Imagine if Homer Simpson took a slice of a large pepperoni feast pizza, spat it out and refused to eat it?

I know, hard to picture. But that’s exactly what Mr Greedy did when I took my Pizza Hut doggy bag home – and he loves pizza.

“I can’t eat that, it’s horrible,” he announced. Words I never thought I’d hear. But then I couldn’t blame him, because the only reason it was in a doggy bag was because I hadn’t eaten it either.

No one had actually. The Chicken Caeser Salad was left untouched, (well it was just bits of grey chicken on lettuce with burnt croutons and an unidentifiable dressing) as were the salads and garlic bread.

Only the platter of chicken wings and wedges had fared any better, and that was a last minute panic order when I realised the kids would go home empty-stomached if I didn’t get something down them.

Not a success then you might surmise. And you’d be right. Which was a shame because I’d always wanted to try one of those calorie-defying cholesterol-hammering large pizzas with the cheesy bites ringed around the outside, that you see on the TV. And this was my chance.

Sadly I should have kept it as a fantasy, because the pizza in question didn’t taste of anything except grease, which I thought was quite clever. Mind you if they’d given me the pizza I ordered in the first place it might have helped, but by then I was so desperate to get it over and done with I didn’t have the energy to change it. Ordering the thing in the first place needed a degree in town planning, I decided, as I tried to leaf my way through the five, yes five, menus I was handed.

That includes the main menu (which also includes the two- course set menu), kids menu, salad station menu, desserts and drinks menu and the happy hour menu.

And even when you open the menus you have to choose which pizza, base and topping from a dazzling variety of choices that had me gulping down my glass of house red like an alcoholic on day release.

Enough to tax even the largest brain, methinks.

Totally confused, it certainly didn’t relax the first-time diner, even if the place has been redecorated. And when I did order, there was no pasta available(!), the salad bar wasn’t ready, I couldn’t have Fruit Shoot with the kids menu unless I paid extra, and so on. Valium anyone?

But anyway, the place looks good, if that helps. Long overdue for a make-over, both the High Street and George Street branches of Pizza Hut have been transformed we were told.

Would we like to visit? I haven’t been since I was a student and we could ‘eat as much as you can for £3’. ‘But how bad could it be?’ I reasoned, as I trundled off en famille to the new George Street revamp to admire the sexy wall-furnishings and leather booths, a blessed improvement on the 80s fake pine and formica.

But one visit to the salad bar took me right back to the era when Michael J Fox, Michael Jackson’s Thriller moves, Dempsey & Makepeace and cider and black were right up there on my dream list.

The pasta still comes in spirals with that gloopy mayonnaise that sticks to your throat like glue, the urge to cram as much sweetcorn and grated carrot into those little bowls is still overwhelming, and the garlic bread still comes in slices with those flakes of green herbs.

When Tiffany started blaring out of the sound system: “I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around,” I expected my 16-year-old boyfriend to walk in with a bottle of Martini hidden under his jacket. Surreal.

But back to the make-over and more importantly the pizzas.

What I couldn’t understand is why, when there are two great independent pizzerias in staggering distance serving up the real thing, the public is still pouring in the door in a steady flow. Because it’s not cheap. My doomed pizza was £14.99!!!!!!!. The platter to share was £6.99, and the kids menu £4.99 with ice cream. It all adds up.

So no I won’t, as Arnie said “be back”.