I follow with interest the weekly comestible perambulations of ‘Ed’ in The Sunday Times of Malta as he surveys some of our many – and varied – restaurants and cafes. And I have, on occasion, taken his advice and eaten in a few of his/her favourites.

But I feel a trick has been missed here. You see, I am yet to pick up a newspaper and read about some of the less salubrious catering establishments on our islands – and I feel there is a demand for a critical review of these.

So I, Sylvanus, am taking it upon myself to give you a rundown on some of the best/worst greasy spoon boozers on the archipelago, in an occasional divertissement that I shall call ‘Sylvanus slums it’.

Let’s start in the seething metropolis of Has Sigra: The locals all know Angie’s Bar, but why should they keep it to themselves? Angie’s is, on the surface, a perfectly plain workmen’s tea and hobz biz-zejt dive, unremarkable and just a tad run down.

But what elevates (or conversely, depresses) it is the personality of Angie herself.

Born Angelo Spampinato Degiorgio back in the early 1960s, Angelo became Angela soon after reaching a somewhat precocious puberty. He... sorry, she maintains she was born in the wrong body. So today, while still inhabiting that body, she spurns male attire for the far more fetching miniskirts and boob tubes of her alto ego.

The only slight aberration is the fact that, apart from the false boobs, Angie still has the physique of a stevedore. Nonetheless, as well as running a reasonably priced bar, Angie also provides other services... which has led her to be known in the area as: the tart with the part... ahem.

All the usual stuff is available in Angie’s Bar, from warm lager to fly-blown pastries. One particular speciality of the house is the mercifully infrequent plates of snails in garlic (or if she can’t pick enough of the shelled variety... slugs, same thing, less work).

Angie is known far and wide for her hospitality... and she has been known to be so hospitable that she has retired upstairs with no fewer than five male clients at once.

Born Angelo Spampinato Degiorgio back in the early 1960s, Angelo became Angela soon after reaching a somewhat precocious puberty

Dress code: Casual: bum cleavage is de rigeur.

At the other end of the island, and indeed at the other extreme, hospitality wise, is Blasters’ Bar, out in the countryside between Mgarr and Bidnija.

A favourite port of call for bird plunderers and other practitioners of Neanderthal pastimes,

Blasters’ Bar is less known for its hospitality than for its total indifference... particularly to thirsty strangers and tourists.

No matter, it is a much-loved drop-in point for weary bird exterminators.

Oh, just one caveat: Stay well away if you happen to be averse to the scent of putrefying tuna sandwiches.

Dress code: Camouflage fatigues... plus brownie points for crossed cartridge belts and the ultimate accessory... a tal-kacca dog.

In a similar vein, try the Friend to None Bar on the back road into Zejtun, l/o Santa Stacey.

Known to the locals as Leli’s Bar, this establishment possesses every accoutrement of a truly typical Maltese village bar... a confrontational landlord, uncomfortable lop-sided stools, full ashtrays (yes, still) and wall-to-wall pea green Formica.

As with the Blasters’ Bar, landlord Leli is well known for his aversion to strangers, which he calls foreigners.

This means anybody born outside the sound of the bells of Zejtun parish church.

One interesting divertissement associated with the Friend to None Bar is the wide range of bar games available to patrons. These include the ever-popular grenade rugby, sniper dodging and razor juggling.

A little-known fact about Leli’s Bar is that during the early 1980s he ‘patriotically’ bulk-bought a truckload of Deserta chocolate, and on high days and holidays this delicacy is still available... under the counter.

Dress code: Bullet-proof vests and AK47s.

So, as they tend to, irritatingly, say in restaurants these days, as your meal arrives at your table: “Enjoy.”