This is a dangerous thing to admit in print, but I do not have the words to convey the experience of eating in Sixty One, self-styled "culinary jewel in Bournemouth's crown". In so many ways is this one a cataclysm that you wouldn't back even the author of the Book of Revelation to hit the right apocalyptic tone.

The first observation on arriving was the scent of badly run nursing home, emanating perhaps from a carpet that had been a stranger to Mr Dyson for far too long. Along with the cleaners (and any other customers), the chef had chosen to absent himself this lunchtime, but he did make a guest appearance in the menu: "Sixty One is truly honoured to have Simone A Corral, who trained under Alain Ducasse. Probably more than any other chef in the region, Simone personifies the idea of 'chef as artist'." Whether the Alain Ducasse in question is the triple Michelin-starred legend or the owner of a burger van in Southampton remains unclear. But before we come to the food, a word about the decor - a collation of facetious conical lampshades and swirly wallpaper that must constitute the Lexus-driving, Dorset-dwelling amateur restaurateur's notion of psychedelic chic.

Sitting alone in such a nasty, grubby place, I couldn't blame the kitchen staff for the indifference that persuaded them it was fine to exchange anecdotes from the night before ("That twat, he's fuckin' mental, he is," etc) while a lone punter was within hearing range.

Once my friends showed up, we addressed a menu priding itself on lack of pretension on one page and on the next offering "grilled cep mushroom with aubergine caviar and 'flower' of deep-fried wafer-thin aubergine". The three children avoided starters, but the adults showed no such sense. Other than cream and coriander, said our nice waitress, chef won't reveal what he puts in the sauce Simone, which came with my mussels. Whatever the secret ingredient (Vim would be my guess, possibly Pledge), it couldn't disguise the rubbery tastelessness of the mussels. And what kind of Ducassetrained artist uses frozen New Zealand blue-lip mussels when one of Britain's best seafood suppliers, Cove Shellfish, is a five-minute drive away?

Foie gras pâté was passable, though at £9.25 you'd expect more pâté than chutney. Beef carpaccio (£6.95) was staggeringly awful: the meat wasn't deep red but dark grey, the béarnaise sauce had solidified (yesterday's leftovers after a night in the fridge?), and it was all bizarrely doused in tarragon-infused white-wine vinegar.

During the inter-course hiatus, a sweet chap from Bucharest, on his first day in the job, ambled over with soft drinks and we chatted about his previous career. To serve first in Ceausescu's army and then here ... you won't take offence, I said, if I don't ask you to pick my rollover Euro lottery numbers.

There ensued a series of dishes that belonged less on a plate in Bournemouth than in a dock at the Hague. My veal cutlet (£14.50) was all right, just, but oven-ready fat chips ("Pomme-pont neuf") hadn't been baked long enough and were ready for use as makeshift slingshot. Nicely thawed fillets of red snapper came with wildly overboiled vegetables, while the lemon my friend requested arrived after she'd finished. Fillet steak (£18.95), "served pink" according to the menu, was served red to the point of rawness (the colour of proper carpaccio), and in a cut so monstrously thick it was fit only to be tossed to a passing bulldog.

When some of us nipped to the bar for a fag, we apologised for interrupting the kitchen staff languidly eating their own lunch, and when someone returned from the ladies to report spotting a lipstick jammed into a drain, paranoid eyes darted to the door in search of the late Jonathan Routh from Candid Camera. Almost invariably with a hideous meal, puddings numb the pain. Here, white chocolate ice cream tasted like vinegarised Milky Bar, and crème brûlée had the texture of consommé.

Taking the London prices into account, Sixty One is the most hilariously abysmal restaurant I've reviewed in a dozen years. If I were Alain Ducasse, the Michelin maestro or the burger van man, I'd ask my lawyers to consider protectingmy reputation without delay.

Rating: 0.25/10

Telephone: 01202 776161.
Address: Westover Road, Bournemouth.
Open: Tues-Sat, noon-11pm; Sun, noon-5.30pm.
Price: Around £60 a head with drinks.
Wheelchair access and disabled WC.