Nice-looking exterior. White with a touch of pale blue. The interior is crackingly-tacky.
The walls are decorated with wide two-tone green stripes. They are bedecked with plastic gilt mirrors, cherubs and candlesticks sporting electric bulbs.
Ponderous runners of plastic mistletoe dangle clusters of red baubles and red and white fairy lights between beams.
The unidentifiable battered bust behind us is wearing a red tinsel scarf and felt reindeer ears.
Giant, sparkly snowflakes hang behind the bar alongside a frosted pine garland displaying bluw twinkling lights.
My pint of spitfire doesn't taste of much.
A hen party slowly gathers numbers. Older rather than younger. Dressed mostly in black. ("Are you sure it's not a funeral?" asks C.). They acquire garlands of gold tinsel in a bid to match the Christmas decorations.
One of the younger women, certainly younger than me, has her boobs pushed up and out of her dress.
"Does that look attractive?".
"It might after ten pints".
The Bishops Finger tastes marginally better.
A glimpse of the entrance to the gents loos suggests something more in keeping with the alternative Brighton scene. The walls are covered in tiny mirrored tiles.
The ladies, on the other hand, are painted in red. The stage of the theatre confronts you as you enter; the side walls contain the boxes and their illustrious guests.
The Black Prince is the best pint of the evening.