Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who stopped watching the Olympics as soon as the women’s beach volleyball finished.

I KNOW my stuff when it comes to ye olde medieval days of yore. I’ve watched the entire boxset of Merlin six times. Mostly for wanking over Katie McGrath when Morgana turns evil and sexy, but that’s beside the point.

It was a glorious time in Great British history. The Viking invaders had long since been sent packing in their boats – something we could learn from at Dover today – and women knew their place. So when I saw a medieval banquet up the road at Warwick Castle I thought, why not? 

I’ve not been out in ages, and I reasoned there would be a smattering of GILFs ready for a bit of medieval bawdiness after a few drinks. To be brutally honest, it does feel like it was 1348 since I last had a shag.

One thing’s definitely not medieval though, and that’s the f**king prices. Nearly 80 quid a sodding ticket? No wonder the peasants kept rebelling.

When I arrive there’s a ‘complimentary’ glass of mead, which I’ve never had before and sounds promising. Wrong. It’s cloying, overly sweet, and like downing a can of Special Brew while sucking a honey and lemon Locket.

There’s also a trebuchet demonstration in the grounds pre-dinner. I ruminate on how wonderful it would be to put my ex-wife in it and catapult her into the f**king moat. Or a wall. That would justify the ticket price. 

I take my seat and wittily quip to the chap next to me that we ought to be sitting at a Round Table. He snottily replies I’m nearly 1,000 years out on the timeline. Trust me to get put next to a f**king history teacher.

I down my two goblets of included ale before the first course arrives. Not my fault the goblets are bloody tiny. Thankfully Mr F**king History Lesson tells the barmaid he’s driving, so like the valiant knight in shining armour I am, I step in and tell her to give me his.

First course is leek and potato soup. Which is going some given the first spuds didn’t arrive here until the late 16th century, apparently. It’s okay, but with all that mead and ale already sloshing around in my gut, the solitary bread roll is having difficulty soaking everything up.

Onto mains, and it’s venison and mushroom casserole with roast potatoes. I was expecting unicorn at this price, but whatever. Then, gloriously, sticky toffee pudding. I’ve no idea if it’s historically authentic, and quite honestly, don’t care. Pisses me off it comes with ‘creme anglaise’, mind. This is England, it’s called f**king custard.

My historical journey over, I decide to try and catch last orders as there’s not much chance of being noshed of by a buxom serving wench here. 

I grab my coat and disappear into the night, just like Lancelot after ill-advisedly boning Queen Guinevere. Although he probably didn’t walk into a table because he was surprisingly pissed.