Ever heard the saying ‘The lights were on but nobody was home’? Not true at this pub, the locals were definitely at home, but they were sitting in almost pitch black.

And it was absolutely brass monkeys in The Archer at Whitfield, so much so every person in the pub was wearing a coat, including the landlady and the barman, I felt completely underdressed in just a thick sweatshirt.

Through the gloom Dylan the dog, assigned his own stool at the bar, looked at me with eyes that seemed to say: ‘Are you crazy coming here, I’ve been dragged against my will but you’ve got a choice’.

At this point the music on the jukebox shifted and we were treated to a rendition of ‘I’m so lonesome I Could Cry’ – I knew exactly how the songster felt.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through the plastic windows I could see the place had been decorated fairly recently and there must have been tins of lilac and sage green paint going cheap.

Whoever was picking the tunes was making some bizarre selections, but in comparison to the decorator’s choices they were a musical genius.

Everything about this pub is not on, or not working – the lights, the radiators, the out-of-order gents, even the screen on the wall. During our visit the landlady even had to go outside to fix a broken fencepost and someone kicked over Dylan’s water bowl, presumably not seeing it in the dark.

Perhaps I need be less negative and find the positives in this Brakspear pub just off the busy A2 roundabout leading into Dover. Well, the gents didn’t smell of urine, I’d say it was more a strong aroma of mould, and, I held Mrs SD’s hand in a pub for the first time – don’t tell her, but this may have been for warmth.

There is a dartboard, a pool table with purple cloth, a jukebox playing terrible tunes and a very colourful fruit machine. In fact, the fruitie was by far the brightest thing in here, apart from Dylan the dog, and was being played regularly by a local who pumped it full of cash and then walked away to let it do its thing automatically.

All the chat behind, and in front of, the bar was football-related and the Spurs-supporting barman Shane took a fair bit of flak from landlady Linda who clearly knows her footie.

A couple of locals, who hadn’t been in for a while, walked in and apologised for their absence saying they’d been too busy building a bedroom for buffalos and had no time for drinking. They explained they were working at Howletts but must have been special drinkers here in the past, because, as a mark of respect, an extra light bulb was lit when then entered.

When one man, sporting very natty Jesus sandals, popped in for a swift Fosters at 3.15 the light was switched off again – he explained he couldn’t stay for a second pint as he had the ‘little ‘uns’ to collect from school.

As always I swerved the Amber Nectar and tried a taster of the Young’s London Special, sadly, special it wasn’t and I asked if they sell much? Barman Shane said it depends who’s in but not really.

Instead I ordered up a pint of Wychbold Brewery’s 5% Hobgoblin which was a decent drop. In fact, it’s probably the best thing about The Archer, although that’s not saying much.

Mrs SD had a large Sauvignon Blanc which was described as Niki Tiki on the receipt – she reckoned it was more icky dicky and it went down in lumps.

There were two gents’ toilets in the pub, the first was out of order, the second was dark, cold and smelled appallingly of mould, but always a man to look for a positive, the liquid cherry soap was great.

It goes without saying the radiators were absolutely freezing to the touch, which given current energy costs may be a necessary evil and, assuming you are a local in the know, you can always add more layers, keep your coat on and wear gloves. But, unsuspecting visitors will have to sit and shiver.

I know it was raining and unusually dark outside, so without lights it was bound to be even darker inside, but they really do need to switch a few lights on, particularly in the toilets and anywhere which might produce a trip hazard. I’m sure the buffalo bedroom creator who kicked Dylan’s water bowl across the bar never saw it through the gloom and as he noted, that was before he even managed to order a drink.

This is unashamedly a pub for locals, but surely it can’t be desirable to freeze out visitors altogether?

The Archer, 2 Sandwich Road, Whitfield, Dover CT16 3LG

Decor: The purple cloth on the pool table must have been chosen to match the décor, but even in the darkness of the bar the disastrous colour choices and furniture faux pas couldn’t be much worse. *

Drink: The 5% Hobgoblin from Wychwood Brewery wasn’t a bad drop but the less said about Young’s London Special the better and the white wine, described as Niki Tiki, was just icky. **

Price: The Hobgoblin, which was good, cost £4.80 and Mrs SD’s wine was only 40p more at £5.20, but she says it was dreadful. A pint of Kronenbourg would set you back £4.70. ***

Staff: Judged on their knowledge of the Premier League they would score highly, sadly on their knowledge of good hospitality and the ability to create a welcoming atmosphere for visitors they perform much less impressively. **

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