Young, free and shingle-No.21 Pebbles on the Port

When: Tuesday February 25th 2014
Where: Pebbles on the Port, Lady Bee Marina, Southwick
I paid: £3:80 for a pint of Kronenbourg

***WARNING: THE FOLLOWING REVIEW HAS BEEN ISSUED WITH AN 18 CERTIFICATE
 OWING TO STRONG LANGUAGE AND EXTREMELY CRAP PHOTOS FROM THE OUTSET***
                                   

dum, dum, dum, dum, thumb

The A259 coast road between Portslade and Shoreham is a singularly grim stretch of carriageway, flanked on either side by scrap metal yards, factory warehouses, used car lots and marine industry, whilst all the while being overlooked by the brooding hulk of Shoreham Power Station. Not the kind of environment you'd expect to find a thriving pub then, and indeed dotted along the roadside amongst the ugly sprawl are a few former establishments that have given up the ghost as well as those that seem well into their death throes. I was glad to see the Pebbles on the Port was still going strong as I was positive that I'd once spent a Christmas eve here many years ago but had either had one too many Foster's (about 3 in my case) or had such an awful time that I'd attempted to block it out as my recollections were extremely hazy and I was eager to see if anything jogged my memory.
                                       

It would be easy to overlook if you were unaware it was there, tucked away at the bottom of a tiny slip road leading to the rather grandly named Lady Bee Marina. But if you think the exterior is unremarkable then it only serves as a warning of what's to come as the pub itself can best be described as erm, basic. It gives the appearance of a social club more than a pub and has all the charm of a ferry terminal waiting room, albeit with less distractions. The three customers perched at the bar when I entered looked me over not with hostility but certainly with a small amount of suspicion so I was grateful to get my beer and slink away to one of the battered leather sofas in the corner. Background music played softly on a radio station I didn't recognise but quickly nicknamed 'Bland FM' as it churned out a selection of middle of the road dirge by Mike and the Mechanics and Heart. With little to occupy me it was hard not to listen in on the conversations at the bar and they ranged from such exciting topics as the barmans love life, "you still seeing that bird with five kids Ray?",to female driving skills, "I wouldn't get on a bus with a woman driver" and even showbiz insider info, "yeah, Fleetwood Mac are playing Worthing Pier this year"....this third one caused me to give an involuntary snort of laughter and as three heads swivelled to look at me I had to pretend a swig of beer had gone down the wrong way.
                                         

Fortunately I was spared further scrutiny by the arrival of a new customer in the bar who was obviously well known to everybody present (except me) and greeted with a universal, "alright Rog" rather in the manner of Norm from Cheers. But whereas Norm would always respond with a ready smile and a quick quip, Rog settled for a scowl and "I'll have a fucking Guinness I'm fucking knackered". Not sure what Woody would make of that one back in Boston. It quickly became apparent that Rog liked to swear, a lot. I'm not particularly bothered by colourful language (it's hard to be when you work at a place where being called a cunt is almost a term of endearment) but in the near silence of the bar with just Barry White schmoozing away on Bland, it sounded painfully crude and out of place. He did have the saving grace of being accompanied by an elderly border collie but after a quick exploratory sniff around the bar she just decided to flop down at Rog's feet where despite his best impersonation of a geriatric Ray Winstone, "where's your fucking ball?" she remained as lifeless as the pub itself.

I turned to admire the stunning view of the power station through the window and noticed it had begun to drizzle again. It caused me to momentarily consider ordering another pint, at least the pub was warm and I didn't have a lot else to do on a grey Tuesday afternoon in February. Just then though, the opening bars of Chasing Cars wafted through on Bland so I quickly drank up and headed out into the rain. Fucking Snow Patrol.

Dog Friendly: Yes                                                                   Quiz: No

Food: A large menu of standard pub grub, burgers, chips etc. Reasonably priced, also available to takeaway.

Entertainment: Bland FM aside, absolutely nothing. No TV's, pool table, dartboard or even a fruit machine. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing but with Mr. Tourette's in full flow some distractions would've been nice.

Outside seating: Small patio area at the front where you can admire the sunset over the power station or maybe discretely trip one of the small brats that's been running around into the water.

Toilets: Grimy (alternative pub name: Pebbles in the Khazi)

OVERALL SCORE: 3/10..............erm, maybe it's nice in the summer?