EVERY shop is at it so you can't begrudge the pub industry trying to tempt the punters in by lobbing up a "Sale" sign.

In the case of The Grove in Lenton, which sits at the foot of Castle Boulevard opposite a Tesco Metro (isn't everything these days?), that means £1.55 for a pint of John Smiths and £1.65 for Fosters. Pity they're flogging off the two most boring liquids in existence and not shaving the pennies off the real ales. But I resist enjoying myself and settle for a coffee. There was a time when I could happily sink four pints at lunch and still make sense of the English language on the 'pooter in the afternoon (note to editor: none of this ever happened).

But no more. Even a whiff of a shandy before sunset and I'm as much use as that Scouse mouth off

at a sponsored silence.

I take what turns out to be a perfectly acceptable caffeine injection to a raised area facing the door.

The Grove is a generic traditional British boozer. No bad thing. It's all wood and brick, plain cream walls and a slate floor. The emphasis is on fuss-free service, good grub and proper ale without knackering the credit card.

Two meals for seven notes isn't to be baulked at. Nowt fancy, you understand, but burgers, steaks, pies, fish and chips, bangers and mash, jacket spuds, soups and salads. And a Sunday dinner is £5. A colleague recommends the all-day breakfast which comes in at under four quid but I've had a bowl of Shreddies already.

Thankfully, The Grove is free of workshy "intellectuals". Lenton's students tended to grace the Bag O' Nails round the corner now that the Dog & Topper – a scruffy place the last time I went in – has been replaced with a Tesco.

That may not be the case in the evening as The Grove shows footie on the big screen and is the latest venue to play host to a monthly comedy night courtesy of the Funhouse folk. And there are quiz nights twice a week. But for now the fruit machines stand dormant.

The video jukebox is set to default, running a series of 80s power ballads – Foreigner's

, Jennifer Rush's

– then Texas, Phil Collins and, gulp, UB40. Maybe that's to keep the students out. Or perhaps it's a form of aural torture, a steady drip of soporific sounds, to snap the patience and force you to throw coins in to the jukebox.

Or you can just leave.

Tell us about your local pub. Is it worth a visit? E-mail: features@nottinghameveningpost.co.uk

SIMON WILSON