehydrated orange is £3.95. But it is as dense as a brick and could feed a family for a week.

Good draft beers are cheaper, and it’s the atmosphere you’re paying for. On a cold winter’s night, Marwood gets the feel just right. It’s warm, lively and snug. It’s not chic and it feels much less pretentious than I was led to believe. It feels genuine.

And if you want a hot chocolate and a slice of that dehydrated orange cake at 11pm on a weekday, you can get one. There aren’t many places in town you can do that.

Somehow, Marwood manages to be weird as well as cosy. A logo outside shows a Christmas turkey mounted by its backside on a block of flats. A gun-wielding Han Solo looms above the bar, as does a pink figurine strapped to a crucifix and a 5ft long pencil fitted with hanging lightbulbs. A stuffed Jar Jar Binks bust sits in the corner, puffing on a pipe and wearing a sailor’s hat.

Somehow the punters remain at ease.

They’re an eclectic bunch, ranging from blokey pub stalwarts to the proud vegans that must populate an Argus commenter’s worst nightmare.

The odd decor bleeds into the bizarre toilets. They’re part beachside changing cabin, part chicken coop. There are dozens of images of ducks, hens and other farm fowl plastered over the back wall.

Neil would probably say it’s try-hard.

But the point is it’s interesting. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather pop in for a peculiar pint.