In a fug of bleach, I am accosted by a man displaying symptoms of lunacy

A shiny beetle-black glass of glorious Guinness is often a failsafe option for the real beer fanatic who has been obliged by circumstance to visit a pub where the landlord or landlady thinks ale is a type of hard rain.

If the gods are smiling, and how could we prove they were or were not?, you will see a bottle of Ireland's finest stout on a dusty wooden shelf behind the bar, possibly next to some neon-coloured drinks in a fridge and some pork scratchings in a cardboard box. But these days the bottle option is less common, so there is draft Guinness.

At its best, draft Guinness is a welcome old pal of a drink but it is not as easy or cheap to keep and serve as keg lager, which might, or might not, account for the average-tasting pint I had in Sherry's Tavern in Barnstaple. But maybe I'm being unfair; maybe my senses were out-of-whack.

People who did not want smoking banned in our pubs sometimes complain about the smell of alehouses, now the scent-cloak of burning, and burned, tobacco is forbidden. 

I am in favour of the smoking ban, on health grounds, but as soon as we walked in and my ears adjusted to the karaoke, my nose and lungs and belly had to cope with a tang which I imagine a perfumier might describe as having a top note of bleach, with an undertone of lager, and a wisp of, er, something sold in a bottle labelled "perfume". Huddled beneath the din, like a man lost in a bunker somewhere in nomansland, my friend provided a less kind assessment of the vibes. For the first time in my life, apart perhaps from the times I visited those  plastic toilets at the Glastonbury music festival where the previous visitors had left too much evidence of their visit (and how little would have been too much, I hear you say), I longed for a huddle of incessant cigar smokers to appear and start blowing Cuban fumes up my nose.

No real ale was on offer that night, so to the Guinness we went by default. I have drank draft Guinness in many pubs around England and Ireland, and even further afield. Indeed, for some time in my early 20s I acquired a taste for stout and I regularly drank nothing else and, over-doing it, became slightly fat. You know good Guinness when you get it: it's bitter, creamy, long-lasting on the tongue and thick with pungent flavour. Maybe my tastebuds had been affected by the jagged smell of disinfectant, but the pint I had, and admittedly it was only one pint, seemed insipid.

As I took my first sips, a rather excited man with slightly unmatched eyeballs appeared at my face and asked me which road I lived in.

I politely lied to him, and he said with a look of barely controlled glee: "You're lying". 

Luckily I was called away to the karaoke area at the back of the pub, which is decorated with framed photographs of pop stars such as Oasis. I'd happily say if the customers looked like they were enjoying themselves (which they do in a pub I have already admitted I don't much rate on the atmosphere front: Wetherspoon's) but there was an air of desperation in the corners. Pubs have always had their natural share of melancholy, I suppose.

While my nose and mouth learned to adjust to Sherry's, and what it offered a pub loving man, my ears and brain were assaulted by the sound of the karaoke. Again, just as Guinness is a good beer if properly kept and served in the right environment, so singing in pubs is, at the right time and with the right tune and atmosphere, a good hear. But a metaphorical photocopy of a bad Robbie Williams song, sung with as much soul as a plastic bag, is my idea of pub misery. Then our lot started singing and things really deteriorated; I felt sorry for the regulars.

Sherry's Tavern, Boutport Street, Barnstaple

Adam's Ale Rating: One out of Five

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