Papa's in Halton

Phoned up multiple times and no reply. Ordered online and wouldn't let me access my order or even try and cancel it. 2 hours gone by stomach rumbling and no food to be seen. My dog was looking forward to this meal as she had just given birth and this was a push present.

Doesn’t even deserve 1 star, all round it’s a 0. Delivery is the worst, the food comes hours late, freezing cold, not properly cooked and the complete wrong order. The customer service is terrible and their excuse is ‘short staffed’. Wouldn’t waste your money on Runcorn McDonalds it’s an absolute shambles.

Ordered food and after a very 2 hours it still hadn’t been delivered, despite speaking to them 3 times and assured it would be delivered very soon. Shocking service

Horried order wrong never again revolting uselessness salalard what he'll going down hill concrt

McDonald’s Widnes (The Hive): Where Dreams are Microwaved and Nostalgia is Deep-Fried There was a time when McDonald’s had a sense of magic. When Ronald McDonald still smiled from the walls with his sinister clown grin, and that weird Hamburglar bloke lurked in the background, like a French mime with unresolved issues and a compulsive need to nick burgers. Where are they now? Probably buried with the truth on Epstein’s island. Now, McDonald’s Widnes at The Hive is more like a polished dystopia. A place where the food arrives faster than thought, the joy is artificial, and the ketchup-covered iPads have become the true rulers of the restaurant. The kids race for them like Black Friday shoppers in the early 2000s, elbows flying, screens smeared with more sauce than sense. The screens aren’t just sticky—they’re biohazards in touchscreen form, and if the Chinese government had seen the sheer microbial warfare going on, they’d have spun a PR campaign so good we’d all be blaming a Happy Meal toy for starting the pandemic. Luckily, Widnes folk—raised on a diet of industrial runoff and asbestos-adjacent playgrounds—possess a Teflon-coated immune system. You could lick the floor of this McDonald’s and still make it to bingo that evening. I had the veggie wrap, which wasn’t bad. Not amazing. Not identifiable. The “veg” inside could’ve been a blend of peas, regret, and damp fibreboard, but it was wrapped tightly like a hot yoga instructor’s self-esteem, and the sauces did the heavy lifting. The chicken nuggets, cooked to golden oblivion in breadcrumbs and what felt like a mild clingfilm undercoat, went down suspiciously well. McDonald’s food doesn’t taste like anything in the wild, but it tastes like it always has—which is comforting in the way instant mash or a Sunday evening argument about the bins is comforting. A heartfelt shout out to the Deliveroo and Just Eat drivers, who mill about near the back like a warm-up squad for the Widnes Vikings, jostling for orders in what can only be described as a high-stakes domestic rugby scrum. Their hustle is admirable, if slightly terrifying. The staff? They try their best, trapped in a loop of buzzing screens and milkshake machine trauma. The toilets? Locked behind a system so secure you’d think the Colonel was hiding in there. As I sipped my Coke and gazed out toward the glow of the retail park lights bouncing off the murky waters of Spike Island, I missed the simpler times. Times when burgers were happy, Ronald was weird but present, and a trip to McDonald’s didn’t feel like a Black Mirror special written by Alan Bleasdale. Still, the wrap filled a hole. The nostalgia left a bigger one.