Satan; Hitler; Pol Pot; Louis Walsh; Bristol post-war planning committees. The hierarchy of evil makes for mirthless reading. Yet for the time being, we shall divert our reservoir of ire towards the last in this list, the incompetent, Corbusier-abusing fools that they were. Brunel’s Bristol rail terminal carries with it echoes of St Pancras, ecclesiastical cloisters and, with its sloped, triumphal approach, an English country house. Yet beyond the theatre of the trains, it all goes terribly wrong. From this point, your snooty London visitor realises that they have descended into a netherworld of botched circulatory systems, bathroom showzones and cheap Chinese restaurants.

Book, cover, etc. Image liberally nicked from the BritishPubGuide.com

Determined to forestall any further dent to regional civic pride, discerning sojourners should be led beyond this tawdry beginning, up Victoria St, towards the small isle of olde Tudorian shoppes that still remain on Redcliffe. A brief pause, in the shadow of the church of St Thomas, allows the ignorant to understand in a flash the damage wrought on this city by the Second World War, and to realise what once stood. It also allows a glimpse of the easy urbanity exuded by Bristol at its best: nothing too dolled-up nor made over cheaply – in short, a city comfortable with its position in things.

But at this point… Well, here lies a thing. It’s simple. If you’re anywhere near a Friday night, don’t think about encouraging this thought process by entering ‘Ye Shakespeare’. The outside looks grand, doesn’t it? Wonky oak timbers. A happy, unpretentious frontage. A righteous introduction to sturdy Bristolian drinking values, surely.

The reality, sadly, is Hogarth in the provinces: ‘Firestarter’ on the jukey, Blackthorn on draught, sagging tracksuit bottoms and swivelling, needy, angry eyes. The loudness of the place is only matched by its lethargy, despite the craven, wobbling efforts of its mashed punters: the horrific essence of a provinicial night out. Cultural cringe in the West Country.

The right answer, of course, is to go to the King’s Head, a few doors up. Now don’t make that mistake again.