BRAPA (British Real Ale Pub Adventure)

As I wound my from Glasgow to York, I had to change at Edinburgh so I made sure I had time to play the one remaining pub shaped card up my sleeve, my 20th pub of the holiday. Luckily, it was very handily situated for Waverley station which is a weird station because it doesn't seem to be on the same level as any of the surrounding streets.....

942. Guildford Arms, Edinburgh

My Dad once told me he didn't enjoy this place one busy evening, there were bouncers on the door. So I was surprised to note the doors were of the rotational hotel lobby style with partitions within, which begged the question "did about six bouncers stand in each partition and just spin round all night?" It was bouncer free this morning, and the young landlord looked very Scottish as I eyed up 4 striking pump clips courtesy of Knops brewery. I asked about them and after some hesitation, he declared they were based in Musselburgh. A scrawny tatooed benefit stick lady was listening in, and gargled "I'm a passionate supporter of local real ale" before ordering two pints of Euro fizz and making the barman take them to her seat across the room. He cracked under 'local real ale guilt' and admitted he'd only said Musselburgh because they had a beer called 'Musselburgh Red' so he got a mentally less fragile barman to confirm they were actually from North Berwick. The whole "brewery takeover" term is becoming overused bullshit anyway, little more than a gimmick, as the 4 Knops were beaten by 5 other real ales. Hardly a takeover! I'd not recovered from this before a Northern Irish chap started acting very peculiarly, either laughing uncontrollably, walking around the pub, or spinning round in the doors, and coming back in with this phone saying he'd sorted it. But what had he sorted exactly? I feared the pub going up in a puff of smoke the next time someone pulled a pint of Doom Bar. It didn't happen. Never has one individual freaked me out so much since 'Paint Stained Overalls Wanker' in Wokingham's Queens Head. But it was the suited businessmen who came in looking for a swift lunchtime pint who got the most scowls from the locals. Working? How very dare they!! They left swiftly without buying a drink. Wow, want to see pub life in the city, go at 11:30am! You just cannot make pub experiences like this up.

Blog Survey Results - What time do you most enjoy drinking in a pub?

The poll has closed on my latest unscientific question where I asked the above question. The results were quite one sided.

Nearly 50% of you said 'afternoon', which from the categories I gave, must mean between 2-4pm. I do like the tranquil ambience and hubbub of a traditional pub at this time of day. And the vast majority of other voters said either they'd prefer a lunchtime drink or be banging on the door at opening time (often my personal favourite but sometimes the pub can be in a state of disarray at that time, beers not quite ready, pub too cold if the winter, can't find key to the till etc etc.) Lunchtime of course, can be fraught with the lunchtime diner though these meal times don't seem to be quite as invasive as teatime, unless you are in the Home Counties or Bury on a Saturday (let it go Si!)

What surprised me was that not one single person voted for preferring to drink in the traditional evening slot, though a few said they liked an early evening post-work drink the best. I can only think that this is because the more discerning drinker (people who'd actually read a pub blog!) voted and their pubbing experience means they have fine tuned when they find a pub most conducive for a nice pint - I know it took me quite a lot of years to realise 7:30pm-11pm isn't necessarily the best time, just the most convenient. In fact, I like finishing early on a BRAPA trip so I have more time to burn off the ale, sober up and wake up hangover free, ready for day two!

Keep your eyes peeled for my next pub survey, as we focus on the underrated world of the pub pet.

Si

5 seconds of sightseeing complete in Windsor

As I arrived at the front of my first pub in Windsor just off the main drag, it really hit home just how many people are pub ticking these days .... at least seven Chinese girls vying with selfie sticks to get the best shot of themselves outside a Good Beer Guide pub, well done girls! Strangely, they didn't go into the pub straight away, perhaps gearing themselves up with a 'Spoons breakfast first.....

Going in on my own then!

The photo the tourists didn't take.

943. Carpenters Arms, Windsor

So it was up to me to take one for the Beijing team and enter alone to find that familiar morning pub scene, a barmaid complaining about her dreadful hangover, whilst a miserable old local man listens unsympathetically. After the tourist crowd outside, it was a reassuring scene. I was delighted to see Hopback Citra on, a great beer in Reading's Hop Leaf, but sadly it was of farty, fizzy variety here, which is harder to take back than a pint of vinegar. I moved down to the darkest and lowest point of this wonderfully historic Nicholson's pub (say what you like about the chain but they have an eye for owning good buildings). It really played up to it's visitors, York style, with tales of Charles II and Nell banging in the secret tunnels, and a headless soldier wandering around whilst his red tunic is neatly displayed on the wall (or something). The tunnels were dripping with water, the place smelt dank and fusty like a pub should, like you could catch your death at any given second. The impressive range of beer and pub literature was disgracefully 'un-thumbed'. You might think piped music might spoil such a scene, but it was the most self-aware playlist ever with songs about marching soldiers and ghosts of our past, echoing through the building. So a bit of a tourist pub perhaps, but a damn sight finer than York's historic Nicholsons pubs.

Ghostly cellar fun in the Carpenters.

It was purely down to poor forward planning that I'd chosen to have my first dabble into Windsor on the weekend that the Queen was 90, but she'd buggered off to the capital and perhaps Windsor is this touristy anyway, I decided, as I jabbed the umpteenth dithering elderly woman in the back with my GBG en route to my next pub.

The mad men are running the asylum, at the Windlesora

944. Windlesora, Windsor

From Nicholsons to Wetherspoons, Windsor you are really spoiling me! But this 'Spoons had the calmest most sedate atmosphere since the Hatchet in Newbury. Quite a culture shock after 4 days in Glasgow 'Spoons I can tell thee! I tiptoed to the bar and whispered could I please use a 50p voucher to order a pint of something obscure but delightful from a place called Tillingbourne? No hassle, no argument, English 'Spoons are the best! Having said that, as I sat in my booth, it wasn't the usual drunkard clientele letting the pub down, but some bizarre staff who seemed to act like 'meeters and greeters' though it felt a bit more like 'care in the community'. A jolly little Italian style Super Mario chap with a Frank Spencer laugh kept wandering around making people nervous (one skinhead looked ready to throttle the poor chap) and then his female equivalent asked me to check if the Gents was empty so she could clean it! I did (without knocking on cubicle doors) but a weird request nonetheless, I had been in but 'Spoons loos are huge and I try to just look straight ahead! I did contemplate ordering a breakfast, but by the time the staff slammed some 'hot off the press' EU referendum beermats down, I was a nervous wreck and ready to leave.

It was time for a detour to Boots on the high street as strangely, whilst my left armpit smelt like roses, my right one smelt like a decaying damp corpse of a sheep on the North Yorkshire Moors (I blame the secret tunnels in the Carpenters, not that I rubbed my armpit against them) so I went to buy some roll-on. It was chaos as some wet leaves had got stuck in the roof and the place was flooded.

Such drama was too much and it was time to walk across the bridge to Eton. I still have three Windsor pubs to do but as you know, that was never going to be today's focus. I can combine them with Slough (yippee) later this year.

945. Watermans Arms, Eton

This was a cracking little riverside pub, and I entered to find one of those intense angular middle-aged women snapping at the staff that she'd come to collect a purse she'd left here last night. "Oh I may as well have a drink whilst I'm here .... 2 bottles of corona .... no glass! now! yes!" and half an hour later, her and her partner were on bottles 5 and 6 and you had to ask the question, "did she leave her purse here deliberately and was the same thing going to happen 11pm tonight?" I meanwhile was so enchanted by the lovely smile of a barmaid with the air of Eni Aluko, I promised her the additional 15p (pint was £4.15, I gave her tenner) which I didn't have and ended up wasting everyone's time. Everywhere you looked, you could see Windsor & Eton "Oar-gasmic" signs. Maybe if they put it in enough places, the joke will become hilarious?? It was very muggy so I sat outside where angular woman was, and then a friendly French couple appeared. But then a few spots of rain appeared (and I mean about two) and everyone just fucked off indoors as though they'd forgotten human skin is waterproof. I even took my jacket off to prove a point and was nearly skinny dipping in the river by the time everyone decided perhaps they'd made a mistake and returned to the beer garden. Hurrah. Idiots.

I hopped on a train from Windsor & Eton Riverside and before I could blink, I was in Datchet. And then something strange happened, everyone seemed to be Scottish, both on the street and in the pub. Did they get Datchet confused with Blackpool?

946. Royal Stag, Datchet

A better pub-man than me will tell you that the GBG says "ring counting of the roof timbers dates it to 1494". Wonderful. I once climbed onto the roof of Milton Keynes' Slug and Lettuce and when I failed to identify one roof timber, I decided it probably wasn't 15th century, If Rod Hull had been counting roof timbers instead of trying to fix a Sky box, his death would have been more honourable. I digress. So I'd built up this pub in my mind and with so many flabby Scottish faces in the nose-bag, I initially felt it was an anti-climax. However, once I'd taken my superb pint of Windsor & Eton Knight of the Garter (beer of the day) to what was undoubtedly the drinkers area, I started to appreciate the more olde worlde nature of the place. Glad I'd decided against the outside, one of those horrible B&Q style adult play pens. Indoors, I noticed the Queen might be coming here for an 'after-party' at 8pm when a meat raffle was on. All good pubs need a meat raffle at least once every 12 hours. Then, they had a Brit-Pop style music fest, the 1996 nostalgia was overwhelming as they played Supergrass-Pulp-Sleeper-Lightning Seeds-Suede-Echobelly-Elastica all in a row. Wonderful! I could live here.

Pint of the day in the Royal Stag

Key pub of the day complete, "page 9" done!

Another short train journey and I was at Wraysbury, and I had a 10 minute walk along a road in a very nice leafy area so you could say this was my "hardest to get to" pub of the day. Strewth, I wish all BRAPA days were this easy!

Has ever a pub name been more apt for BRAPA?

947. The Perseverance, Wraysbury

I walked in to find a burly Prince Harry type being 'relationship counselled' by a porcelain blonde, these were the bar staff in an otherwise quiet pub. "But I'll never see her again!" wailed PH. "To be honest bae, your ex's have all been awful!" replied PB, to which PH replied that she hadn't met them all so couldn't possibly know, before storming off the the cellar. Crikey, is this an episode of Made In Chelsea or is someone going to serve me ale? A local stopped me walking into the ladies loos, take that Partick! I was soon outside under an umbrella admiring one of the finest beer gardens you could hope to see, it was raining again (properly now) and a little girl started racing around the garden chanting "rain. rain rain!" in the spirit of Father Jack. As two serious Irish men stood behind me discussing a potential problem with the cellar, our concerned ginger barman returned to ask if it was broken, the curly haired one replied "no but you're face will be if you don't shut up!". Poor burly PH, certainly not his day. It was quiet again and I'm sure one of the statue fountain things changed her expression, so I went to investigate and decided I'd been drinking too quickly. Just when I was relaxing into a perfect slumber, one of those odious American families appeared. The son, Sam, was a whining brat, the water drinking daughter almost as bad, another daughter revealed she hated cheese with a passion, it says something when the Dad (a gentle Fred Durst) was the nicest of the bunch. But even they couldn't spoil an excellent pub effort.

Pub garden pre-Yanks

Note the statue that looked at me funny.

After a short walk back to Wraysbury station, I was on a train by mid afternoon and after last months "Kings Cross connection missing farce", I decided to be ultra cautious and make it all the way back to Waterloo where I'd been meaning to visit a pub for ages ......

The pub man outside wasn't representative of the clientele

948. Kings Arms, Waterloo

Great pub it has to be said (would love to go on wintry evening), only the clientele who just didn't seem to belong in a pub spoilt it. It was a strange selection of middle aged women, tourists and it lacked edge as a result. I tried to make up for it after accidentally slagging off the Welsh in this little exchange:

Me : I'll have a pint of the 'Phonics ..... as in 'Stereo'? .... I don't like the Sterophonics though.

Barmaid : I think it is definitely connected

Me: (noticing Brains clip) Oh dear, does that mean it is a WELSH thing??

Barmaid : Sorry, should I have told you that before?

Me : (half under my breath) I'm not a racist.

It probably wasn't wise to therefore atone for this by listening in to two Italian backpacker lads conversation, they were discussing a perfect seat for two in the corner. By gum, they were right! The perfect spot! I was straight in there before they got chance to collect their drinks & change. Snooze you lose boys!! After that, I hid in the corner for the rest of my stay admiring the pub but scowling at those jolly folk spilling onto the street.

Perfect pub view (courtesy of two Italian lads)

Nice pub but the people weren't pubby enough (though nicer than me)

I then did something revolutionary (perhaps) and walked to a different part of SE1, right next to Blackfriars bridge where I'd spied another pub I needed to visit .....

949. Doggett's Coat & Badge, South Bank

This was such a huge pub, it took me ages to find the right entrance which led me to the actual bar! It was full again, though this time it was because Wales (whom I love of course) were on TV about to prove they are the best team in the world with a jammy scuffed winner having been second best the entire time I was watching. Scum. I'm joking obviously. I think. Anyway, the staff were very friendly and I was served this fantastic IPA called Mad Squirrels which at 5.2%, was supposed to finish me off for the day. Except I had a second wind and was soon laughing and joking in Euro 2016 bliss with any Euro tourist who would listen. It was heartening to see a series of pub visitors arrived from various angles on various pub levels, totally relieved to see the bar exists. It is basically the Edinburgh Waverley railway station of pubs. The day had come full circle, this, like the Carpenters Arms in Windsor was a Nicholson's house though this was just too chaotic to share the former's charm.

Slice of complimentary lime with your IPA?

I crossed the bridge and contemplated a return visit to the wonderful Black Friar but caught the train from Blackfriars to Kings Cross instead, and still I was ultra early so popped into my favourite pre-emptive of 2016, Scottish Stores for more first class staffing and beautiful pub surroundings.

Finally a view of Scottish Stores without any busses in the way!

This is why i love this pub.

Train journey home was pretty straightforward, it set off 8pm like the football so I put my headphones in to avoid the live England v Russia score so I could watch the highlights excitedly when I got home! (I did go to the loo and thought I heard someone say "it's Dire", it could have been "it's Dier" as it turned out but it didn't really matter).

Next month, we'll be in South Berkshire and slithering into Hampshire. And in the short term, BRAPA returns on Tuesday in South Yorkshire (beer festivalling yesterday so no ticks).

See you then, Si

Bit of a strange city Sheffield, it seems so stretched out that you never really feel you are "in" a city. Railway and bus stations excrete you from their backsides into two streets masquerading as the "city centre". Before you can blink, you find yourself in one of the many urban wastelands of boarded up takeaways and second hand car dealerships. The trams and taxis look at you piteously as if to say "this is no place for a pedestrian".

It's a bit like Stoke's town planners had a drunken orgy in the North, and then consulted Milton Keynes' committee on how to upset people on foot. The redeeming feature of course is the people, a friendly down to earth lot (on a non-football day), even the tracksuit zombies will give you a welcoming smile. And I'd take good people over city aesthetics any day.

Kelham Island might sound like the kind of place where flamingos dance in lily clad ponds with golden frogs, but it's not. The pubs however all seem to be wonderful.

A fine way to bring up the 950 mini landmark!

950. Shakespeare Ale & Cider House, Kelham Island, Sheffield

And how on earth had I not been aware of this jewel of a pub before? The CAMRA App GBG pushpin got me lost, before I found it hidden on an unlikely looking street. I entered through an old corridor (always the best way) and found myself at the front bar, where I received a friendly welcome from a great blonde barmaid who looked like if Carla Bonner joined a hippy commune, got a pierced mouth and didn't wash for 2 years. She was probably about 20 but still called me "luv". It was time for my "pub tourist twat" routine I perfected in Scotland, this time I saw a businessman getting his pint topped up and demanded the same from blonde bar man, but mine was a LINED GLASS and I hadn't realised. Schoolboy pub error. At least we joked about it. My pint of Shiny Pail was incredible quality, and two locals looked like they'd been placed here for the pleasure of my blog. First, they moaned it was only getting darker now it was June 21st. Then, they settled up a tab that had been running since lunchtime but with one more pint first (they did get a top up!) and then spied a bog standard mobile phone and were amazed by what a posh, smart device it was. Meanwhile, it was nice to hear our blonde staff discussing pub/beer strategy rather than relationship issues - take that Wraysbury! Inevitably, a pub with such a fine range of both cask and keg beers is going to attract that vilest of customer, the BEER SNOB! He slimed his way in, barmaid hated him from the off, he scanned everything for an age before sneering "hmph, well I'll try a Lime Dissection V2.0 Sorachi (I made that up) as it is the most interesting thing you've got on in THIS place!" How NOT to endear yourself to folk. He had a 'taster' before declaring it too interesting even for him. He then slimed off again. He didn't belong. Superb pub.

Locals discuss the darker nights closing in.

My Shiny Pail, the background shows businessman and the blonde staff.

After a walk back in the general direction of the station, hurdling as many 'don't cross here' points as possible, I'd found a fairly short route to my second and final pub of the evening.

951. Old Queen's Head, Sheffield Central

The overly wordy GBG description told me this was the oldest residential building in Sheffield still standing, and only just, judging by it's delightfully warped and creaky exterior. I was a bit surprised to see a huge Thwaites sign as I wasn't in Blackburn, so I entered with caution and it was a bit of an anti-climax, with a modern interior, lots of shiny fonts, fruit machines, and a huge screen where a top heavy woman was gurgling because Northern Ireland were somehow only losing 1-0 to Germany. I ordered the one Thwaites I didn't know, Summer Solstice, nice enough but not a patch on the Shiny pint. I perched uncomfortably at the bar for two long minutes before retiring to a side room, so modern identikit it looked like a Lancastrian farmer had tried to follow an Ember Inns remit and gone slightly awry. With the excitable strains of Jonathan Pearce echoing round the building, the football finished and Sheffield's answer to the Hairy Bikers arrived with what seemed to be fishing equipment. They also possibly became the first people in the world to describe Robin Williams as "that chap off of Mork and Mindy". It really was that kind of pub.

Promised a lot, delivered little.

Train journey back was lacking in any kind of air, and a man with shades ate an apple very loudly in my ear'ole. But I've got a taster for Sheffield now (yes, I need to do Hazlehead still!) and plenty more outer pubs dotted in impossible locations a couple of miles from the station, so may crack on with that over the next few Tuesdays.

See you after Saturday for my latest foray into Greater Manchester's mini towns of ill repute.

Si

Waiting for the Edinburgh train.

It was time for the next leg of my Greater Manchester pub ticking adventure, normally saved for days where we don't want to go to a particularly unattractive Hull City away game, so one purpose of today was to discuss next season's unattractive Premier League (sorry, EPL) fixture list.

Me and Dad landed in Manchester Victoria railway station in good time to get a pre-emptive tick in, and what a strange station Victoria is, looking like it's been cobbled together from bits of station Meccano that Piccadilly and Oxford Road didn't want.

Beer House, Manchester Victoria

The pub is similarly unconvincing. It looks nice enough on the surface with shiny mirrors, some nice tiling, an attempt at something along the lines of Huddersfield's excellent King's Head. That is sadly where the similarities end, but for anyone still crying into their British Kellogg's cornflakes over Brexit, a heart warming scene followed. Macho Italian's with echoey voices ordered pint after pint of Peroni, the coffee machine chugged espressos out until almost breaking point, a smiling Polish girl struggled to cope with demand, and a Jaegermeister device looked a bit like an old cash register. 20 minutes later, we were finally sat down on an uncomfortable bench with half of a bland "Beer House House Beer" which was almost certainly a re-badged Greene King, served in a dimpled half glass for no apparent reason. As the rain bucketed down outside, Dad had serious toilet trauma as he couldn't find the "code", then Polish barmaid said it was unlocked, he still couldn't get in, one of the macho Italian's said his friend had been in but it was free now, then a pub plasma screen (always a bad sign) told him it was definitely unlocked(!) until he gave up and found one in the station. Not one to be troubling the Good Beer Guide compilers anytime soon I'd guess.

Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder, and I'd say this place lacks inner beauty.

We took the train to Atherton where an old local gave me the inside knowledge on pubs along this train line, and in Southport, though he is strictly a book collector these days as his blood pressure "is up and down like a bride's nightie" and yes, that is a direct quote. Beats a whores drawers I s'pose.

Waiting for the 1st (proper) pub of the day to open

952. Pendle Witch, Atherton

We found the first pub hidden down a little side street, and as Tom mentioned (he'd appeared at Walkden), it did look like a former residential house, albeit with a strange conservatory area built onto the front. On the list of "things not to say to me on entering a pub", "You are not scared of dogs I hope?" would definitely make the top ten. I clung onto the bar nervously, but luckily the dog in question was a bounding headless chicken which didn't know where it was, so I could just about deal with it. I scanned a fine range of Moorhouses ales, and went for Premier just cos it's one we don't see in York at all. (I did have their Burnley Premier-ship 2 seasons back, and it slipped down as easily as the two teams I was watching that day!) As the barmaid complained about her stiff pumps, we sat in the corner and discussed next season's away games, quite animatedly at times, which seemed to exhaust the one local man who'd come in for a quiet pint. A caterpillar randomly appeared on my arm in a vain attempt to win the "pub pet of the year award" but apart from that, all I can report is that this is a little cracker and you should all go there now.

Witches, devils and local exhausted by impassioned football chat.

953. Atherton Arms, Atherton

Ever been to the Crown in Horwich? Well, turn up the Lancastrian pub concentration dial to 11 and you will get the Atherton Arms, wow, this was some place. As Dad said, this was just the kind of place you'd come in the 60's for a pub disco all nighter (perhaps not his exact words). The pub was very Joseph Holt's and my pint of hattrick tasted just like the kind of proper bitter you don't get in Spitalfields Crown & Shuttle. A few locals watched England beating Australia (again) on a giant screen, but most sat around the perimeter moaning about life in general and had I been on my own, I may have picked up more of their conversations than "eff this, and eff that" but perhaps it was for the best. Just when you thought the pub couldn't get any crazier, there was a massive back room with a full sized snooker table. The third one this BRAPA year. A very sociable fly joined us (trying to compete with Mr Caterpillar for BRAPA insect of the year no doubt). An old man in the toilet seemed to be speaking to me, but he may just have been loosening the phlegm from his lungs, it was that kind of pub.

Arriving at pub two.

As close as I dared get to photographing the locals

As Lancastrianlly brilliant as a pub could probably be

After that experience, it was time for a bus to Tyldesley, probably a slightly more charming town than Atherton but I suspect that may just be because the sun had come out, and friendly locals helped us get off the bus at the right time. One feature of this part of the world has to be the fantastic friendliness of folk. Spring Deer Chinese also looked enticing if it really sells deer.

Dad enters pub three, note the Elton John tribute act chalkboard drawing we admired.

954. Mort Arms, Tyldesley

Another Holt's pub, this one was a bit cosier and close-knit with loads of decor, I have never seen so many England and UK flags in such a confined space! As me and Dad eyed up the beer range (Holt's bitter or Holt's bitter), a jolly old local told us "that'll put hairs on your chest!" I nearly told him that at 4%, it was hardly likely to have the same effect as a 9% bottle of Cloudwater DIPA V3 but I think he might have just been very confused. Tom decided to see if he could use a £5 note to buy 2 pints and a blackcurrant cordial - no problem. A great feature of this pub was a model football ground, it had a pitch and Joseph Holt advertising boards, I think CAMRA should implement a rule where all GBG pubs have to have their own model football stadium which reflects the pubs nature e.g. this like Accrington's Crown Ground as it was a very traditional pub. Hull FC were on TV boring everyone to death with some more egg-chasing, but the mood was a fantastic friendly hubbub and all that was missing was my third pub insect of the day.

We decided to walk to our next pub, in Astley just 1.2 miles as the crow flies but sadly, we are not crows so it was considerably more. Still, sun was out, pubbing was going well .....

It had to happen, SHUT PUB ALERT. Nooooo! All that walking, AND alphabetically the next pub in the GBG for Greater Manchester and you know I like doing things fairly alphabetically. It looked a cracker too, the Old Boat House being refurbished until mid-July. Had I done my research properly, I could perhaps have saved us the walk but their official website didn't say! Never mind.

Tom helped us to get a bus back to Leigh after I stood on the wrong side of the road, and the next pub was pretty much part of the bus station.

Relieved to get in a pub!

955. George & Dragon, Leigh

I'd never been to Leigh before (and will have to return here for 2 more) but from a pub in the shadow of the bus station, it was just as I imagined, bustling with bored scroats using Euro 2016 extra time boredom between Poland and Switzerland as an excuse to get pissed on Fosters. Not to say it didn't have it's good points, a 12 year old bar man randomly burst into a rendition of "we all hate Leeds scum" (or was it Leigh scum, perhaps that would have been a bit too brave) propelling him to the top of my 'barperson of the day' list. When I finally got my elbows in at the bar, I was amazed to find two pints costing £3.88 (gorgeous White Witch and unidentified Three Lions ale) plus 35p for Tom's blackcurrant, a total of £4.23, trumping his early Mort Arms effort. Dad was hovering and some toothless old men asked if he wanted to be served next, I think they were friendly but wondered if it was a euphemism. We took drinks outside where the ash trays were full, and a scary man in a tracksuit put his lager on our table and glared at me. I nearly told him the correct etiquette is to say "sorry lads, may i just put my pint on your table whilst I readjust my nylon Kappa tracksuit from 1997?" but I decided against it. It was that kind of pub.

The nature of our train tickets and route meant frustratingly, I could not get any more ticks in but lessons have been learned for future trips in the outer Manchester area. Had a cracking pint at York Tap as a night cap, and a nice and fairly sober end to proceedings.

On Tuesday, I'll be cracking on with my Sheffield 'mop-up'. Ta-ra for now.

p.s. 2016/17 Hull City Away Game Conclusions (unless Sky change kick off days n times)

GOING TO GAME .... Burnley, Bournemouth, Sunderland, West Ham, West Brom, Leicester, Stoke, Southampton, Crystal Palace.

GOING TO PLACE/GENERAL AREA BUT NOT GAME .... Liverpool (Crosby BRAPA day), Chelsea (London BRAPA day), Arsenal (North London BRAPA), Everton (Southport BRAPA day)

TOTALLY AVOIDING .... Swansea, Watford, Middlesbrough, Tottenham, Man Utd, Man City (most of these will be substituted by BRAPA pub days in Greater Manchester).

Maybe I was a bit harsh on Kelham Island last week. Certainly, the barren industrial wasteland in the summer sun was more preferable than this weeks Studentsville in the driving rain.

I was relieved to hop on the 51 bus (considering I somehow got lost between the station and Arundel Gate) and although the whole Broomhill/Broomhall thing is too confusing for words, I found my first pub dotted amongst the takeaways and pop up supermarkets.

It's a mucky evening in the steel city.

956. The York, Sheffield

The first question of course was obvious - "do people from York get their ale for free here?" Sadly, I wasn't brave enough to ask the stern business-like student girl worker, who did at least soften when she realised she should have charged me £2.50 and not £3.10. The pub was a bit of Roy Hodgson's England, it didn't really know what it was or have a distinct character. On the one hand, there were some irritating dining areas (the smell of food, especially fish, told you they take this seriously), but the main bar area was pleasingly pubby enough, but with random quirky decor including stuffed peacocks, an anvil, and hopbines hanging from the bar - something you have to be skeptical of in any pub situation. And the peacock feathers were in a jar above two people eating - appetising. The clientele was 50/50 split between locals (mainly moaning about Gareth Southgate), and students (moaning about whether England is going to cease to exist as a country). Bring a local from Atherton or Leigh to this pub, and they would most probably dissolve Wicked Witch in Wizard of Oz style. I'd been conscious I was taking up a large table, so when a girl asked "can I sit here, I've got some people joining?", I told her I was finishing anyway and swigged off my last mouthful, to which she responded "was it something I said?" Well yes actually, it was. Good bye!

Locals discuss Gareth Southgate under the hopbines.

A pint of Welbeck Abbey Henrietta and background peacocks

Random Anvil - because we are such a quirky bunch(!)

The rain wasn't stopping anytime soon, neither was the bus for that matter as roadworks seemed to be churning up the Fulwood Road going back towards town. Still, less than 15 minutes power walking later, I was there.....

Roadworks and grey leaden sky - very Sheffield.

957. University Arms, Sheffield

Entering this place felt like a cross between entering a working man's club, and the veterinary surgery in Fulford, York. Whatever, it is owned by the Uni and it's a cracker. Any pub with green tiling around the bar always goes down well with me. Two smiling blonde barmaids jumped on me (not literally sadly) and I was drinking something with a stupid name by Raw Brewery, easily pint of the night. £3.40 seemed a bit steep though. A group of students followed me in, one (a large and more annoying Marcus Brigstocke) made a spectacle of himself by announcing in a flouncy way "OOOOH, Thornbridge on Keg? Controversial! I think I will start with a .... Diet Coke!" The barmaids looked like they hated him, so did his own friends, so did I, so did the trio in the corner seemingly trying to recreate a dull British version of the Big Bang Theory, their half baked political chat meant they had to be put in their place by a hairy squat American girl. Amusing clientele. Unless you stay here for too long. It was fairly busy, but then, there weren't a great deal of what I would call 'proper' seats. I hid around a corner in the main bar, think I made the right decision as the volume of the shit munchers was getting louder & more excitable as we approached 7:30pm. Great pub but you can have too much of a good thing.

Entrance gives you an idea of the clubby/vetty nature of this place.

My Raw ale and a view of the bar. Nice tiling.

I crossed the big ring road thing and was back towards the centre, for my final central tick. The rain if anything, had got worse. I had no hood, no hat, no waterproof, totally drenched!

Third and final pub of the night

958. Old House, Sheffield

In that trendy West Street/Devonshire Street area, the GBG claims this place provides a more homely atmosphere than the other bars in the area. Gadzooks! I'd hate to see how unhomely the others are then. Having forced my way through some huge glass doors, it took me ages to get served as the trendy staff were twatting around shaking cocktails for their mates. When I did get a pint, it was the warmest beer I've had since Tap on the Line in Kew. I think "liquefied human organ" is the phrase I used. I was probably the first person to have a cask ale all day judging by the posers and drunk middle aged females who made up the clientele. Still £2.50 a pint was nice surprise. And the beers had those "tasting notes" chalked in front of the pumpclip. These were the laziest tasting notes I have ever witnessed with such gems as "it does what it says on the tin" and "sessionable and pale" (the latter on a beer called something like pale session ale). The non serving staff, in their defence, were smiley, friendly and helpful, and when I got lost coming back from the loos, a nice young chap told me an old man once was convinced he'd come out of the loo and gone back into a different pub! Chance would be a fine thing. Talking of the loos, the kitchens might be down there, as there was an amazing smell, a heady concoction of garlic and hipster piss.

Lazy tasting notes .... always wondered what Raven's taste like ... oh, you mean Milk Stout!

Picturesque back bar. Warm beer.

"Poser" tables abound, as do cocktail drinkers, but I want beer!

Visiting their pub website, it's clear they also have a fascination with gin. Not the first cool and modern place to do this (King & Queen, Wendover ; Pleased to Meet You, Newcastle), but I've never heard of monthly "gin schools" before. Am sure the whores of 1880's Whitechapel didn't need schooling in gin.

1. Stagger into pub.

2. Get gin

3. Drink gin

4. Get pissed

5. Go to work but try and avoid Jack the Ripper

Sounds simple enough to me.

The journey back seemed easier than last week even though I had to change at Leeds this time. I will be back next week for my final Kelham Island tick, combined with something North of centre.

As the BRAPmobile tears across the British countryside in search of it's next pub roadkill, we need to reflect on a wonderfully productive June, and see what lies ahead in July......

June Review

41 pubs in a month is the second best EVER, only April this year could beat that and all I can say is my Scottish holiday was more productive than I could have ever imagined with 20 pubs in three and a bit days. I also had a superb day out with the work gang in Greenfield & Mossley. Hell, even very east Berkshire was straightforward and enjoyable, and Sheffield's bubbling nicely on midweeks. Finally, the Greater Manchester day was joyous in it's Joseph Holt's simplicity.

Picking three pubs of the month is near impossible, but here goes based on my experience on the day:

1. Abbotsford Hotel, Ayr
2. Shakespeare, Kelham Island, Sheffield
3. Fleece, Mossley

July Review

I finish June on 958 pubs, which means another good month and I should manage to get my 1,000 up in August (though I will drop back below it of course when the 2017 GBG comes out).

A '5 Saturday month' will help immensely. Firstly, we'll be kicking off with a Dad chauffeur day in the Dales as I look to complete my outstanding five pubs up there. It has to be achievable despite some funny opening times, yes I'm looking at you Bellerby! We are back in Berkshire a week later for Part 6, heading towards the south of the county and dabbling in Hampshire. Week 3 is a TBA, am thinking North Yorkshire again (finally getting up Richmond way) unless someone craps on my BRAP. A week after that, a group of York friends is coming on a Morecambe BRAPA trip with me in our old punk festival stamping ground - hopefully there are better beers now than in Davy Jones Locker. And the month ends with the Hull City gang summer beezer, a pre-season friendly at Nottingham Forest where I have two West Bridgford pubs to do.

On midweek nights, I'll keep cracking on with outer Sheffield to a finish. Still got a fair bit to go at, but once done (and don't shout this too loudly), Hazlehead MUST be back on the agenda. No holidays off work in July, but 30 pubs is still an achievable target in my mind.

Right, I think I've rambled enough, Stick around for my rambling pub reviews though won't ya? Si

Trying to keep tourists at bay with my own beermat in Muker.

It was time to get back in Dad's car and tick off some of those remote pubs in that most difficult of counties (so far), North Yorkshire.

You might know that on recent car trips, we've been a bit annoyed by SatNav woman's constant chattering and heavy-handed, unhelpful directioning. Dad revealed he'd found a setting called "minimum verbosity" to make our journey less annoying. Interestingly though, you can only get this setting in a male voice. Absolutely true.

Arriving in a blustery Hawes

959. The Crown, Hawes

After stocking up on Wensleydale cheese at the local creamery, I was pleased to see the pub open and inviting at 10:55am and there was already a healthy gaggle of tourists queuing at the bar ordering coffee (spit!) I scanned the beers on the blackboard and went for an "Admans" (a new brewery on me!) The barmaid/landlady was a fantastic hardworking and jolly lady, I almost felt guilty she had to change the barrel (I only ordered it as a Theakstons protest) but it still tasted like Best Bitter. Dad's coffee meanwhile was in the shallowest cup ever and was finished in two sips. With the strains of piped Bangles Eternal Flame emanating from hidden speakers, our friendly host came over and declared "It's July, let's light the fire!" It went up so quickly, we suspected they had some special Theakstons fuel. This pub should also be noteworthy for having the most pathetic moose head ever seen on a pub wall. On the way out, I got talking to a scary man from Blackpool (is there any other sort?) who was enjoying his pubby holiday because his wife was driving their camper van, but she'd made them set off at 5am from Lancaster to get here so he was still complaining.

....so let's drink average beer and pay a fortune for lunch.

With the sun shining and the scenery spectacular even by Dales standards, we drove down a tight road through the valley to the lovely village of Thoralby where I had a hilarious joke planned (now on ice). It was exactly 12 noon and the pub should be opening, and as we took the obligatory picture, Dad noticed a sign. SHUT PUB ALERT!

Opening hours 12-2 and then 6:30-11 but it said due to another holiday, they'd not be opening for lunchtimes. How does that work then? They fly back from Magaluf at 6:30pm daily, open pub, leave again 11pm and fly back to Magaluf, repeat daily until holiday is over??

So near, yet so far!

960. Farmers Arms, Muker

Despite the rain lashing it down by the time we reached Muker (where I had a wee in the outdoor toilets across the road, not realising I wasn't in part of the pub), this pub was the perfect tonic to the Thoralby disappointment. Friendly barman with Buttertubs t-shirt on sold me 2 pints of Buttertubs ale in a Buttertubs glass which I put on a Buttertubs beermat. It was the only guest ale, it was just as well, but it was much better than the Southwold. Despite finding a hidden back corner of the pub, a huge group of idiot old walkers decided to sit right up against my back, despite having the whole pub to aim at. Why? Okay, so they had two lovely "HMV" dogs but it was no excuse. Dad spied a hidden snug so we moved, they couldn't even take the hint from my AIDS beermat. This pub must be a rare example of where an extension has actually worked in it's favour. Food seemed to be present, one of those dumb waiters kept making Macaroni Cheese (NOT Mac n Cheese I was pleased to note, flippin' Yanks!) appear from a magical hidden kitchen upstairs. Piped Kate Rusby could be heard, very twee n Yorkshire ("ey up, I had an almond slice and a cuppa, then went for a walk in the bluebell wood before supper" you know the shizz). Barman then proclaimed "Was that you I saw lurking in the roadside near Richmond with a camera?" It was hard to know who he was addressing, and as it turned out, four people (including me) admitted the crime. A sign said the toilet floors were wet due to the "humidity at this time of year". Best wet toilet floor excuse ever?

Taken from the toilets across the road.

It's a Butter Tubs love in at the Farmers

Dad looks for Grinton on the ordnance survey map.

Driving around the Dales today was quite quirky, I'd seen a baby in a hedge earlier, now we saw a monkey hanging from a tree. We arrived in Grinton without realising.

Happy times just before the fall.

961. Bridge Inn, Grinton

Having had the obligatory photo taken, I was vetting it a bit too closely whilst walking on the grass verge round the corner to the pub entrance. Suddenly, I just went A over T and emerged from a ditch with blood pouring through a hole in my leg! Best BRAPA pub entrance ever? I think so. Suddenly, things seemed to feel a bit more North Eastern/Cumbrian than North Yorkshire, and it wasn't just the Jennings sign on the pub. It was quite a spectacular place, with a cosy wood panelled bar and a huge (more foody) lounge with leather upholstery. The globe, tropical fish tank, and gramophone are the kind of features that give a pub that extra atmosphere, especially as the food orders seemed all to be processed by someone pushing a few buttons on a microwave (from what I could hear, am sure it was all fresh produce from some local farm, river, smokery or some nonsense). In fact, had I stolen one of the HMV dogs from Muker, I could have used the gramophone to recreate the scene by shoving it's head through it. Barman was very excited by a Marston's guest called Selador, nice but his "I can't wait to knock off to pull myself a pint of this!" was a bit OTT unless he was the village drunk in disguise. He certainly was very chatty with Dad. A fine pub this.

With Thoralby closed earlier, we decided to leave Bellerby (yet again) so it has a Dales companion on a future visit up here (something like Reeth might be back in by then aswell, who knows) so we headed north through Richmond to another one of those "how do you do it on public transport?" efforts.

Pub, hidden church and graveyard.

962. Shoulder of Mutton, Kirby Hill

They say luck evens itself out in the crazy world of pub ticking ('they' being 'me', just now) and we were kind of lucky here as we entered to be told by the youngest landlord in the history of BRAPA that he was closing at 3pm. Uh-oh. Well, this wasn't on Whatpub or in the GBG! I asked if he would mind us having a half of the appropriately named "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" by Mithril (it was a bit tart and not entirely sure it was right) and he had no problem with us staying. As the one local shuffled off, he chatted with us about the pub history and it turned out a lovely looking historic archway was a 1986 'add on' so you never can tell. He also told us they'd tried to remove Black Sheep as a regular ale, but the locals boycotted the pub til they put in back on, but he puts a special cask on for two heavy drinking locals who usually manage to get through it in a day. We didn't want to outstay our welcome, just relieved we'd got there before 3pm and been allowed to have a drink!

We popped into York's brilliant Fox (pub of the year?) for a swift half and discussion of future North Yorkshire tactics, I MUST be getting close the finishing this county now but it doesn't feel like it!

I'll be back on Tuesday for more Sheffield related fun, I might even hop on a supertram this time.

Si

It was only whilst I was on the train from L**ds to Sheffield after work on Tuesday night that I realised The Wellington (one of my two planned for the night) doesn't open Mon or Tues. Had I remembered back to to 8th December 2004, I'd had the same problem before a Hull City away match!

You've gotta adapt in this game, and soon I was waiting for a 95 bus after a hippy student girl had treated us to a hoopla demonstration with her two hoops. Talented, flexible, but weird. You wouldn't get this in Doncaster or Barnsley. The bus driver looked at my PlusBus ticket like it was something alien, before accepting it, and the passengers were young and full of excited nervous tension as we climbed up the hill to Walkley.

963. Walkley Cottage Inn, Sheffield

I suspected I'd been here before a different Sheff Wed v Hull City match but couldn't be sure. 22nd Sept 2007 would be the date, all I can remember is a friendly but dribbling very old man, lots of red furnishings, quite foody but quite traditonally estatey at the same time. It was definitely the same place, as an elderly Jarvis Cocker greeted everyone who entered (apart from me), and the two chaps behind the bar were very friendly. Such estate style pubs are great if you are a boy with a toy truck and no concept of grimy pub carpets, whilst ancient couples kept arriving to sit in "their places" as they probably have done for decades. Glad I hid at the far end. There was quite a bit of teatime eating going on, and Mr Mustard (aptly named) but so much squeezy English mustard on his burger, his plate was a sea of yellow. As I started Tweeting about it, Mrs Mustard stared glaring at me from the far end in defence of her hubbie, either that or she was watching the news with a wonky eye. He sucked up the burger in one, and when they got up to leave, he lingered because he wanted to see the weather forecast and shouted a load of abuse at Mrs M for leaving before him. Lovely couple.

£3.14 for my Hook Norton, must be in posh Sheffield now (mustard is just visible).

964. Princess Royal, Sheffield

The best pub location for me, is hidden away down a side street or two, a little house like any other (like the Wellington in York, or the Garibaldi in St Albans). Okay, this was on a corner but the cat sleeping on the pavement and jolly man saying "alright buddy" felt you'd gone to the most local Sheffield GBG entry yet. It only got better as the first thing I heard was an old man telling the barman "I remember t'days when you couldn't get lager, it wor ale or nothing. Fuck um." Under the circs, with such colourful locals, I sat in a secluded snug near two students and admired the etched glass and mirrors. To give you a brief history of the pub, a man called Dave Gilmour brewed beer and built the pub in the 1920's before he quit admirable pursuits and bored the world with Pink Floyd. Or something. A better pub blogger than me might tell you piped music isn't a good thing in a pub, but if it is, it's surely Johnny Cash, especially when it leads to an old man singalong. Meanwhile, the local pervert was circling the pub saying "Good Evening!" to anyone under the age of 40 (the pub also having an equally fantastic back room with pool table). Conversation turned to wine, from Bulgaria, leading to joke of the night "do they swear a lot in Vulgaria?" If you thought that was bad, a man asked if chicken and chorizo were the same thing, his mate later asking if Bulgaria was in Argentina! What?? I don't think these folk leave Sheffield much, but when you have this pub, why would you?

965. Closed Shop, Sheffield

An even shorter walk took me here, and good job, I was bursting for the loo and had not been brave enough to ask in the last pub, it'd have caused some kind of scandal. This too was a wonderful pub, a bit of a modern twist and a younger clientele and it was little surprise that the barman was a friendly little chap with a beard longer than his whole body. Now this was the kind of pub where you could get lost trying to find the loo, and no one would bat an eyelid. They were trying a bit hard perhaps on the 'sense of humour' element, and it was all a bit pricey with hilariously titled burgers, a Jarvis Cockerel burger on the menu, and more traditional bar 'grub' with the tag line "Do You Want Pies With That?" Hmmm. A 'gin garden' also filled me with dread, but it was impossible to dislike the pub, and piped Punk Rock was even better than piped J.Cash. I'd asked for a pint of Barnsley Stout but when he looked confused, I realised it was 'Barney' Stout .... amazing how your mind gets into that South Yorkshire zone innit? If I was a student again, I'd be in here a lot!

Interestingly, one of the most open pubs I've been to recently!

Man with "Geek" t-shirt sums up clientele.

I got a bus back into town (same bus driver, no queries over ticket this time!) but had 30 mins to kill and another weird student girl (Hoopla's sister?) jumped off at the Rutland Arms. IT'S A SIGN, I thought. When I complete my 1,000 pubs, I'll do a top 10 and this pub could well be in it. Love it. We both ordered half a Ella IPA (beer of the night), she sat with her scawny boyf, I didn't.

What is it with Sheffield and Gin? It's depressing enough!

Trying NOT to stalk bus girl, honestly. Never did work out what the green plastic thing was.

I'm now in an annoying position where I have 4 Sheffield pubs to do (one North, one Kelham Island, one West, one South). I can't do Wellington on a Tuesday, so I'll have to think very strategically for next Tuesday. For now, I've got Berkshire to plan on Saturday so see you then. Better see what Wales are doing now.

Bye, Si

I arrived into Blackwater on Saturday morning just before 11am, where I saw two desperadoes (rough old men, not tequila beers) sitting impatiently in the sun outside the Mr Bumble. By 11:10am, it still wasn't open so I asked one of the desps (who'd somehow managed to break into the beer garden) when it was opening? Mrs Bumble overheard me, said they were "busy" and not opening til 12. What the dickens was going on?

The lights are on, and 'busy' people are at home.

I wasn't hanging around so took a taxi to my furthest away pub instead (bus links are virtually non existent in these parts). Taxi driver Ralph Hussain was a great chap, I know a fellow Minster Man when I meet one and soon we chatting about all the York bars he used to work in - Plonkers, Lowther, Kennedy's, Bobo Lobo, Vudu Lounge (I tried to be kind and said I had a nice Oakham Citra in Kennedy's (once!))

966. Tally Ho, Eversley

Buoyed by my great chat with Ralph, I was in happy sociable mood as I entered the Tally Ho, where two brunette barmaids were working hard despite the zero customers. The big criticism was immediately apparent, about 90% of the spacious pub had tables bedecked with knives and forks and even as the only customer, it was hard to find a 'pubby' seat! Still, somewhere remote with no bus links I guess has to play the foodie card. However, the pub was a positive experience mainly for my chat with the barmaid, and that is the good thing about being first customer of the day. BRAPA seemed to strike a chord. The main three things I took away from our chat are as follows. The pub has been in the family for generations and she was employed to work here by her grandad without even realising it. The pub is quiet now but it's heaving in summer (at which point, I gently reminded her it was 9th July!) And the pub in Yateley is good and she is friends with Sophie who runs it, but my suggestion of going in and saying "hi Sophie!" might freak her out. More on that later. My pint was top quality (Flack's Double Drop) and the pub looked to have an amazing garden but I couldn't open the french window cos I'm rubbish! It put me in mind of the Bunk at Curridge, but with a more positive overall outcome. A good start.

The bar at the Tally Ho

I left the pub and I immediately found myself crossing the county boundary into Hampshire. 20 minutes later, I was at my next pub, making Eversley perhaps unique in the Good Beer Guide for having pubs listed in two different counties.

Arriving at pub two.

967. Golden Pot, Eversley

How does the old folk-punk song go? "You're pretty on the outside, but inside you're an ugly trog" or something like that, well that came to mind for this pub with it's "chocolate box, picture postcard, ivy clad, hanging basket" exterior (sounds like the kind of nonsense the GBG would write). Inside, a dull stripped back interior geared up for dining, with that horrible 'bookcase wallpaper' and a few miserable looking staff, one of whom served me an overly warm pint of Dorset Jurassic that she didn't even try to top up properly. I returned to the outside (it was a muggy day) where a friendly young couple were force feeding a small Twild some chewable pub fayre. To break my despondance, a young smiling barman appeared, simply to put thumbs up at me Fonzarelli style, and disappear again. Maybe he'd sensed my earlier dissatisfaction or he'd had a call from the Tally Ho about a harsh pub visitor in the local area! I went back inside and noticed I had an interesting 50/50 choice to make, lemongrass or sweet mandarin and grapefruit? But I'm talking about the hand soaps of course, and that really sums it up.

Chilling with my Jurassic at the Golden Pot.

A good half an hour's trek and I was in Yateley, wending my way gradually back towards Blackwater, for pub number three of the day.....

968. Dog & Partridge, Yateley

As I took the obligatory pub photo, I could hear the sound of a group heartily laughing from within. "Ahhh, this is more like it" I thought, "pub customers!" And on the face of it, easily the most pubby pub so far although when I say that, the kind of pub which has not allowed any heterosexual male to have any input into pub design for the last 500 years. Weird gold tinsel hung from a door frame, cushions wedged under my bum stopped me getting properly sat down, and a plastic parrot presided over the pub from behind the bar. It was all very 1980's feel, and I thought Agadoo or Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini (Timmy Mallet version) were about to start playing. Live music by a man called "David Julian" was pending, maybe he covers such songs. The locals were laughing like drains though, and that is what you want to hear in a pub even more. But the burning question of course, 'was I going to be served by Sophie?' Well I suspect it was her, a studious looking girl with a no nonsense, hardened edge and an arm tattoo which am sure freaked her parents out when she got it midway through her GCSE exams (perhaps). She warned me off a gimmicky Caledonian ale named after the pub, in favour of a Wadworth Horizon. She even has two sugars in her tea like me, I don't know anyone who does that! To complete the pub 1980's theme, two men came in and asked 'Sophie' about the range of lagers. She answered them in the most dismissive way possible whilst still being polite, but they seemed outraged there was no Peroni on draught. They took their shitty lagers to a little common/village green across from the pub and sulked. It was that kind of pub.

The lager duo debate the lack of Peroni on the village green

A microcosm of the pub decor in the Dog & Partridge.

The bus stop was opposite the pub, but it was 26 minutes late so I bonded with two 'oldsters' (the woman reminding me of Catherine Tates Nan character but with better language). Whilst discussing pub strategy (I love getting people into BRAPA) she 'out of blue' became the SIXTH stranger this year to ask why I haven't yet been to Henley-on-Thames. What is it with that place? Am I missing something? Does the pub have a special BRAPA mural or something?

Back in Blackwater, well blow me down, the pub is actually open!! Fanfare time(!)

Mr Bumble (taken pre-opening time)

969. Mr Bumble, Blackwater

So was it worth the wait? Well, it was a very different pub from the previous three, perhaps too far the other way. Pubby yes, but perhaps a little bit tired and worn if I was being harsh. Think of a cross between Bracknell's Cannie Man and Wokingham's Crispin. Two young men in caps drinking lager (does anyone drink ale in this part of the world?) were at the bar chuckling on their phones at something they called a "herbiquious border". Did they mean a herbaceous border? They repeated 'herbiquious' about 10 more times, even quizzing a local chav girl about it (she wore the same red leather "Thriller" jacket as me so I liked her style). The staff had been friendly, just on the right side of quirky, and a 16 year old barmaid appeared and started pouring herself as many different combinations of shandy as she could, explaining to a man (her Dad?) that it was some kind of quality control taste testing exercise? I think bitter and lime with a hint of cherryade won, but I might be making that last bit up. She looked a bit pie-eyed by the end, as I ran for the train.

Mr Bumble from the inside

The Simey BRAPA Everitt of two months ago would probably have jumped off the train at Sandhurst, to complete the pub there. Am sure I had time, but after recent bad experiences making train connections, I took the cautious approach all the way back to Paddington via Reading (though I fell asleep on both legs of the journey).

This next pub, I'd been recommended a few times and it was very close to Paddington station.....

View from an upstairs window.

970. Victoria, Paddington, London

Wow, sometimes a pub is such a hive of activity that it's hard to keep track of what is going on, not good when you fancy yourself as a pub blogger extraordinaire! A bit like Waterloo's Kings Arms last month, this was a small but heaving old fashioned pub, this even more deliciously ornate, but with a very cosmopolitan crowd of mainly European tourists. It must be Heritage or Grade 2 listed, and I would love to be first customer in here early one morning. As I breathed in and was (eventually) served by one of the 4 men squashed into the tiny bar (superb Crate Rye beer), it was evident seating was at a premium. I perched at the bar, next to two girls who first I thought were Spanish (cos they were eating olives) near a local man who looked like Jesus in a tracksuit just along from them. One barman was responsible for attaching two menus with a paper clip, another girl sat in a cupboard under the stairs folding knives and forks into napkins (sorry, serviettes!) Who was most bored? Probably him as she had the additional task of reassuring folk that the toilets were down a miniature staircase underground. The girls went outside to smoke, leaving their bags and olives unattended for ages. I was dying for an olive, and kept slyly moving my hand closer to the bowl but Jesus H. Christ kept staring at me in a judgemental way. When the girls returned, Jesus told them they shouldn't leave bags and food unattended in a British pub, "things can get stolen" and he motioned his head towards the olives and then me. Bastard Jesus! I reassured the blonde one I was honest, but was I? Anyway, she had more important things on her mind as a barman was asking where she was going to watch the Euro final (hence they must be French or Portuguese). Then, the barman who'd served me (he'd seemed a bit fragile at the time) asked the manager for a private word (not possible in this pub) and ended up saying "I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE, MY SHIFT IS OVER!" and stormed out. Very soap opera. Manager told the blonde one it was because of her! Was this all a joke or serious? Thank goodness Boak & Bailey had just tweeted me to ask me to explore the hidden upstairs rooms (very ornate and lovely, with a man feeding his Twild, but I was more pleased to get out of the bar, it was all getting too much!) Phew, crazy pub.

Approaching the pub

Brilliant pint. Love Rye beers.

I want an olive, but I must resist temptation, and Jesus sees all.

Judgey Jesus and the French girls, before I moved to the other side of the bar.

Well, that was a classic pub experience and summed up the day, it was the people who made it, not necessarily the pubs themselves.

Back at Kings Cross, I still had time to nip into one of my pubs of the year, the Scottish Stores where it was reassuringly quiet so I could sit in MY seat (nice to have a seat when you go somewhere once a month for one hour maximum!) We must though mention the ridiculously heavy Budvar glass I was served in, I could barely lift the thing, even the handle was heavier the a half glass on it's own, and why was I being served real ale in a Budvar glass? No wonder all the Euro kids were nodding at me in a "he knows his beer" kinda way! The pub did tell me I should buy a second pint and distribute the weight evenly which I admit was a good comeback.

And then it was back to York, and play the usual little game of "avoid the north eastern racegoer pissed up scum being anti-social in York station on Saturday night". Hurrah, I won!

Sheffield seemed to have been hit by a plague of elephants when I arrived in the city on Tuesday evening. Not real ones, just model ones, painted all different colours, and randomly dotted around the city. Hull did exactly the same thing a few years ago with toads. But that made sense as it was a tribute to poet Philip Larkin who wrote about them. So unless Jessica Ennis-Hill once had a relationship with an elephant at a Summer Olympics, this didn't.

Stop copying Hull, Sheffield. It's embarrassing. You aren't as good. You are decent, but no more. Stop it. What's next, are you going to strip naked, paint yourselves green, and pretend to be grass? There's only one "City of Culture 2017" and it sure isn't you.

And now I've lost my Sheffield readership, on with the pubs......

Pointless elephant blocks view of The Howard pub.

I almost did everything right at the bus stop on Furnival Gate, apart from forgetting to flag it down, so after another 20 minute wait, I was amongst the usual gaggle of students and old people on a bumpy bus climbing up a hilly road. Luckily, the bus stop was right outside the pub.

971. Greystones, Sheffield West

A friendly brunette with glasses and an "accent" (according to the locals, despite being from Sheffield) was there to serve me some very cold 'Brother Rabbit' by Thornbridge when I arrived - for this is the brewery's tap and I've always been a fan, but suspected a slight leaning to the modern and trendy. A couple of young beardies (in above photo) were working their way through the full range. With an old man staring at me in way that only 'Judgey Jesus' from London would (had he heard about the olives too?), I had no choice to sit in the main bar at one of the posing tables that dominated the pub, What with extreme air conditioning, draughty doorway and cold beer, it was hard to feel 100% comfortable here. The pub seems to double as a gig venue, with lots of posters and t-shirts on sale - I think they call "the back room" or something, because it is in a back room. Original. At least Fulford Arms "behind the white door" gig venue in York is no longer behind a white door. A barman looked exhausted, having had to bring food to two different people hidden in corners of the pub, demanding half a pepsi off our friendly barmaid. She had greater problems as a father & son duo walked in and the Dad went all embarrassing by chatting her up and telling her about his day. She didn't care. His son's decision to try and alleviate the embarrassment by discussing the range of nuts didn't help.

Lovely ale but a bit too cold for me, like the whole place.

Thin Rose West and J. Ennis-Hill (pre-elephant) on the walls.

I decided to try something new to get to my second pub and booked an online taxi with a company called Uber and it was uber exciting! With no busses between the pubs, and a 3.2 mile walk not viable options tonight, it had to be done. Sadly, my free promo code didn't work but at £7.32 (strangely exact but good) and being able to see my driver on GPS getting closer was interesting, and you get to rate the driver and they get to rate you. How long til my review reads "pub bore". Good chap was Mohammed, gave Ralph Hussain a run for his money. Use code SIMONE1358UE for a free ride with them, and I get one too.

Mohammed is 7 minutes away, time for a swift half?

Advert over, acid test will be if Uber can get me to the Anchor Anchor for 50p from York. I was at my next pub ....

972. Mount Pleasant, Sheffield South

Bit of culture shock after all the modernness, I entered to the right door where I was greeted by the friendly locals (wow, not what I was expecting but superb). Sadly, no ales in this side so I went to the left room where a small man on a mobile phone was scurrying around. He turned out to be the landlord and broke off to give me the most nonchalant run down of the four ales ever, and then rang a bell to call "her from downstairs", a girl with glasses and severe fringe who looked like she normally was chained up in the basement, and blinked up nervously at the light. What I most loved about this place is that it smelt like an old pub, not sure how to describe it, but it was reassuring. Two old men sat next to me and started discussing what they were having for tea. "Sausage and mash" said one, "but it is poor quality sausage." Probed further (so to speak), he revealed he hated oven chips and when his friend told him you could get microwaveable ones in a box, he reacted like microwaves were far too much of a new fangled invention for him, and he'd never got used to his. "I tried doing beans on toast in it once, it didn't work out well." But it was said totally deadpan. I snorted into my ale though. BRAPA comedy gold!! They left, "see you later Mark""errmm it's Michael actually!" I thought they were old friends, they didn't even know each others names. Brilliant.

Classic old man's pub, note the locals about to chat microwaves.

I had no time to relax, my busses were hourly and one was 10 minutes away so I swigged off my delicious Anglers Reward by Wold Top and dashed down the street, getting it quite comfortably.

I had time for a swift half in Sheffield Tap, not a brilliant place but nowhere near as bad as my Dad claims, I asked the barmaid if the Bristol Beer Factory Junga was pronounced with a hard J or like "Yunga" to which she looked at me like I was a fucking idiot. But I still didn't get a proper answer.

Possibly the most pathetic pub tables ever, Sheffield Tap. I've seen bigger ashtrays.

This week, it made more sense to change at Leeds than go straight through to York and it wasn't such a bad journey back.

Just one more Sheffield trip left but with the Wellington not open Mon or Tue and me unable to do Wed or Thu next week, we'll have to think outer South Yorkshire again. And thanks to Martin Taylor for pointing out that Penistone's Royal British Legion Club has been de-guided for not letting CAMRA members in. Well deserved!

Sightseeing from a beer garden is my kind of sightseeing.

"Did you just talk to my dog?" That was the first thing anybody said to me in Colburn, and he wasn't happy. You know how it is, friendly dog trots ahead of owner, jumps up at you, you stroke it and say hello, owner catches up, knows you are a good egg, says hi, end of social situation.

Well not here in the fictional county of Richmondshire. I'd already been mowed down by a shopmobility scooter in Darlington but it was going well otherwise. I overtook a couple of scroats down a narrow country lane, said an awkward hello, and reached my first pub soon after.

Lurking through the trees is this gem

973. Hildyard Arms, Colburn Village

Having leant against a wall around the corner so as not to look impatient, I was delighted to hear that most perfect noise, an old pub door being unbolted, at 11:56am, 4 minutes early. I nonchalantly ambled on in, to find the earlier scroats already at the bar (how??) ordering fruity Kopparberg bottles, with ice - exactly the kind of drink I'd expect from them. As I got served a fantastic Richmond stout called Greyfriars from the no nonsense nice landlord, his dog started getting very excitable, desperate to go outside but not being allowed. You might be familiar with the pub situation, where dog tries to manipulate the visitor with it's eyes into letting it out. I made sure in no uncertain terms that whilst I wanted to find the beer garden, i wasn't letting him escape. Sick of dogs already and not even midday! Anyway, I succeeded and found a fantastic beer garden (the scroats had gone to the less superior front of the pub), the inside of the pub was half farmhousey, half modern. I heard the landlord whistling and saying "come 'ere!", it was hard to know if he was talking to wife or dog. Despite the fine weather, it was very windy and some ancient trees were creaking like they were going to collapse on me so I couldn't totally relax. Just as well. Plenty to do!

Google Maps then had a rare moment of added usefulness by letting me know my bus was 12 minutes late so I kept walking until I was well on the Colburn road back towards the "county town" of Richmond. Hopped on a bus, and 10 minutes later was ready for pub two.

Richmond was, as I expected, one of those beautiful North North Yorkshire towns with castle, historic buildings galore so when I photographed the Wetherspoons, a man looked up as if to say "of ALL the tourist snaps, you chose to take this one?!" He even looked up at the sign to see if I'd spotted a giant Pokemon or something.

974. Ralph Fitz Randall, Richmond

I entered to find that reassuring(?) 'Spoons smell of coffee and after the kind of tardy service you only really get in 'Spoons pubs, I was drinking a £1.55 pint of Wensleydale bitter with the help of a Curmudgeonly voucher. A scary skinhead man was quizzing the staff on the lager, the barmaids showed their "knowledge" by recommending him a Devil's Backbone (which made me smile inwardly) but despite a pushy ' try before you buy' offer, he stuck to Heineken. I decided to sit at the far end of the pub next to a "real" bookcase (how long before we get a real pub bookcase society?) on rare bench seating so I could observe the pub. I'd only just "unpacked" my BRAPA 'kit' when a young couple returned from smoking outside to inform my they'd ordered food for this table. I guess normal people would either have left something at the table, OR accept their error and ask the staff to change their table number. But as I was learning, the people are not normal up here so with good grace, I moved seats, despite their kind offer to "join them for lunch" (well, the boyfriend said it, she hovered in the background looking scared and guilty). This all meant I was sat too close to two tearaway 10 year old girls running amok. Parental supervision? Not a chance. They did come up with quote of the day though, suddenly realising they hadn't seen Mum for ages. "She's either having a fag outside, or she's gone to the toilet" reassured one, to which the other replied "Maybe she's having a fag IN the toilet!". Absolute classic Wetherspoons experience.

The two hourly bus to Gilling West (hard G, so the bus driver knew I was a tourist) wasn't far off so I stood and waited in the market place as the 29 became an X34, a 155 became nothing and sped off, and a 70 something turned up and became the 29 we all needed. Phew! To quote one teenager at the stop, "I'm sick of these busses mugging me off! Lolz".

White Swan - doing the whole "old" and "modern" thing.

975. White Swan, Gilling West

It was nice to be in a peaceful and secluded village after the hustle and bustle of Richmond, even if a main road did run through it. As I arrived, two hooray henry's were leaving on bikes so I seemed to have timed it well. However, stood at the bar were a middle aged couple twatting around with coffees and dessert menus with no awareness that I might (a) just want a pint and (b) want to be able to actually see the beers. I despised these two a lot more the the Kopparberg chavs, so unsmiling and unfriendly. Had they been tourists, I may have let them off but the fact they had north east accents made their behaviour doubly unacceptable. However, I did have the last laugh as they went to sit outside on the road (hopefully literally), I found a secluded suntrap ancient courtyard garden which was superb, and my Old Nel(?) by Richmondshire brewery was as good as anything I had all day. Frustrating then that an obviously historic old pub with slate flooring, a real fire etc etc should have gone to lengths to overly modernise. I guess I find it a lot ("gotta do food in pubs in this day and age to survive, it's what they call progress you dinosaur!"), but had this been a wintry trip and I'd had to sit inside, I reckon I'd have been very underwhelmed. I tried a hideous half of a keg beer called Theakstons Peculiar IPA which was wrong on so many levels, then the hooray henry's returned (at least they said 'what ho') so it was time for my bus.

Great courtyard experience.

Just wrong.

It was hard to know where the bus would stop (there wasn't a stop) so when I saw the driver helping a frail old lady off it a few yards down, I had to leg it. "Oooh good timing!" he said, but then stopped in a random place for another old lady a few yards past the pub, They have their own rules in Gilling West.

976. Bishop Blaize, Richmond

Shame about the scaffolding, but it did seem to suit this creaky old pub where you enter through a corridor, and everything seems very squashed and narrow and ancient. A nice tonic after the last pub, and talking of nice tonics, Upham ale was on which I only thought they sold in rural West Berkshire, as I quickly glossed over that dream combination of Doom Bar and Sky Sports. A harassed looking man arrived at the bar with a sense of urgency, then asked in a hushed embarrassed way if he could have a bucket of ice for the prosecco. As I smirked and wondered what Martin Taylor would think, he added as an aside "because you know what demanding women are like!" I passed through a rather drab games room, and found another courtyard, this time more shaded, with great views of the castle. I sat facing the prosecco gang (he was right, the women were quite annoying) and one squealed when the ice bucket finally arrived. I looked at the man expectantly, but giving her a slap was sadly not an option he'd considered.

A bus took me back into Darlington and I had 2 hours til the train to York, so luckily I had pub ticking potential for the first time in County Durham since Feb 2015's Chester-le-Street extravaganza.

Down an unlikely looking side street ....

..through the red door, and up the stairs.

977. Old Vic, Darlington

Sometimes you know a pub is going to be magnificent before you even get to the bar, and after a couple of flights of stairs, I entered a lounge where yet another crazy dog greeted me (can't remember his/her name!) and I was the only customer. I got talking to the landlady Bernie about all aspects of pubbing (well once I'd bored her with BRAPA) and it was really interesting to talk to someone running a pub just for the love of it, the challenges of weeding out undesirable locals (as if anyone in Darlo is anything other than human kindness personified!),getting real ale introduced, introducing locals to each other to form a community feel, evil Marstons (poor Minster Inn), unwanted pool tables, unique jukebox selections, the list went on and before I knew it, I'd ditched other further out Darlo pub options in favour of a second pint before my train! And I never do that. You either get this pub straight away or you don't, I know a lot of people who'd be unimpressed (but I think you'd love it, reader), but the shabby (but not shabby chic) 80's style decor and layout is deliberate and increasingly rare. This must be a candidate for the best pub in the land, surely! When Hull City play at Darlington in a Blue Square North clash in 2025, I know which pub I'll be in.

CAMRA mags from all over the land.

Having fallen asleep on the train and nearly missed York (I was tired, okay!) I still had time to pop into York Tap for a 'swift half' but I was 10p short so they MADE me set up a tab I didn't really want. Luckily, Tom Irvin's cameo appearance helped me realise I could just get a half, down it, settle up the tab, which sounds obvious now but at the time, I felt like a prisoner!

Still, a really good day and for the first time, I can exclusively reveal I am not that far from finishing North Yorkshire ticking. Perhaps 2 more chauffeur days and 2 more train days. Though the new GBG is bound to scupper all of that.

Giving myself a break from South Yorkshire this midweek, feel I need a sustained break from the ale, but I have a "special" blog in the pipeline about a slimmer GBG, and I'm in Morecambe next weekend with friends for pub ticking.

Si

I'd like to go to the next CAMRA AGM and pass a motion. And when I've done that, I'll wipe my bottom, pull my trousers up, take to the stand, and ask a question.

And that question would be "Can we reduce the size and weight of the Good Beer Guide?" I can hear the dissenting voices from the letters page of "What's Brewing?" already - "we should be tackling beer tax, ACV's, lobbying the government, we don't have time for such irrelevance". But what the humourless, self important campaign chumps need to realise, if CAMRA can't keep it's own book in order, how can it ever hope to influence external sources?

I write this blog fairly tongue-in-cheek but as a pub traveller, being weighed down by this increasingly hefty tome is not appreciated when touring the South West Buckinghamshire countryside on foot, and I'm sure that pub ticking legends like Martin Taylor and Duncan Mackay would sympathise.

Compare the current 2016 GBG to the 1982 one (being a geek, I re-bought it for fun!) and the difference is stark. 235 pages in the 1982 Guide, a whopping 1016 in the current edition. You might argue "well real ale has come along way since then, there are bound to be lots more pubs listed" but this isn't true. 6,000 pubs in the 1982 edition, a more quality controlled 4,500 in the current one.

So why has it burgeoned in size then? It's the almost 300 pages dedicated to breweries that seems most needless. Pub Curmudgeon agrees with this, and so too does an unknown man named Peter. In this day of "social media at the touch of a button", is it really necessary to include such information? If you care enough, Google it. Plus, it is all contained within the excellent Good Beer Guide Smartphone App. Keep that as the place where this additional information is stored.

But I don't want to talk myself out of a paper based GBG altogether, it is my bible at the end of the day....

You could also decrease the number of GBG pubs from 4,500 to say, 4,000, disregarding those pubs which put diners before drinkers, and those clubs which are unwelcoming to CAMRA goers (it rhymes with Pumice Stone). It'd be nice especially if CAMRA took a stand on the former, sadly I fear there's a lot that could be removed as a consequence.

Don't think I'm just trying to make my "pub ticking" life easier, I promise that would merely be a happy by-product of reducing the numbers. Honest!

No, I actually think the main 'trimming' of the GBG could be done in the pub descriptions. Back in 1982, you'd get juicy one line descriptions like "Awesome view of the viaduct from the outdoor gents" (Crown, Stockport) "A gem in an industrial area" (Whalebone, Hull) and "Churchill towers over the customers" (Crown & Kettle, Manchester). Combine that with the symbols, sketchy opening hours, and a vague list of the beers available, what more do you need to know?

Nowadays, you get chapter and verse on every flippin' entry. I recently went to a pub which told me (amongst many other things) that horses get their hay and water for free. But how many people bring horses to the pub? How many horses read the GBG?

So, I propose a 20 word limit on GBG pub descriptions. And an overall page limit of 300. Revert it to the kind of Guide you can slot under your arm and trot down a Shropshire country lane with, in search of a pub with the description "No-one's ever been here, but if you can be arsed, it might be good".

To finish with, a quiz. See if you can match the pub to my revised GBG description (I've chosen pubs I found a bit more traumatic for comedy effect). Good luck.

NEW GBG DESCRIPTIONS

a. Jeremy Kyle themed scroat-hole. Look out for ghost of Jade Goody. Nice breakfasts.
b. You can piss in a store cupboard at this Monday to Wednesday ale free outlet.
c. Self publicising twats run the third best pub in a small town. Ask for Best Bitter.
d. An apt name at £3.60 a pint in overrated tourist village. Don't fall off the roof.
e. Pretentious toss house. Expect hipsters to be given preference. Pomegranate on menu.
f. Quantity trumps quality at this sticky tabled student shite hole. Won an award once.
g. If you are CAMRA scum, don't even try and enter the lounge you worthless loser.
h. Here for a drink? Stand up and make way for imaginary diners. The pub stairs look comfy.
i. Young Mums, twilds and buggies dominate. Beer reassuringly warm like a liquefied human organ.

PUBS

1. Arden Arms, Stockport
2. Tap on the Line, Kew
3. Royal British Legion Club, Penistone
4. Rook & Gaskill, York
5. Crown & Shuttle, Spitalfields
6. Bear, Maidenhead
7. Butcher's Arms, Sunderland
8. Boltmakers, Keighley
9. Fleece, Haworth

Hope you got them all right, let me know, you might win a prize.

Si

Most stereotypical Morecambe tourist photo. (I hate myself)

It was a nice trip down memory lane to be back in Morecambe with two friends, where we'd come for the Punk Festival pre 2006, after which it was moved to the brighter lights of Blackpool where it has been ever since.

Punk seems to fit better with Morecambe, and it was nice to see it's less flashy landmarks in tact, well apart from Blobbyland. The Polo Tower, Rita's Cafe, the Midland Hotel, the warnings about cockle picking, and locals with those weary eyes, all still going strong.

Still doing a roaring trade ....

An abandoned ghost train on the sight of the Dome (former punk gig venue)

But I think you all know the real reason I was here .... PUB TICKING. So let's stop waffling and get down to business .....

Jaunty angled shot of pub number one

978. York, Morecambe

After a harrowing train ride from L**ds and a 10 minute walk into the bowels of the town, we were dying for a drink and I have to admit, first signs were not too encouraging as it was one of those grand old street corner Lancashire buildings that barely looked open, never mind inviting. There were two miserable old men slouched over tables, one of those situations where you have no idea if either of them work here, or are going to be arsed to serve you. The slightly more agile one wheezed painfully, and crawled round to the bar like a pregnant sloth, where he served us New Forest ale, the only one of three handpumps on. TV screens showing a torrential downpour in Grand Prix qualifying seemed to fit the mood of the pub. Luckily, a brighter front room with superb pristine deep red bench seating and a high ceiling offered a much more positive experience, and encouraged a nervous looking trio to also come in for a drink, one woman kept looking at me as if looking for reassurance, as in "yes, it is okay to sit in this pub and have a drink!". If you didn't know, this could have been a Sam Smith's pub, though it had Lancaster glasses and York Brewery beermats. Very much a "War of the Roses sitting of the fence" pub. A solid if unspectacular start.

Pregnant sloth? Nice teddy.

Sam Smith's-esque side room.

Back towards the seafront, passing an old cinema and some settees stacked on top of each other, and we were hungry after the long journey, so it was Spoons time.

979. Eric Bartholomew, Morecambe

Downstairs was quite dull and drab as I used three Mudgie vouchers to save a whopping £1.50 on an already cheap round. Luckily, the Top Dog Stout was nice stuff and the upstairs area was (a bit like the side room in the York), brighter, warmer and much more pleasant as we sat in a baking window seat, as the pub congratulated itself on being 10 years old with a board where you could add your comments about the pub - someone had written "Marching on Together" and drawn a penis next to it which was probably not pro-Leeds United but might have been. My friend reported one of my pub pet hates next when he went down to order our food, people had formed an orderly single file queue! In any pub, this is hard to fathom, but in a Morecambe Wetherspoons, well it can only have been tourists surely! Glad I didn't witness it first hand. I ordered ham, egg and chips, which was decent apart from the eggs seemed to be both overdone and underdone - something only 'Spoons seem to be able to manage. I think Tandleman commented on his 95 year old Mum doing better eggs than 'Spoons, and this was the perfect example. Still, it revived my increasingly limp stout! Our peace was shattered as a horrific family of Scots descended on us, so many ginger Twilds, we were boxed in. They weren't the worst behaved, but kids in Spoons is becoming a theme of July!

Onwards and onto the seafront, where I identified the Kings Arms as the pub I used to frequent most commonly - now it has some separate food kitchen built on (why?) called the King's Feast but next door was somewhere much better.....

980. Royal, Morecambe

From the moment I stepped over the mosaic threshold and was smiled at by a cute squashy faced brunette, I knew this was going to be pub of the day. A proper exciting range of ales meant we actually had decisions to make, and the friendly and jovial landlord looked like he'd been waiting all year for some visitors who were interested in more than just Carling Extra Cold, and he had a right long chat with me about various breweries, getting beers in, Cotswold Spring being ace, etc etc. Quite an ornate interior too, though it did have that "seafront" pub feel, and live music was a feature you couldn't avoid. I spied the nervous trio from The York pub, are they doing BRAPA too? My ale, "Zesty" by "Dandy" started very zesty, but like most beers today, seemed to deteriorate but I'll give Morecambe the benefit of the doubt and say those eggs were sitting heavy on me. I was cornered in the gents by two drunken scroats who saw my "British Real Ale Pub Adventure" t-shirt and asked me how I defined real ale. As they seemed confused by the words "cask" and "handpulled", I snuck through a gap between handdryer and needle-addled arm to make a hasty retreat, before my corpse could be found in a toilet cubicle. Still, if you are going to murdered in a Morecambe pub, I would certainly recommend this place for your resting location.

Crossing the threshhold

The Royal was definitely pub of the day.

After a bit of "sight-seeing", it was time to leave Morecambe but mid afternoon meant we had couple to pick up a couple of Lancaster pubs. This was good news for me because with eight listed in the GBG, I cannot do them all in one day and now means I can return for a proper Lancaster six pub day.

It was my first time in the town, and it seemed quite lovely, but are the pubs up to much was the bigger question?

Artistic shot or is my photographer drunk?

981. Merchant's, Lancaster

My two travelling companions had enjoyed this pub back in 2005, having played pool in here, though 11 years on it felt like the kind of place you're more likely to find middle aged women drinking Prosecco than two blokes playing pool over a pint of Bomber. Anyway, that isn't to say it wasn't enjoyable. A bit like York's Lendal Cellars, it played on it's 17th century ancient wine cellars as much as was possible, but unlike that pub, this hasn't had it's character ripped out by Greene King and Jamie Oliver. Another welcome range of ales meant I went with a Dunscar Blissful, served by a barmaid I'd describe as more efficient than friendly. Again, I found it a hard going drink and really wasn't enjoying my ale today! An old pervert then collared two blonde girls at the bar and declared that he had half a cucumber in his gin, before winking at them. Certainly, the oddest moment of the day and they left very shortly after, looking confused and traumatised. I found us a seat in a room generally reserved for diners but this table wasn't, and it was quiet, so you could really feel the atmosphere of the cellars. Still, would have been better with pool tables in! I then nearly got into trouble when discussing the Eric Morecambe photo poses, I said "mmm, behind" and looked up to see a shocked looking barmaid who thought I was talking about hers. Time to go,

Red shirt man is desperate to be in a BRAPA photo. Probably.

982. Tap House, Lancaster

And we finished in a pub with an eerily quiet atmosphere, despite being bang in the town centre and claiming to have a huge selection of beers for everyone. It also had adverts for a "Brew Dog Takeover" coming soon which to me at least, was perhaps a sign of caution. It felt like the pub was winding down for last orders, with only one ale on, Hawkshead Windermere Pale - luckily one of my favourites, pint of the day but poor selection. A few wannabe hipsters appeared with headbands, yoga pants, skinny jeans, spiced chai lattes and Jackson Pollock back tattoos. They tried to look cool and important until they realised no-one cared, and they seeped back into the walls they'd materialised from. Our group of 3 were knackered, but show my friend a pub bookcase and he can't resist. After a bit of Lancaster GBG cross referencing, we played his favourite game "try and make a paragraph in a boring book sound like erotic literature". I tried, and failed. A bit of excitement followed as the silence was broken by a fast walking blind man, who tapped his white stick on the floor as he sped to the bar, and had to be told off by his friends for making the loudest noise in the pub. That opened the floodgates from hell, and in an instant the pub had got busy from nowhere, but everybody was twitchy and drinking Peroni. My friend, in a moment of genius, compared this pub to a less good version of Loughborough's Organ Grinder, which was totally spot on. You felt there was a weird undercurrent though and it didn't surprise me to learn from Preston's finest pub blogger, "See The Lizards", that this pub has some of the quirkiest and strange clientele. Might have to nip back in for a half on my proper Lancaster visit.

Friends arrive at our final pub of day.

"Caution team!"

Book not about Hull City, and not erotic fiction either!

Hops above bar, stupid barrel, stupid headband, high seating, great otherwise.

After an equally painful journey back (I fell asleep but apparently the badly behaved men were all from Keighley), it was York Races so we decided against a swift half in York Tap and went straight home.

A good day as I get ever nearer that 1,000 landmark. Lancashire moves up three places to 8th in the BRAPA league ahead of Tyne & Wear, South London and the West Midlands.

Next, I'll be finishing Sheffield on Thursday and am then in Nottingham on Saturday, where the number of pubs I will do depends on the City Ground's inability to get a safety certificate officer!

See you soon, Si

From Gotham City to Shalesmoor, top Batman relocation.

It looked like being the evening that I'd finally finish ticking off Sheffield pubs, and it felt like it too. A microcosm of Sheffield life followed.....

I travelled by "Supertram" (i.e. tram) through the city centre under grey skies like sheets of the local steel, with that incessant drizzly South Yorkshire rain that soaks you to the skin, whilst the wind whispered in my ear like the ghost of Ted Lowe, querying whether I should really be taking on this tricky long red.

The street up to the first pub was typically hilly, so much so it had pedestrian handrails (I didn't use them, that would be an admission of defeat) and I nodded at a student geek who was also following progress on his iPhone. A kindred spirit? Half way up, he zapped a Pokemon that looked like Neil Warnock and happily trotted back down the hill. My pub was of course, inevitably, at the summit.

Doesn't really do justice to the climb

At the top.

983. Blake Hotel, Sheffield

Out of breath, I ordered a 5% White Rose Alchemy (better than any beer I had in Morecambe, Lancaster or York in the last week), announcing I needed a strong one after that hilly climb. Immediately, I thought that's probably the boring standard visitors comment in here but luckily the landlord and 'Sheffield Federer' in brilliant blue suit, both approved, the latter commenting it was his usual excuse for drinking in this pub. A true gent. Landlord was a superb chap too, managing to make unique conversation with everyone who appeared at the bar, though recommending me a 7% banana keg beer next was pushing it a bit, and I nearly had to give him a BRAPA lecture! The atmosphere was companionable, relaxed, not at all forced. Quiet, friendly, just people unwinding after work. Friends sat together but didn't feel the need to speak to each other. The pub must be the reason for this, no music or screens or machines, properly traditional - a "classic" you might say if such a term is permitted! Sheffield has a lot of good pubs, and this is up there (literally) with the cream of the crop.

With the sun now out, and a splendid rainbow over the city, it was all downhill from here and I had to trust the grips on my shoes against the slippy streets. Sadly, it really was downhill as the Wellington was CLOSED!! Noooo! Well, this very dishevelled looking building had the old pub sign bearing the name "Cask & Cutler" so I lurked outside to make sure I had the right place.

Eventually, I saw a sign showing some complicated licensee notice I couldn't read properly, and then a little grey haired old man opened the door to tell me they were a month away from re-opening! He looked like the kind of man you'd see when we finally reach "Pub Armageddon", the kind of man who'd take twisted satisfaction in begrudgingly closing the doors on the final proper pub in the UK. I hated him more than anyone else in the world.

Turns out that they are finally spending some money on the dilapidated shithole (sorry, historic old pub) and Neepsend brewery (one of those Sheffield pale ale micros) are taking it over (thanks to Beer4John and Brad Wight for their info).

Very shut pub. Nice rainbow though.

All was not yet lost though as I'd made a worrying discovery last week. What I'd thought was the Three Tuns (and had reviewed in the archives) was actually the (inferior)Wig & Pen as Three Tuns wasn't open on the day and we'd gone elsewhere. St John's Hotel, Hull? Commercial, Slathwaite? Erroneous pub ticking is shameful. You've gotta be so careful in this BRAPA game.

Three Tuns, Sheffield

Luckily, the unique shape of this pub means you certainly wouldn't forget a visit. So much so, it puts Manchester's Peveril of the Peak to shame. Once inside, you feel your physical being trying to suck itself into a triangular shape like a Mr Man. Even my liver temporarily became triangular as it tried to handle the peculiar stout from Cardiff's terribly named Hopcraft brewery (the John Smith's glass did NOT help). The pierced barmaid seemed a friendly lass (nice smile), saw her trying to fathom my "Mischief Brew" t-shirt - check 'em out luv, you look like a cute crusty squatter, great band! (I didn't say that out loud). It had a busy town centre feel, so I took myself off to the narrowest room to the right hand side, but this was a mistake as everyone else swiftly left (was it something I said?) and I'd isolated myself, and couldn't get any sense of the atmosphere, so all I could do was occasionally peer back into the main bar with sad eyes.

Motivational toilet board

Amazing room but where's everyone gone?

I'd rather have the Budvar Scottish Stores glass back than this monstrosity!

Just time for one more (pointless) tram ride and a very swift 9 minute half in Sheffield Tap. I suspect I will be back here in Sheffield when the 2017 GBG is published, but whether or not that will include a FOURTH attempt at the Wellington/Cask & Cutler/Neepsend Brewery Tap (2004 when I first tried to come here!) remains to be seen. Frankly, it doesn't deserve my custom.

Very swift half.

Off to West Bridgford tomorrow, don't wait up! Si

Elsie Mo goes all 21st Century on us.

The annual "Welly Summer Day Out" (organised for us Hull City fans who used to frequent Hull's brilliant but now defunct Wellington pub) was down to three attendeees, the usual BRAPA trio of me, Dad and Tom, as we set out for West Bridgford on a sunny Saturday morning.

Like some bloody woman, I was 'wearing in' new red shoes in readiness for the Blackpool Punk Festival, so with blisters aplenty, I ditched the 'wearing in' long walk in favour of a short bus ride to West Bridgford, a bustling little republic, totally separate from evil Nottingham scum (am sure that's what the locals would say) and we found our 9:30am opener doing good early trade.....

984. Poppy & Pint, West Bridgford

A former British legion club that actually let me in, that was a novelty, eff off Penistone! Sadly, it felt more like a ski chalet than a rugged men's club, all bare boarded and modern, keen eager young staff unable to comprehend someone might want to order a 10:30am pint without a breakfast. It was all very Castle Rock (even if I did have a Wadworth beer first, then a brilliant Harvest Pale - a beer that tastes awful in York these days) but I noticed Dad scowling, he could hear screaming kids dominating the pub! But rather than walk to the furthest point away from them, he chose to sat in a strange 'no smoking' half uncovered outdoors area overlooking a bowling green. The Twilds in question (twin twats), were playing hide & seek with a trendy beardie Dad who insisted on emphasising things like "oooh, where have those naughty little rascals gone?" and generally making a prat of himself. As hiding on the main road wasn't an option, they ended up in our seating area. Pub kids has been a recent common theme, like Pub Curmudgeon's excellent blog has unwittingly unleashed a vortex of child shit-baggery on the universe. Their eventual departure coincided with Tom's arrival (as though Tom was Richard III and they were the Princes in the Tower) and we concluded that whilst this place suffered from not being particularly pubby, there are worse places to enjoy a (now kid-free) pint.

First pint of the day (a "bitter", not a "pale")

Inside shot gives a slight clue to the shortcomings

Nice pint overlooking the bowling green.

Poppy & Pint admits it has a child problem.

985. Stratford Haven, West Bridgford

After a short walk, we were at another Castle Rock pub, where I ordered a pint of Andy Turner, which sounded wrong, but he's some Olympian blah blah zzzzz, which somehow led me to encourage Dad to unleash his fake Olympic past, a task he took to a bit too eagerly but the young barman looked impressed anyway. Andy Turner sounds like the centre back Hull City never had, and led us to a nice little quiz (Dad wanted to sit outside due to man-flu) where the conclusion was that Jozy Altidore is perhaps the worst striker the world has ever seen. This was a much more proper pub, despite the obvious signs of a sympathetic Castle Rock makeover, and all the men were old smokers called Harold. An over excitable dog (due to being owned by an over excitable female) took exception to one old man in the smoking area, it absolutely hated him - and don't you love it when dogs react like this and you see the other customers looking at the subject of the dog's wrath with suspicion as if thinking "this guy is probably a paedo"? In another politically incorrect twist, I asked Dad what pint he wanted. His reply "I think I'll have a go at the darkie next", reverberating around the pub garden, sounded bad, but really he just wanted to try the superb Titanic Cherry Dark. And that really summed up the whole pub, and yes, I'd recommend it fully.

Approaching the Stratford Haven

Asking "Can I have a pint of Andy Turner?" just felt wrong

It was football time, sadly the safety certificate issue had been sorted out, and we were allowed in, at the extortionate price of £15 having had to get a ticket and then go to the turnstiles in one of the least common sense football moves ever. It was a good game (for 45 mins), nice Allam Out chants, and our beleaguered players did what we always do and won at the City Ground.

Post match celebration at a Nottingham favourite of mine, the VAT & Fiddle. Arguably not quite as good a pub since the cat died, Dad accidentally ordered 3 bowls of Carry On Soup (Carrot and Coriander was what he meant to say) and pints of Brian Clough and Red Riding Hood finished me off nicely.

Love this pub!

Cloughie is a Bootboy!

The end of a happy day in Notts

I might be back on Tuesday for some South Yorkshire fun, it depends how organised I am for Blackpool, but I'll be back tomorrow night anyway for the month end review. Stay tuned folks.

Si

Ruby helping me work out where Criggion actually is!

July Review

Hello pubbers. 27 new pubs for the month wasn't a bad outcome considering I had no time off work. I'd been aiming at 30 but you can't always legislate for pub closures (Thoralby's holiday farce, the Wellington in Sheffield being stupid), and sometimes, you just run out of time (Lancaster).

Midweek nights have been productive with Sheffield now as complete as it possibly can be, I made great strides towards completing North Yorkshire, another good step in the Berkshire direction (well, Hants mainly), and some bonus pubbing around Lancs and Notts to keep those numbers respectable.

Again, I've tried to summon up the best three pubs in my mind, based on my experiences on the day - these will go into the pot for the "End of Year Awards Ceremony".

1. Old Vic, Darlington
2. Victoria, Paddington
3. Blake Hotel, Sheffield

Pub dog contemplates prospect of August 'ticking'.

August Preview

August is the hardest month for BRAPA, make no mistake. With the New GBG on the horizon (Privilege Club permitting after two years of administrative cock-ups, I'm expecting to find it on my doormat Fri 26th Aug), I find myself questioning the point of visiting any new pubs in August. "Waaah, what if this pub is de-guided? What is the point? Why am I alive? The beer will probably be vinegar cos the pub has been rubbish for 18 months." Yes, I turn into a paranoid, nervous wreck.

But once I "man up", the agenda will be as follows.

South Yorkshire continues tomorrow night (2nd), then I am going to try and incorporate some BRAPA into the punk festival (Blackpool's Auctioneer is a must, a trip to Lytham/St Annes might be nice if bands allow!). No sooner am I back from that then a trip to Mid Wales which was being secretly guarded until Martin "One Step Beyond" Taylor visited the Anchor Anchor. Still, I also hope to get some tricky Welsh ones done where even Messrs Taylor, Mackay and Winfield would raise a congratulatory eyebrow. I may even be able to squash in a bonus BRAPA day between the Punk & Wales.

Later in the month, a NFFD (Non Football Football day) sees me shun Swansea in favour of Billinge, Rainford and St Helens. ending with an unspecified North Yorkshire day due to the new GBG possibly being with me (remember last years Coxwold/Shipton v Wass/Raskelf conundrum? No, neither do I). I'll be back in the South Yorkshire swing by then too.

And then I'll enter the period I call "One Month Reverse Owl Syndrome" which basically means I go quiet for a month (well, hopefully just 2 or 3 weeks up to the official GBG release date 15th Sept), but still pubbing Saturdays, as I cross tick, work out my numbers, and "realign my strategy".

...... Not that I take BRAPA too seriously!

This year, I also have the added distraction of PUB NUMBER 1,000. Yes, I am dangerously near that magic landmark number and I presume I'll pass it about mid-late month, but I'll drop below it again when I do the "cross-ticking" so what is the point? Waaaah. And the depression sets in again..... roll on September!

Si

It was deja vu from my previous train journey to Kiveton Park (Harthill on 17th May), just missing the train connection in Sheffield by seconds so forced to wait twenty minutes whilst disconsolately munching on a bag of Mini Cheddars on platform 3B until the next train arrived.

Once in Kiveton Park, I played one of my favourite BRAPA games "Beat the Bus" where I tried to speed walk to South Anston before the bus would have arrived. And I won! Despite standing on a half full can of Vimto. Yasss!

Nearly there .... and still no sign of the X5 bus

I'm going in! Take that bus-face!

986. Loyal Trooper, South Anston

I squashed in at the right hand bar between three friendly local men with an air of the "what of it" about them. Pete's wife had put his pork chop in the oven two hours ago, he wondered if it'd be done yet. "Very crispy" was the general consensus. No sooner had I taken my Abbeydale Moonshine to the rare example of bench seating near the front door, when another man plonked a "reserved" sign on my table. He told me not to worry, but an 80 year old blind man was coming for tea here at 19:30 and finding his way into the pub was a struggle, so they always put him at the table nearest the door. Okay then, I had an hour. More than enough, tempting as it was to stay the full hour and risk being groped by an old blind man. In typical South Yorkshire village pub style, the pub then took on a huge influx of people between 18:30-18:45 and a cackling group of women were first to appear and ask why it was so quiet. "Well, this is South Anston on a Tuesday evening girls, not Dodgy Doncaster DJ Disco Dave's Saturday Northern Soul Explosion" (I didn't say that). A bit of a rumpus followed as 4 men in identical Carling t-shirts appeared and asked a local if they could have a photo outside the pub, and commented they should really be drinking Carling but they'd "brave the ale!" Who were they? Was this a shit version of BRAPA? Go round all the Carling pubs in the UK? Back at the bar, I topped up with half a Moonshine to get me through to 19:05 and one of the Carling gang turned his nose up at me, slagged off pale ales (hoppy and samey), but he was on the Adnams Southwold like a brave little soldier. I was just about to ask him about the Carling tops, when he disappeared into a crack in the floor, or so it seemed.

Moonshine in John Smith's glass on Carling beer mat on reserved table, Hmm.

I'm a loyal trooper.

Quite a nice historical pub it was, I'll turn a blind eye to the restauranty area out the back, and the Carling/Doom Bar/potential Sky Sports conglomerate, and the beer in wrong glass. It had a great atmosphere, friendly staff, great locals, and if you found it in North London, it'd be like finding the Bell at Aldworth.

I'd enjoyed the "Beat the Bus" game so much, I walked back to Kiveton Bridge too. I let it win this time. Only just over a mile so a short march, tiny bit hilly but the GBG should be encouraging people to do walks like this. People are so lazy. Less than 0.5 miles a day they walk, no wonder they are fat, And the health people have the gall to blame things like drinking too much beer! Bollocks.

Back in Sheffield, I popped in Sheffield Tap for a very swift Cascadian Tempest and was served by the Junga/Yunga barmaid from the other week - classic barmaidery.

In the main bar at Sheff Tap, note the grinning fop who tasted all the beers and then went for Jaipur.

Time for Blackpool's Rebellion Punk Festival! Am determined to get a Saturday lunchtime crawl somewhere, and of course squeeze in the Auctioneer. But I won't be too disheartened if I don't get much done. After all, last year the GBG managed to remove Thornton Cleveleys incredible good Sam Smith's pub (and the good but weird Bispham one) making any BRAPing null and void. And why does Gillespies never get in, fallen out with CAMRA? At least Pump & T. is back, a classic.

Me in the now defunct Casbah stage in 2014.

Me at Victoria Hotel, Thornton Cleveleys last year.

Me at Bispham Hotel last year.

See you next week! Si

A 16th year of attending the Rebellion Punk Festival in Blackpool (even though it used to be in Morecambe and called things like 'Wasted' and 'Holidays in the Sun'), and I've learnt over the years that you can't just stay in the venue the whole time, visiting band after band, drinking Murphys and inhaling sweat and funny smoke. No, you'd burn out very quickly.

No, you need to give yourself a bit of escape time getting sea-air, sitting down and drinking quality (hopefully) beer.

Bald man was seriously unimpressed by this photo.

So on the Friday afternoon, me and fellow punk traveller (not a gypsy) Jig Johnstone meandered through the backstreets (somehow even more scarier than the seafront) to find my final Blackpool required pub tick.....

Don't take photos like this for granted!

987. The Auctioneer, Blackpool

This pub experience was fraught from the get-go because whilst Jig was taking this photo, a grumpy old man on a shop mobility scooter tried to run him over because he was in the exact spot he wanted to park. As if he couldn't have parked anywhere else miserable old bastard, luckily two other locals looked sympathetically towards us, otherwise we might have just run away crying. In the build up to my visit, three Twitterers had all told me this was NO LONGER a Wetherspoons, thanks to them so I didn't make a fool of myself thrusting 50p vouchers down the bar staffs throats. On first glance, this had 'Spoons' written all over it, but two things were a bit different. Kindly, older staff and a more local beer range than you might expect. We drank Fuzzy Duck beers from Poulton-le-Fylde, the barmaid refusing to say Pheasant Plucker in case she got it wrong, but the following day, she was more confident with a Cunning Stunt. £4.10 for 2 pints was pretty amazing too. Having watched "Homes Under the Hammer" that morning, Jig got into his BRAPA stride a bit too well and started telling me how the bay windows offered much natural light! I'm glad he's not a pub blogger. Three men sat on their own with Spa shopping bags in the gloomiest pub areas, one put his loaf of bread, biscuits and milk on the table as though he was going to start a feast. It was that kind of pub.

Does this look like a Spoons to you?

"Bay windows offering natural light!"

No-one trips over their words as Cunning Stunt is ordered.

We had bands to see so fast forward to a bright and sunny Blackpool Saturday, as we walked to Blackpool South and took the rural Burnley-ish train to St Annes (slightly delayed but we didn't need a train ticket so no complaints!) A man spent an age helping his disabled wife step off the train, using the joke "it's a big step for man-kind" not once but twice. Wasn't funny the first time mate!

988. Victoria. St Annes

After a 15 minute trek, mainly in a circle, we found the furthest out pub but it didn't occur to me it was 11:50am and it didn't open til 12 noon until the plant watering lady outside told me. Had my punk head on, not my usual BRAPA one! Landlord arrived, we were sat on the pub bench and Jig was worried we looked like alcoholics so to put his mind at rest, I did my usual "I'm not an alcoholic but this is BRAPA" explanation and got assurances they'd be open dead on 12 noon, which they were. The young barman served us excellent Hopstar Summer Daze, but we also got orange juice chasers as seriously dehydrated from all the moshing and Murphys. Barman was friendliest of weekend along with our 18 year old friend from Pump & Truncheon, but we took our drinks back to the nice beer garden at the front where I had to field a series of queries from "Lytham Life" twitter account. A twild was hanging out of a window, but other than that, just basked in sun with two churches either side of us making up for the slightly scuzzy main road. Oh, but who promotes Pimms at a beer festival?

989. Fifteens at St Annes

Nearer the station and not far from the prom, it was a hive of activity as the locals took joy in being part of the BRAPA photo opportunity. "Ohhh, I thought you were doing something like that!" said the old man as I explained visiting every pub in the UK. You can't tell some people anything. More on him later. This was clearly my favourite pub of the weekend, a classic in any part of the country, a typical bar scene was lots of miserable old men slumped over the bar blocking the handpumps, half watching cricket. The barman noted how many teenagers had been going upstairs to the pub toilet with phones out, looking confused. Only one conclusion, "there's obviously a valuable Pokemon up there!" they then slagged Pokemon Go off for 5 minutes, I was impressed they'd even heard of it but conscious me following my GBG App to the pub might make me scum aswell. The pub was a right bric-a-brac nic-nack old curiosity shop of joy, with those things you stick your head in to have a "hilairious" seaside photo, a fussball table and lots more. 4 old women annoyed me by having a virtually empty pub to aim at, and spending ages debating where they'd sit, changing their minds, and eventually going outside. Grrr, I was fuming, I'm turning into my Dad.

Getting the locals into the BRAPA spirit

990. Trawl Boat Inn, St Annes

Our final St Annes pub tick was just behind the Fifteens, and the old man I'd been chatting to outside was propping up the bar but obviously pleased to see he wasn't the only one going around the pubs. Now this place definitely was a Spoons so I used my 50p vouchers on some powerful 5%ers from Reedley Hallows which I'd previously had in Burnley. With the outside heaving due to the unexpected sunshine, I decided we'd spend the half hour chatting to our new friend, who despite his lack of teeth, was a man who made a lot of sense! Ok, so he was from Chorlton-cum-Hardy but I won't hold that against him, especially when he started badmouthing all of the one syllable trendy bars like "Scuzz", "Sprog" and "Bum" (sorry, I can't remember their names). Sadly, he was still semi-proud of it's independence , didn't like my inference it was a glorified young persons Manc extension, comparing it vaguely to Stockport and got excitable about Cheshire briefly, before talking non-stop about his passion for music until I eventually managed to politely tell him our train was due and we had to dash.

We did get gripped for train tickets on the way back (by THREE different people before the train even set off - no fare dodging allowed here, maybe I was under surveillance), and popped back into Auctioneer for a pee and a pint before the walk back to the festival.

That was it cos sadly I hadn't seen the Twitter comment telling me about two pre-emptive Blackpool ticks but I'll be back in 2017, and failing them being in the guide, there is Lytham itself or Fleetwood. I almost don't want any bands to be on!

Over the weekend, I managed to offend a man from Kendal for agreeing it was shit (I've never been) and mentioning mint cake, I offended an Everton fan from Widnes by asking if it was in Merseyside, and a weirdo with heart problems from some shitbag village near Blackburn by saying it was a horrid town with no good pubs. At least a scary Glaswegian agreed even a Glasgow Wetherspoons experience was preferable to paying £4 for a pint of soil (Murphys) in a plastic glass.

Honestly, I try my best to be a UK travel ambassador and most folk just don't want to know......

Si

I'm pretty sure that when Mum and Dad invited me the chance to tag along with their Welsh holiday, they knew that the biggest factor (along with their obviously great company) was the chance for me to tick off some pubs which might not be easily achieved due to (a) lacking public transport and (b) weird opening hours.

NOT that I was taking it too seriously, but I did make sure this map was at the the forefront of their consciousness .....

Could I get all six done? Well, this was no ordinary BRAPA trip out as it wasn't totally in my hands. My frustrations were bubbling under early doors, as a stop in Oswestry for a cheese and ham toastie was all well and good, but with neither pub ticked off, this was torture for my BRAPA brain.

On a happier note, Dad had programmed our stoic male SatNav companion (Mum wanted the jabbering female but was overruled) to stop at pub number 4 on my map, and after a few winding roads across the border, we were there and hurrah, it was open!

Celebrating the first of (hopefully) many Powys ticks.

991. Wynnstay Inn, Llansillin

As I sped round to the bar where four companionable locals were chatting nonsense with the archetypal Welsh barman, I had to laugh when I saw York Guzzler as one of the two beers! At least that gave me a route into conversation "we're from York don't you know?" (surely enough to impress such yokels .... only kidding) and I then embarrassed Dad accidentally by making him pronounce Bwlych-Y-Cibau, where we were staying. One local claimed Welsh was the easiest phonetic language ever "much easier than English" so Mum and Dad motioned me and our excellent pints of Big Shed Tyger Tyger to a bench table before I got embroiled in any arguments. Mum had a lemonade and revealed she rated it quite highly and it might be included in her forthcoming 'Good Pub Lemonade Guide'. The pub decor was all superheroes and salamanders, a weird combination, Star Wars quite prevalent, but incredibly basic and Mum commented she could not imagine feeling appetised enough to eat in here (I had a feeling I'd see at least one less appetising pub this holiday!) A bit of excitement as I went back for half a Guzzler out of curiosity (poor and according to Dad, he'd heard them whispering it was about to go off) when the landlord, who was quite deaf, had the loudest mobile phone ring ever witnessed in a pub EVER, he couldn't remember it was hiding on a window sill, and then the cash till bit his hand Arkwright style. A quirky start to Welsh pubbing.

Vintage tractors in the pub car park

York Guzzler, can you believe it?

Spiderman unimpressed with Batman's Prosecco crotch.

After checking in, it was decided that after the long drive, pubbing would be resumed tomorrow so I set Dad to work combining pubs 5 and 6 with a walk around Caersws.....

All seemed set for a straightforward holiday - long walk, 2 pubs, food, sleep, long walk, 2 pubs etc etc. But it's when you start think like that when BRAPA bites you on the bottom.

The first bite happened that evening as we sat down to our evening Ploughman's, two bats got in and started circling us menacingly (no literal bites to the bottom though).

That might have been a bad omen, as the following day, me and Dad unfairly made Mum jump across a ditch she wasn't comfortable with and her ankle went SNAP and she went down. Ouch. After carrying her back through field after field, we were soon in Shrewsbury Infirmary (I'd done most of my pub ticks in Shrews so had been edging towards Aberystwyth's A&E) and luckily, it wasn't broken!

Mum in good spirits despite her ankle woes.

To Mum's absolute credit, she looked up at her lowest ebb and almost like a dying wish, told me to ensure that whatever happened, I got the Anchor-Anchor ticked off. Proper Pub Mum! Of course, my BRAPA mind interpreted this as "crack on with your entire pub plan and add a few cos that's all that is left for us now we can't do any walks".

Meanwhile back in York, my sister's boyfriend reacted to the news by using an axe to smash a coconut.....

Random behaviour from Andy

A bit of light reading and a cuppa (no beer today!)

Let us hope day 3 and 4 of the holiday could be more productive pub-wise, I had to make up for lost time and you want to read about pubs, not family drama!

Sunday dawned bright and sunny in Bwlch-y-Cibau and although Mum decided not to join us (not trusting pub steps, and she can't put any weight on her sprained ankle, though we did try to twist her arm so to speak!), it was a good opportunity to visit two pubs that open 12 noon on weekends but not til after 4pm in the week .....

Before we left, our host, Lady Auriel Linlithgow, brought us some eggs that her chickens had freshly laid but she didn't seem like the kind of girl who'd understand BRAPA so I kept schtum.

992. Square & Compass, Cilcewydd

It wasn't far to the practically non-existent hamlet of "Cycle-wild" (as I pronounce it) but the pub was on the main road and the door sprang back at 11:59am to meet one of the jolliest barmen we encountered on our travels. He certainly loved the BRAPA concept and his equally friendly Brummie wife stood in the background, apologising for still eating her breakfast. It was one of those funny pubs (like Danby North Yorkshire) where people kept popping in for non pubby reasons culminating in a man with one of those booming Welsh tenor voices who made a show of giving the barmaid a bottle of cheap white wine as a "thanks for last night", sounds like some crazy party had been going on (she pretended to be grateful). This explained why the Butty Bach was off, with Doom Bar the only ale on and even this had a temporary air lock problem. At least they apologised, and it was the best Doom Bar I'd possibly ever had! (or was this cos I got zero beer yesterday?) The pub was small and cosy and very Welsh, lot's of quirky decor including a sign "The lost and thirsty use the Square & Compass, but don't get drunk and cause a...." we couldn't see the last word, the sensible money would be on "rumpus", Dad suggested it might be "elephant". Whilst a local munched on the longest crusty pork baguette ever seen (with added crackling) I also saw strict rules about not playing the piano and suspect that behind the relaxed jokey facade of this pub, there's one that would come down with an iron fist if you stepped out of line! As we watched Jessica Ennis-whatsit on a big screen making excuses about not being able to win gold cos she's now a Mum, I realised everyone was drinking Carling. Carling, Doom Bar but only BBC Sport? Something was amiss.

Part of the sign that might end with "Elephant"

Possibly the best Doom Bar I've ever had.

Mum might have been down, but she wasn't out. Demanding constant pub updates and offering her opinions, she suggested any pub that only sells "Doomsday" (as she calls it) doesn't deserve to be in the GBG. Provocative stuff.

Our next pub was a bit further North, past Welshpool and not far from the border.....

It's buzzing outdoors at the Rodney!

993. Admiral Rodney Inn, Criggion

Early signs weren't so promising here as a full car park meant we had to park directly in front of a coach, but the driver told us he wasn't moving til 5pm so we were okay (presuming we didn't go on a 4 hour session). I entered the incredibly rustic and ancient looking building expecting to find it heaving with tourist scumbags, but it was mercifully peaceful and Salopian Oracle plus a beer called Citrus Blast (and Butty Bach) made for the best ale range we saw all holiday (which doesn't say much for the other pubs, but is understandable in such rural parts). The young barman was a marvel, and candidate for 'staff of the year' award. Full of nervous energy, he confessed that the carvery was fully booked up. I told him we weren't interested in carvery, might just want some plaice and chips in a basket but we'd have a think, but he still kept going on about freeing the carvery up for us! Arrrggh. But forgive him, he might not be the man you'd want running the London Stock Exchange but a busy rural pub, his attention to detail was superb and he was constantly asking how we found the beer and coming outside to check we were okay, where Dad had found an outdoor table, overlooking great mountainous scenery in the most calm, still atmosphere on earth, despite a fair few tourists. Oracle is one of my favourite pale beers ever, so that helped. The plaice and chips was great too. This, for both me and Dad, was pub of the weekend and as for our capable host (his exact female equivalent had appeared late on), as Dad said, "he might end up connecting Wales to the internet one day".

It was time to go back to Bwlch-y-Cibau to check in with Mum, have a rest and gear ourselves up for the most monumental pub tick of the weekend, and about 6:15pm, we set the SatNav to take us the 28 miles to Anchor!

Despite reading Martin Taylor's excellent recent blog review, various comments and stories about the place and it's location, nothing and I mean NOTHING can prepare you for the remoteness, or the unlikely building which houses this pub. I was in shock, no, stunned, more stunned than Dalian Atkinson (too soon?) and the relief to see it open was immense, with it's "open 7pm every day" sign daubed onto the pub wall.

Hooray! Most pleasing pub tick ever.

994. Anchor, Anchor

The pub smelt fusty and like a library book that hasn't been touched in hundred's of years. Good grief, if Mum found the idea of food unpalatable in Llansillin, then what would she have made of this? (had we had a party of 4) In fact, I'd half thought of bringing a pot noodle and asking the landlord to pour some hot water in it, just so I could say I'd eaten here). Anyway, I tried to hide my wide-eyed excitement as I ordered a Clun Pale (and half a Hobson's chaser!) and we chatted with the landlord, a lovely gentle old chap who didn't talk rubbish for the sake of it but was pleased to talk about the pub (I loved the half-arsed carved owl with glasses above the mantelpiece but my picture was too dark and didn't work out). Here were some of the many conversational highlights:
1. The Sunday 12-2 opening slot doesn't exist anymore, further reducing the opening hours.
2. It had been the Anchor show earlier in the day, probably the only time in the year anything happens in Anchor.
3. Some Twilds (not his phrase) had been in the night before causing mayhem on the pool table.
4. In the last 20 years, he can only think of 3 occasions when no-one has come into the pub!
5. He took a BRAPA card behind the bar and mentioned another chap who'd been doing a similar challenge who was in here a few weeks ago. "Oooh was he called Martin Taylor?" I asked. His reply was typically poetic "It's within the realms of possibility that that was his name".
6. A Polish guy wanted to be at Anchor Boulevard (near Dartford) and somehow ended up here, his friends were not amused when he rang to say where he was.
7. This pub is "three golf shots" into Shropshire.
8. It was a Tanners Wines person who campaigned to get this pub in the GBG.
9. Best of all, a man (probably a Geordie) got Newcastle upon Tyne confused with Newcastle-on-Clun, came in here looking confused, and asked where Boots was!
An amazing old pub with so little done to it over the years, it is ridiculous but that is almost a compliment. I went to the loo before we left and an 18th century spider was hanging out of a crusty web. I think the loo had soap though which if you think about it, makes Anchor more progressive than Atherton in Greater Manchester. £2.50 a pint wasn't bad either. His wife trotted out a couple of times, she looked older than him and you do have to fear for the future of this place when these two go - but I've been and it was brilliant!