BRAPA (British Real Ale Pub Adventure)

The Maltby Welcoming Committee meet me (photo courtesy M.Taylor)

The omens weren't particularly good as I headed to Rotherham for the first time in BRAPA South Yorkshire Tuesday evening history.

When trying to buy my train ticket, my card declined three times before accepting as if to say "danger Si!" I crossed the road outside the station, and was nearly mowed down by a careering wagon displaying a "Craft beer" advert. When I looked more closely, it was a Wetherspoons van. It was almost like fate was laughing at me.

After locating Rotherham bus station (sorry, Interchange) and standing at the wrong stop for 10 minutes, a softly spoken frail old lady told me it had taken her four hours to get her winter flu jab, something she blamed solely on Rotherham Interchange. Once on the bus, an Eastern European man glared at us from outside the Stag pub, he was smoking aggressively.

25 minutes later and from the safety of the top of my double decker, I finally saw the first pub and pressed the bell.

Bus eye view of Maltby Spoons

918. Queen's Hotel, Maltby

'Spoons seem to get a much worse press than they deserve when I read various comments and articles on Twitter, but it's examples like this that they can be most proud of. I walked into an electric atmosphere, smiling & hard working staff milling around and "SHOUTING" every time anything remotely interesting happened. There were loads of "coming soon" stickers on all the boring pumps, so a young barman took me to the (exciting) other end of the bar like he had an appointment booked with me. "This is MY domain" he proudly declared surveying the ales, obviously delighted to find a fellow ale fan. He volunteered to put a "coming soon" Exmoor Gold on for me, which I declined, but it was a kind offer. I also declined a taster of the porter and he even laughed at my usual "I'll be brave and go straight into it!" routine. No one does that. Okay, so the main barmaid told him off for trying to put the Exmoor on early, but she then told off an old man who tried to complain that he'd expected chips with his sandwich. "Well you should've made yourself clearer!" she said and he trudged off disconsolately. Brilliant. I hate food complainers. Staff were the best thing about this place, totally balls-to-the-wall take no nonsense from the weirdo locals. This is obviously the most popular place in town, for despite being vast and multi roomed, there was scarcely one seat available. I had to perch on a posing table in the main area, asking a crazier looking Rhod Gilbert (with a pot on foot) if I could take one of his posing stools. "You can sit with me if you want mate!" he gurgled. "Errm no thanks 'Mate'" I replied. The next 25 minutes seemed to fly by, as staff flew backwards on forwards with food plates galore. Then a Sheffield Wednesday fan put his hand down his tracksuit bottoms and scratched his crotch (as they so often do). It was time to get the bus.

View to the bar - note 2017 GBG recognition and weird tropical themed rum area.

The severed head of a local who burnt his 50p Spoons vouchers and then proudly tweeted about it.

It was pitch black when I arrived back at Rotherham Interchange half an hour later, but it was 'Spoons time again .....

Looks like a Spoons. Is a Spoons!

919. Rhinoceros, Rotherham

Who knew Rotherham was well-known for it's Rhinoceros based history? Well, now you do. Having been so pro Spoons after that fantastic example in Maltby, it was almost inevitable that we were going to see the flip side of the chain. It was deceptively quiet, in that no one was talking yet almost every table was occupied, by lone drinkers. There was a chilly draught, the staff seemed withdrawn, tables were slightly sticky, a faint smell of sick hung in the air, and my Monkey Wrench ale was tough going, though decent quality. All the memories of what Wetherspoons pub so often are came flooding back to me, and I became the first person in history to get nostalgic for Maltby. I sat near the most animated group, four local old boys to see what was cracking off. Well, the loudest and sweariest was impressing them with a tale that when he worked at British Steel in the 70's, it cost £45 if you wanted to boil a kettle to make a brew. Sounded like bullshit to me but his mates were loving the story. He said electricity was almost forbidden. It had obviously left it's mark, for when another man said he was going home for beans on toast, our B.S. friend remarked "what is wrong with cold bread and beans straight from the tin"? They all laughed and left shortly after. Brilliant! I then went to the loo and witnessed my first ever "live toilet check update". You know what I mean, those boards you see that say things like "Sam last checked these toilets at 17:29 and they passed their inspection". Well, "Sam" simply made sure there was no one in any cubicle, signed the wall, went in a cubicle himself, had a quick poo, and left. Life has been hard post-England. It was time I left too.

No need for my emergency beermat in the Rhino

Man wows the crowds by getting served standing on a magic carpet.

Train Trauma Epilogue

It was always going to be a late return home for me but train delays at Rotherham were further exacerbated at Bolton on Dearne when a girl threatened to throw herself off the railway bridge, bringing us to a 1 hour and 7 minute standstill.

Not that there was much sympathy for her mental fragility or the chain of events which had led her to do this from the six other people in my carriage. "I hope the waste of skin tops herself" declared one chap to a great roar of laughter from the others. Harsh! I joined in anyway.

"They'll have to scrape what's left of her off the track" contemplated a loud blonde girl from Thurnscoe quite eagerly. "We'll be here all night".

A brunette with loads of face piercings turned to talk to me. "I only live at fucking Goldthorpe two fucking minutes away but I've broken my fucking toe so I can't fucking walk" she stated quite eloquently. She was the most gentle of all my fellow passengers and even wished me luck at work for the following day!

All but me and a thin blonde man (who'd travelled all the way from Reading to somehow end up on this train) got off for a smoke, but were told off by the guard for doing so. Then there was huge uproar as two train crew brought the pink haired girl, still alive, and locked her in the drivers compartment. The police (eventually) turned up and dragged her off, she was kicking and screaming all the way into the van.

"Taser the selfish bitch" shouted the young hippie lad who was obviously trying to impress Thurnscoe girl. And then, finally, we were on our way.

11pm MaccyD's in Leeds, back in York 11:45pm, cuppa, bed at 1am, knackered all day. Thanks luv!

Si

It was time for John Watson's stag do, and proving I'm an unselfish best-man, I didn't try and turn it into a full-on BRAPA pub ticking extravaganza, as tempting as that might've been. Two new pubs and a few classics requested by the stag were the order of the day, and the worst thing I made him do was wear a Mansfield Town shirt for about 30 seconds!!

Breakfast Time

The Crown was our first port of call, with their amazing value high quality breakfasts, friendly staff (the scousest scousers in any Liverpool pub in my experience) and all that grand decor. Okay, so I dropped half my toast on the floor, the back room struggled to warm up due to ceiling height issues, and a crazy landlady type person made us complete a Mitchell & Butler online survey so they could prove they are the best M&B pub in the world. 3 minutes my eye, it took about 15! And a young girl pouted for probably the drabbest selfie session ever, in a dark corner by the door. I drank Orange Juice from a Pepsi glass which was rather upsetting.

Thanks to Tom for the stag-based suggestion

We took the train to Birkenhead (where Kathy Burke and Anthony Head were probably trialing their new double act sitcom) and with the Tranmere fans safely locked in Prenton Park for their 12:15 kick off, we had the run of a very barren part of 'town'. But it had a BRAPA pub!

Unhelpful bike didn't give any clue where the pub actually was!

920. Gallaghers Pub & Barber's Shop, Birkenhead

Well this was an interesting concept, as beyond the bar, a little raised area with a real life human man having a haircut! Did he have a pint? Probably not, but had the most middle-of-the-road 00's music sound track not been blasting out, all you'd be able to hear was the buzz of a razor. Barbers or not, this was a cracking little pub and had I not been part of a larger group, reckon I'd have got chatting to the friendly bar staff. It had lots of old military stuff hanging from the bar, stories about the H.M.S. Birkenhead, and loved my Brimstage ale. What else can I say, I was in a group so I wasn't observing any crazy conversations or events, not that anyone else was here! The haircut victim left, looking satisfied but knowing how many women I work with have had awful experiences at their hairdressers ending in tears, I think a Prosecco bar equivalent could be a great idea.

John, Krimbo and me with my Sainsbury's bag of tricks.

Live haircutting action

Jig wonders where his hair has gone when he wasn't looking.....

Back in Liverpool, we found ourselves at the recently saved Roscoe Head where a couple of grizzled old locals looked suspiciously at us as I spilt beer froth everywhere - don't mention we are a stag party! Any guilt I might've felt about being part of a group entering such a small place were extinguished when a mixed group of old men, wives and kids decided to squash into our tiny room despite having the WHOLE PUB TO AIM AT - why do people do this? The men chatted on pub issues, ignoring the female and child element. If I'd found them annoying, much worse was to follow as a massive group of people came in and blocked the whole bar room, including our way out. SIT DOWN! You'd think there weren't any other rooms, well they are and they are all beautiful. This pub is amazing and gets better each time I visit, I just hope Lion Tavern gets saved in the same way.

John and Krzb about to go in, note the line of outdoor drinkers just behind them,

921. Mackenzie's, Liverpool

And just two streets away, my second and final tick of the day was this former HSBC which was supposed to have Irish leanings, being a whiskey bar though they spelt it whisky which as I know, and Mr Nicholls pointed out, is the Scottish version so that was one pub fail. Another fail was the absolutely horrific artwork on display. Clowns done in a 18th century classic style - well, it isn't funny, just upsetting! On the upside, the young barman was a nice chap and ordering a beer called 'Northern Powerhouse My Arse' from an unknown Liverpool brewer was always going to more amusing than a clown, vaguely. Black napkins replaced beer mats, I'd forgotten to bring an emergency one sadly. The loos were pretty ornate (not quite Philharmonic standard) and there was a crazy lit up outdoor area which looked like a cross between a fairground and a drug trip.

John and Krimbo already look fed up by insistence on photographing every pub.

Horrid clown and a more normal art piece.

It's not whisky, or whiskey.

A man helpfully points the way to the superb downstairs toilets.

After some cashpoint Jiggery-pokery, I took the gang to the Peter Kavanagh's which I loved before an Everton evening game once. After a local scally photo-bombed me (it had to happen, it is Liverpool), we were in a very busy pub but still had time a have a nice joke with the very hardworking Spuggie-esque barmaid about Welsh beer pronunciation. Luckily, I found a hidden room round the back and the three old men inhabiting it nodded at me in a respectful way when I appeared, like I knew my stuff (which I don't). They were talking about sci-fi the whole time we were there, unusual for 70 year old Guinness drinkers, and "it is when the robots kill you that you have a problem" was the best thing I heard all day. So we sat and played "York Pub Top Trumps", avoided a dog based stand-off, and admired a chair arm with the face of Gary Neville and Mackenzie Crook's love-child. Pub of the day.

Photobombed by a local scally.

Action shot of me entering the pub

Nice floor - as we try to get served.

A chair arm we can all appreciate.

Next we had another John Watson request pub, Ye Crack which I came to many years earlier. It was a lot busier today and the staff seemed to make such a meal of pulling the pints (my round), that a huge queue of impatient punters had formed behind me and I was glad we hadn't left it any longer. The pub had a really great electric atmosphere, ultra friendly, and we found a big seat in the main bar area where we were reminded in true Scouse tradition never to buy the Sun, though one very odd thing was the beer me and Krimbo had chosen tasted just like Philadelphia Cream Cheese - yet it somehow worked! Very odd.

Next, I tried to give the Grapes a shot, being a BRAPA tick, it was re-open after a recent refurbishment and we were ready for tea. I had noticed they were doing food. However, we could not get within ten yards of the bar once inside, it smelt of paint, and was really bright and quite horrific looking, so may be wise to give it chance to bed in and judge it again on a proper BRAPA day, if still in the GBG on my next visit.

Krzb blends into the foliage outside the Grapes

Instead, we went for an old favourite and my most visited Liverpool pub, the Dispensary with their amazing trusty Titanic Plum Porter which never let's you down, it is to beer what Kevin Sheedy's left foot was to Everton in the 80's. The pub was even more heaving than the Grapes, so we gave up on food for now and TPP is practically a meal in a glass anyway. Certainly one of your five a day. England were playing Malta on TV, not that anyone was really watching, and those who were, seemed to see it more as an excuse to laugh at England's over-hyped tossers which suited us fine as we squashed near a shelf and partition by the door.

Just to confuse my addled mind, Dispensary used to be a Grapes too!

After a Big Mac meal on the train, and a game of "avoid the drunken Geordie racegoer scum" back in York, we said farewell to the stag who'd lost his voice, and the rest of us went in York Tap which looked like a warzone with sticky floors, pumps turned round, traumatised local drinkers, and a big raceday poo blocking the toilet. Despite this, me and Jig stayed for a couple (Dark Star and Durham ales) and the staff did work hard to improve things so full credit, and that was the end of a knackering but excellent day!

See you after Tuesday when I make my not so long-awaited return to Sheffield.

What felt like my five billionth trip to Sheffield on a Tuesday night in 2016 proved a classic, but didn't start out too comfortably.

Convinced I was coming down with a lurgie on the eve of my trip to Melbourne, I drank this horrific Green Tea & Peach restorative pink thing on the train in one gulp, only to feel like my insides were about to take leave of themselves before we'd even passed Meadow-hell. The train conductor then charged me a £2.10 excess, though probably not for this reason, so I hid in Sheffield Tap to recover for 5 minutes, ditching the bottle in the process.

I could have walked to Heeley at less than two miles away but I'd bought a PlusBus ticket and didn't want to waste any more money, besides walking past Bramall Lane always makes me come out in a rash. After traffic jam mayhem, I jumped off the number 25.

Green tiled exterior indicated 'my type of pub'.

922. White Lion, Heeley, Sheffield

Me and Tom tried to come here in Aug 2015 only to find it closed 1:30pm on a Sunday (we'd already gone in the RED Lion by mistake which seemed awful and we even both thought "is this really a GBG pub?") So I felt like the White Lion owed me. Well, walking in through a narrow corridor was a good start, it was like the best of 'Liverpool Heritage' from Saturday had been carried into Tuesday. I ordered a strange strong white stout called "Roobarb and Custard" which seemed to earn me some respect from barmaid and the two locals "good choice!", but in particular, a dog which started jumping up and clawing me. "He's nosey, don't mind 'im" I was told, as it edged my bag to one side and bit my arse. I sat in the front bar and listened to rumours that the dog had been pacified with gin in the water bowl. Was this true? Well, it might have explained why, by the time I left, it was slumped disconsolately on the floor sobbing "why doesn't anyone love me?" Sort of. It was one of those pubs where you could just feel occupied gazing wide-eyed at the interior, and it's many nooks and crannies (I think a band came in with their equipment to set up a gig but no idea where they actually disappeared to). But I couldn't help feel the pub lacked a bit of warmth and wholesome charm, something along the Hoyland/Hoylandswaine lines of interaction/pub banter. Instead, the best I heard was "oooh I've just had a bowl of sweet potato and coconut soup". "Oooh, that is unusual. Soup must be hot" "Not when it's gespatcho""Haha, so true haha". Utterly appalling. It was time to leave.

Forcing down a very alcoholic Roobarb & Custard.

View into the corridor

The front bar

923. Brothers Arms, Heeley, Sheffield

Initially confused by the huge Olde Shakespeare signs, I realised the pub must've had a recent name change when i saw a few 'flappy' (not a technical term) signs hanging off the pub (some tenuous link to the local ukelele band being called the Everly Pregnant Brothers from what the GBG says). It had the homeliness, warmth and good atmosphere I'd been craving earlier. Two young bar chaps were genuinely friendly, happy to let me take my time and NOT look at the blackboard (I'd rather look at the pumps). Ok, so the one who served me had a weird curly back hair bit which I'd love to have taken a pair of scissors to, but you can't have it all. I was probably lucky to find a recently vacated table in the lounge, complete with much needed wood burner as the rest of the pub was a bit sporty and/or sparse. But this was where the action was, and three friendly young metaller dudes nodded at me, a sinister Sheffield version of Jack the Ripper appeared (he was disappointingly normal looking beneath hat and leather bag. Obvious serial killer). A silent man next to me plying his Thai bride with Scotch whisky suddenly burst into life and asked the bewildered barmen what the gossip was. "It is a Tuesday, you should know by now the gossip happens on a Sunday!" was the reply. Though they then contradicted themselves with a confused tale of a man crashing his car into the pub earlier on. "He went unconscious for about a minute which is serious, so they say". In unison, the room then slagged off the forthcoming Oktoberfest. "We've got no German bands on, no umpapa music, I'm certainly not dressing in Lederhosen, I don't see the point of it!" With my superb pint under the gaze of the strange man now asking about my portable charger, and some nice old posters of British holiday resorts like Bridlington and Filey, I almost stayed for another!

Ye Olde Shakespeare Inn - whattttt?

Sketchy evidence it is the Brothers Arms

Woodburning fun in the lounge area.

Friendly barstaff preside over great ales and fancy pub snacks

The Sheffield Ripper (don't call me Ched) pops in for a pint.

I just got to the bus stop in time to extend a weary arm and had enough time to pop back into Sheffield Tap for a swift half, though I had to stand dangerously close to the ladies toilets and in the gents in the intervening 2 or 3 hours, my empty drink bottle from earlier was still on the sink, Someone needs a Wetherpsoons style cleaning wallchart, I think!

They probably thought it was a fancy soap in truth.

Corridor drinking, sorry ladies, piss away, don't mind me.

I got back to York direct which was a nice boost with no further drama, after last week's farce, and wasn't too late home.

And there you have it, my last BRAPA ticks pre-Australia. I'm off to research some real ale bars in Melbourne and I'd like to say I'll be back on Tue 25th for another trip to the outskirts of Sheffield, though jet-lag may play a part so we'll see.

Bon voyage ya flamin' galahs, Soi

Me learning about Australia whilst supping a glass of plane lager

G'day Cobbers, dunno if I mentioned I was flown Business Class to Melbourne for a week? Oh I did? Are you sure?

Bad news from a BRAPA point of view of course, but hardly grounds for complaint. Time to take the kangaroo by the tail and make the best of it beer-wise, imagine a future Aussie Good Beer Guide, and try and get to the best places outside of the weird 6pm-1am working shift!

1. EMIRATES FLIGHT EK022, Somewhere over Tehran

I'd just hit two goals as my Grimsby Town side beat Southend Utd 4-2 away in a 4th round FA Cup clash, when travel buddy Alanna popped her head over my seat and suggested we try out the Business Class bar. Perfect time for a celebration! Two small areas of leather bench seating surrounded a semi circular island bar, reminiscent of some of Edinburgh's finest (well, in the most plastic way possible) as I baulked at the lack of ale on offer and joined Alanna in the most disgusting Mojito cocktail ever made. "I don't know how to make these" stated our terrifying 6 foot tall Russian beauty barmaid, "I won't be offended if you hate it - I have thick skin". I lied that it was delicious, as I know Putin reads my blog. Just as we were about to sit down, an old ginger colonel insisted on kneeling on the entire seat like some schoolboy with ADHD, getting excited by the clouds outside. He later stole an entire platter of sandwiches off the bar, giggled, and ran back to his seat. Proof that no matter what "pub" you are in, there's always one tosser. We resorted to an embarrassing tourist photo session, our Russian friend made me have photos of me working behind the bar, I even had to pour a rich English businesswoman a real life glass of red wine. She argued I hadn't filled it up enough, and made me go right to the brim! Alanna suddenly went a bit green, I thought it was my pro-Eurovision rant, but it turned out she had chest pains and thought she was having a heart attack (not that she's a drama queen or anything!) so in true BRAPA spirit, I was left alone in t'pub. Next up, I went for a breakfast martini - this time served by the lovely Toma from Lithuania. She had to raid the breakfast cupboard in search of a marmalade jar, needed to make said drink, and then persuaded me to have a strong measure just cos she wanted to finish off a bottle of gin, or something unconvincingly Eastern European. I had to take it back to my seat as afternoon tea was being served!

Shit mojito, but don't tell our Russian barmaid that.

Keep topping up that wine! Note the sandwiches about to be pinched.

2. COOKIE, Melbourne

For some reason, I was still buzzing when we arrived at the hotel 11:30pm on Saturday night despite the 14 hrs from Dubai. It was straight to bed for Alanna, but as encouraged by our taxi driver, it'd be wrong not to see Melbourne on a Saturday night. Quite a daunting experience, and as I dodged unconscious or puking Japanese girls on benches, a man shouting "walk away!"at a homeless girl (was he in Cast?), and 5 young Aussie lads singing something that sounded vaguely like Waltzing Matilda, I considered that this was a bit like a more welcoming version of Wokingham. It was a good half hour trek to the pub, allowing for Melbourne's stupid road crossing system, and a bouncer (not the Neighbours dog) asked me if I was meeting friends here or what I was looking for?! My "I've heard this place serves interesting beers, so I just want a drink, is that allowed?" stunned him into silence and I walked down a darkened staircase into this dimly red lit bar, bouncing with music that sounded very much like Kid Creole and the Coconuts on acid. I was served by an incredible hipster with handle bar moustache, but he was ultra friendly and gave me so many tasters of 7% overly hopped beers, I almost didn't mind that my pint was 14 Aussie Dollars! An equally friendly cockney barman had to help me identify exactly what I was drinking (something with carrot in!) and with two young Scotch men farting on my leg at the bar and a selection of 5 different types of beermat, I felt pretty much at home perched at the bar in the reddy gloom. I was going to enjoy Melbourne.

3. IRISH TIMES, Melbourne

Sunday evening then, and after a day of top touristing, we were amazed to see that a torrential rainstorm had brought Melbourne to a stand still - EVERYWHERE WAS CLOSED. Is this a thing in Melbourne on a Sunday? It was very strange to us. About my 5th choice on Google Maps, we stumbled in here but got lucky, as food was being served by an Australian Stephen Quinn, and a few beers were on tap which weren't too boring. We sat in a raised area and not for the first time this week, I tried to impress on Alanna the difference between a pub and a restaurant i.e. it is ok to go up to the bar, order your drinks and food there, open a tab,and wait. Besides, service here was tardy to say the least and we'd have been waiting all evening. Only a group of jokey students behind us seemed to get any proper service, and they were basically idiots. Cottage pie seemed like the perfect comfort food for me, but the ultra thick layer of mozzarella combined with the richest red wine and guinness style middle was just too rich for any man with jet lag to enjoy. Ugh. Alanna felt a bit ill herself, but I (selfishly) made her stay so I could order a pint of each ale and work my way through the bar. Any guilt feelings were short lived. An old Irish wastrel kept wandering around as though in search of a seat/friend, but kept returning to the bar for another Guinness soon after. The pub lacked warmth, and I'd have to say that whilst it did a job and felt 'pubby' to an extent, it was never going to win any awards for pub of the week!

Note the discarded cheesy layer removed from the top of the pie

Pub was busyish, though you wouldn't know.

The beers I tried in order.

Monday dawned bright and sunny if a bit chilly, and after brekkie we hot footed on down to a Cat Cafe where we chilled with some waifs and strays but sadly no ale was available ......

Looking for pigeons

Just do something you boring bastards

It was time for lunch, in a "English themed" pub that had been recommended to us. I'd bought my deer stalker for the occasion.

4. SHERLOCK HOLMES, Melbourne

So the miserable old locals didn't appreciate my hat, but I'm British in a British themed pub so fuck 'em was my general attitude, made more vitriolic by having to persuade Alanna that we didn't have to sit in the shoehorned-cattle-restaurant area to eat, and the raised seating by the bar with a shitload of chips (in a hopelessly impractical wicker basket when it comes to gravy pouring) was a far better solution. Staff were lovely too, the confused man with "pie of the day" concerns, and the homely landlady - plus there were some top Aussie beers on to save me braving the likes of London Pride and Hobgoblin, which I wasn't convinced would taste that good on keg. But seriously, were the chips supposed to be a starter? No way you could make inroads into them (well not with my sparrow like jet lagged appetite!). It was a lovely pub though, one of the gems of the week - pubby, homely, warm, friendly, clean. So much so, we came back here for dinner on our last day where I did a lot better with a corned beef hash covered in the most ridiculous mustard dressing ever. You know I normally hate dining in pubs, well the rules are different in ARAPA before you say anything, so there! On this occasion, we got chatting to a lovely couple from North Berwick who were on an Aussie tour. At one point, a surfer dude came in and ordered what seemed to be a schooner of "chips" (crisps) and I had to overlook the fact that crisps are crisps and are served from the bag without any pouring required, but who can stay mad with a pub like this?

Elementary my dear Everitt

View to the bar

Sherlock Holmes and Oliver Hardy

Too many chips arrrggghhh.

Monday night had been our first day at work, and knackered on Tuesday morning, we missed breakfast at our new "go to" place, so we had lunch there instead, meaning I could have a beer and review it for ARAPA - hurrah!

5. Bank on Collins, Melbourne

This place then, was almost perfect for us as breakfast venue - how many poached eggs did I eat over the week? Is that a Martin Taylor style blog question? Let's just say good job I bought a huge bag of prunes to even it out! I say "almost perfect" because the staff were hilariously slow. Whether it was seating us, serving us (especially drinks) or bringing us the bill, they were comedically woeful. When we interacted with them, they were personable, funny and warm, so it seemed a strange discrepancy. One young lad who realised we were regulars complained what a busy morning it was one day when we were the only customers, tending to "ghost" customers at imagined reserved tables, all the while neglecting the real life customers, us - so bizarre. Ironically, it was on a busy Tuesday lunchtime that we got the best service, and i had an amazing bit of fish n chips with a pint of some mystery Monteith's beer from NZ which the waitress would not be drawn on, despite my "blood out of a stone" efforts. The place, a former bank as you can guess by the name, drew obvious comparisons with a really clean and ornate Wetherspoons and still had old features, plus an upstairs walkway leading to guest rooms - would be interesting to stay here if I come to Melbs again! Almost brilliant, they even had their own extra thick beermats, which I stole one as payback for the service.

Inside at the Bank.

So that was the first half of the week, I'll be back for the final 5 'ticks' I managed from Wednesday-Friday.

See you soon ya flamin' galahs.

Tuesday was the day I was most knackered in Melbourne, only 3 hrs sleep despite being exhausted can only be a result of jet-lag confusing my brain into not knowing what timezone it should be in.

East of the city where the posher clothes shops were, I'd actually found a brew pub so it obviously needed to be visited.

6. Crafty Squire, Melbourne

Despite the constant championing of the hopelessly optimistic Outdoor Roof Terrace, it was a freezing cold day and a porter in front of the fire was more the order of the day, perhaps not the kind of image that a Brit would get of Melbourne but if it works for me in Knottingley on a Tuesday night, it works for me here too. Plenty of James Squire ales were available of all style, and the chap who looked like he could be called James Squire seemed happy to run through the selection even if I had made my mind up pretty quick about the porter. For Alanna, it was lemonade time and a look of bemusement that beer can be black - not sure I'll be converting her to ale any time soon. Two businessmen were enjoying a 17 hour lunch break over a few dozen pints, and a woman who'd lost her child was propping up the bar with an air of Prisoner Cell Block H about her, but all was quiet otherwise. We had a 4pm work start and wanted a coffee to wake us up so even I didn't linger to try a different beer.

At least 11 ales on, I'd have tried them all if I'd not been working!

A not very real but still welcoming fire.

Me in front of the brewing equipment, very Sheffield Tap

After a better night's sleep, Wednesday was probably the highlight of my time in Melbourne. A bright sunny morning, a nice breakfast, a walk around Southbank, a terrifying trip to Eureka Skydeck 88 and most importantly, the Neighbours tour. Just two regrets of the tour, sadly I didn't get to meet Carla Bonner, as I could have told her I once described her as being like Reading. Travis Burns seemed a nice chap, but I guess he's probably more Newbury. Just don't ask me which character Maidenhead is.

A pigeon shat on my head just as this photo was taken - it is a sign of good luck!

More Newbury than Reading.

After all that palarva, we were more than ready for lunch and Alanna had been recommended this great sounding place by an old friend .....

7. State of Grace, Melbourne

Despite being on auto-pilot to find bar, ales and drink (and then ask awkward questions about dining later), Alanna made sure we were shoehorned into a back room where a sullen waitress with a British accent served me some crazy Oz fish and I'd just about remembered the name of one of the ales I'd seen, something about a rabbit I think. The place was quirky, highlight being a giraffe head sticking out from the wall, a hidden underground cocktail bar, and the doors disguised by so much decor, it was impossible to find the toilets. If you've been to the Duck & Drake in Leeds with the acoustic guitar as a door handle, you can understand what I mean. All this quirkiness made the miserable staff attitude harder to take, when you think how generally amazing the customer service is in Melbourne. Whilst i gulped down my amazing fish risotto thing (meal of the week) and drank my weird dark ale, Alanna moaned about goats cheese so I listened to the "power business couple" next to us who seemed to be champagne and wine bloggers, the absolute scum. Very clumsy too, dropping glasses and pepper pots at any given opportunity. I thought beer bloggers were annoying, but at least their attitude was 'people are allowed to like what they like' which was refreshing. Weird place.

I kinda wanted a pint of Fosters after seeing this

A very nice meal indeed, no idea what it was!

By Thursday, me and Alanna decided to separate so she could go shopping and I could have what was more of a 'traditional' BRAPA experience, albeit in a very untraditional way. After brekkie at favourite 'go to' place The Bank on Collins, I did some touristy shopping of my own before 12 noon opening time.

Down a little snicket, I was nearly mown down by an Aussie Iain Duncan Smith (AIDS) but managed to circumnavigate so very enthusiastic smokers outside to find this little cracker .....

8. Penny Blue, Melbourne

This was a dimly lit but very classy little bar with some amazing furniture, a "World of Beer" wall like a bookcase but with bottles, and a periodic table of beer styles in the gents, perfect for someone struggling with Chemistry A-levels as I did. The welcome I got from the young chap was verging on "manic", but in a good way and when he said "let me start you off on this beer", I was quick to say "woah, hang on, you say 'start me off' as though I'm staying for more!". Bad mistake, he was sulking with me after that and joined the others in smoking aggressively though the open window, whilst the ghost of Steve Irwin wheeled in a beer barrel and nearly ran over his own feet. In other news, my emergency beermat was required for this first time this holiday which shows how well Aussie bars/pubs do for beermats. But it was a mere blot on a good experience, one of the most relaxed I'd felt all holiday - errrm, I mean "business trip!" As a postscript, I brought Alanna here on the Saturday knowing it was more her style, an equally manic barmaid played a good selection of 00's ska-punk before letting herself down with an Aqua double A-side! Got chatting to a really passionate beer man half working behind the bar, and after a couple of bottled recommendations went well, he casually mentioned he had a CASK ALE PUMP ON! What? Well, it was hiding at the far end behind a menu ala the Deuchers in Largs JW Sharps Bar, with a grimy ink blotted pump clip. It was a german style, but unmistakably cask, chocolate, smooth, nearly room temp, not fizzy. Heaven. Cask ale in Melbourne, it can be done!

An amazing bottled ale from NZ I was recommended on the Saturday.

Emergency beermat gets an airing, but where is Coton?

The Museum of Beer.

The Periodic Table of Beer Styles

Peculiar furniture was a big feature.

Buoyed by this experience, I hot-footed it down to the Flinders Street area which I hadn't really seen - it was the best weather so far, almost roasting in the 23 degree sunshine!

A seagull eye-balled me from the pub sign, but it was time to go in......

9. Beer DeLuxe, Melbourne

Finding the entrance was weird, it felt like some kind of arts centre cum cinema cum burger restaurant with an astroturf 'red carpet' style walkway and a digital sign welcoming you, not quite the Anchor Anchor it has to be said. A stressed out looking bearded chap tried to remain patient as I tried to take in the huge amount of beers, and I got the impression that this is a small chain pub, perhaps like a Market Town Taverns of Oz. I had a pee and went to sit outside next to a huge group of Asian suit wearers who were making such a lame attempt to finish their burgers, even I was annoyed and I'm the smallest eater ever! They'd only left a matter of seconds before seagulls, sparrows and some weird foreign birds with curvy beaks were all at the table, feasting themselves. It was appalling, it felt unhygenic, but it was properly fascinating. Not since I saw a rat steal a chip at the Horniman at Hays by London Bridge have I felt so revolted in a pub. A sparrow struggling to take off as it took a huge slab of tomato covered in mayo back to it's nest is one of my abiding Melbourne memories. The beer was amazing, the sun was great, and Flinders Street was chaotic with lunchtime commuters but it had a real vibrancy about it. I felt very Melbournian.

"Tipping not just for cows" errrm, what? Aussie humour.

Hello Mr Pink Star toilet cleaning block thing!

Can just see pub 3 across the road.... not far to walk then.

10. Young & Jackson, Melbourne

In some ways, this was the most satisfying pub visit of all eleven. I think the reason was it not English themed, not touristy, yet still an actual fair dinkum boozer. As I said at the time, you could really have mistaken it for a Holt's pub in Greater Manchester's finest. Carpetted, beermats, nervous looking men watching horse racing and then placing hurried bets at some contraption just over my left shoulder, a good range of ales served by bored staff, and an old man with one eye even used his stick to wave me away from his table because it was occupied by a "soon to be arriving group of Sheila's", though not sure that is a direct quote as he just gargled at me. This felt like BRAPA - possibly my only issue being that they treat it's 1860's opening date with huge pride, very much like we'd afford a 9th century church. Anyway, after singing "you've got no history you silly convicts" under my breath, I settled down to watch a bit of Perth Glory v some team with Coast in their name, and it may have switched to Melbourne Somebody v Wellington Sheep (which I think is in New Zealand so not sure why they are in the same division!) Very confusing but a cracker.

I assume Princes Bridge Hotel is it's old name

A pleasing pub view in any country

Perfect.

If Thursday had been fantastic, Friday was the flip side. Appalling weather, lost in shopping centres, and the pub we visited, well, I can still smell the 10 year old chip fat .....

11. Charles Dickens Tavern, Melbourne

You enter down this staircase, but it was a very modern soulless one which made me think they'd missed a trick with the whole Dickensian theme, they could have at least had a few cobbles, drips of water, urchins laying in the gutter, and a youthful Aussie pickpocket who brandishes a switchblade knife but returns your wallet at the bar with a chuckle saying "I was only kidding mate!" I walked in drenched, brandishing two huge boxes of doughnuts in a huge green jacket with a hood up. The staff clocked me, and a friendlier place would have made a joke out of this spectacle. Well, it was heaving with lunchtime drinkers and diners, reminded me of a York tourist pub such as Ye Olde Starre Inne on a summer weekend raceday when they can't cope with the amount of trade. Dirty plates everywhere, the smell of grease, just awful. I tried to defend it to Alanna at first as being "properly pubby" but once I'd sent her away with the doughnuts (put her out of her misery) so I could get an unbiased picture, I realised she was right, this simply was a shithole. So much so, I almost started to enjoy it. The highlight being an old bloke, who looked EXACTLY like the type you'd see propping up the bar in Rochdale Spoons at 8am, he actually OWNED the place despite looking extremely Dickensian with the snarl and face to boot. My out of date (Dec 2015) Oakham Bishops Farewell was lovely, Alanna correctly identified my glass was filthy (not since Blacksmiths Arms in Naburn have I seen one so bad) so I supped from the bottle. "THAT IS THE LAST BOTTLE OF THIS!" snapped the Eastern European lesbian, what was I supposed to say? 'I'm honoured to be drinking your 10 month out of date ale?' I went back for a Sam Smith' s Pale, and sensing this made me a regular, the two barmaids started being civil to me, and then someone came along with a cloth and actually cleaned my table. The magic had gone! I drank up and left.

Saturday was our last day, we revisited Sherlock Holmes and the Penny Blue as mentioned, then it was about a 2 day journey home. Fantastic experience, the whole week.

Plane home in my regulation Qantas pyjamas.

Now back on the BRAPA trail tomorrow for some Hallowe'en fun in East Yorkshire.

Si

With the veil between life and death at it's thinnest (just look at the zombies on York's number 7 bus to the Designer Outlet), this is my favourite time of year and the Autumn colours were amazing. Mr SatNav confused Dad, who, despite knowing East Yorkshire inside out, obeyed the command like some Lurch like character and soon, we were stuck in traffic at the 'pretty market town' that people know as Beverley. Or as I call it, Overrated Suffocation Bullshitsville.

Yes, BRAPA is back.

Hornsea is a special little place, known mainly for a famous "closed in the 1980's" pottery, a boarding school my Dad went to about 300 years ago, and a mass of traffic heading purposefully east as if they either (a) don't realise the coast is there or (b) are quite happy to commit suicide.

11:58am and lurking outside the pub like stalkers when the sign clearly said "OPEN" wasn't the best start, so it was time to go into my first BRAPA pub in what seemed like about a year......

924. Stackhouse Bar, Hornsea

Mine host, Lucy, was everything you'd expect from a Micro Pub owner, personable, friendly, very Melbournian despite being English. I think Micro Pubs fall into two categories - (1) cold, clinical and slightly weird (2) warm, homely and slightly weird. Luckily, this was the latter. The Hallowe'en decor may be cheesy to some, but I can't get enough of black n amber pumpkins with Mike Phelan's face, fake cobwebs and all that shit. Love it. The most notable feature were three former aeroplane seats, complete with seatbelts, one seat even reclined. I told her "ugh, I've barely recovered from a 24 hour plane trip from Melbourne" but she displayed little sympathy. We got talking BRAPA pre-emptives and ale, reassuringly she knew every beer from Great Newsome, Half Moon and Hop Studio yet had never heard of Titanic or Plum Porter which is the most East Yorkshire attitude you could wish for. She ramped up the rivalry with our next pub by saying they were darts league rivals. Any hopes of sitting down and chatting with Dad were put on hold, you can't not be sociable in most micros and this was a rare occasion of when it was actually welcomed! Lovely place.

Quiz Question (RM style) : What is the Hallowe'eny link to this pub name? 1,000 pts for the winner. Clue : U.S. TV Drama.

Ghost of Jimmy Savile dares you to sit at entrance table

Table I wanted to sit at in window - note reflection of church opposite

Gotta get on the themed ales!

Plane seats - NO THANKS!

925. Blue Bell, Old Ellerby

Back along the road where Dad and his friends used to drink drive in the 60's when it was errm, legal, was this classic pub. We'd been warned about Sunday lunchtime dining so when we arrived at a near deserted car park, Dad assumed it was closed. Except a door was WIDE OPEN so Mr Sat Nav said something sarcastic like "get a grip Bernard" and we wandered on in. The opening hours of this place, plus the remote location make it the Anchor Anchor of East Yorkshire - not so much, "we are open and happy to serve you" as "this is a test to see how desperate you are for a drink". Sunday is the only open daytime, yet the lack of food and customers were both reassuring and worrying at the same time. I chatted to the barmaid about keeping up the Hallowe'en ale theme as I ordered a "Red Fang", and I alluded to the darts rivalry with Stackhouse which didn't really work. Probably cos it doesn't exist. We found a snug (unlit fire but still snug) with a huge collection of mini teapots, owl pictures and displays of garlic cloves. It was very odd. And then a mad biker woman about three rooms away shouted to me that she was sorry for blocking the heat from the other fire, though obviously I couldn't benefit from 'three room away heat', strange woman! Then more mad bikers arrived, apologised to us just for existing, which doesn't bode well, so we left before they had chance to unleash their full cycling twattery on the pub.

The pub is open, and I'm ready to go in!

Dad enjoying his pint a bit too much

Owl decor is always the best kind of decor.

I have a plan in place for finishing East Yorkshire's BRAPA ticks next week, so for now, we hot-footed it down to Market Weighton.

Despite it being 2:30pm, a man who looked important was leaning on a gate outside our (very closed) designated pub. I got out of the car, by which time, he'd got into a car, and tried to reverse over me. He used it to practically pin me to the pub door and asked what my game was, when I asked when he was opening, he said 3pm.

3pm on a Sunday? I didn't argue, one foot on the reverse pedal and I'd have been squished. Luckily, a pre-emptive was nearby......

Weighton Whippet, Market Weighton

For the third time today, there was an element of surprise to see it open - a tiny Micropub this one, and a man, not unpleasant, in fact quite nice if a bit full of himself in a Yorkshire way, told us he was in temporary charge. He apologised for only 2 beers being on but the owner was away and the pub doesn't reopen til Thursday and everyone was 'caning' it on Saturday night, so it's not worth their while putting new ones on blah blah blah, yes I get the picture. About 10 ciders on though! "You sure you want the dark beer?" he asked me about 5 times, "personally I can't stand dark beers!" The guy was Dick, of Dick's brewing who brew Big Head - a 'cheeky' named beer I once drank in Lastingham before I got ill from their soup (allegedly). He's a "cuckoo" brewer meaning he uses other breweries to make his recipes. Interesting concept. It was a cosy little pub with the added quirk of a tortoiseshell butterfly having to be let out for it's evening flyabout, I like a good pub pet. Yet the pub was not a patch on the Stackhouse, it must have a chance of getting into GBG one year if it stays in existence.

The two beers, mine is a dark saison which was an unpopular choice with Dick.

The kind of wallpaper to keep you awake at night.

Most drunk I've ever looked in a BRAPA photo!

3pm then and the pub was finally opened. Dick had told us this was their first day opening following a big refurbishment. So in a sense, we were lucky to get in at all.

926. Carpenters Arms, Market Weighton

We were greeted by a demonic goateed ginger chap of kindly nature, who later came over to make sure we were going to at least try and play chess on the 'historic' board on our table, really nice guy (Dad won when I surrendered my Queen in what I'd assumed were friendly opening exchanges - poor excuse I know!) So what of the refurb? Well, it is hard to tell when you haven't been in before so I shouldn't be too harsh, but I'm afraid this is BRAPA so here goes. The smell of paint was perhaps inevitable, but still off putting. The purple and cream colour scheme was most unpubby. Watercolours for artwork were pretty lame. The beer range of Hobgoblin, Doom Bar, Landlord or Black Sheep didn't seem to be part of a chain, which made the blandness all the more excruciating though having said that, the TT Landlord was very good. And the little stereo plugged in to a wall looked like it had been left there by the plasterers/builders. Listening to the locals (a spirited bunch), they seemed to be convincing themselves it was a decent refurb, very much like my recent fly-by-night visit to the Grapes in Liverpool would suggest. So this is why Weighton Whippet may have been a more valuable pre-emptive than I first realised.

Hobgoblin chess anyone?

Really good quality pint

I hope this photo encapsulates my problem with the "refurb".

Me and Dad did what we normally do in Market Weighton (though usually at 11pm after a 0-3 home defeat against Cambridge in 1993) and went to the chippy. We suggested the sign on the way into the town should say "Market Weighton - it's a bit crap" with a sign on the way out saying "Market Weighton - well, we tried to warn you". The new giant Tesco doesn't help.

It's been a crazily unproductive month for BRAPA as you know what with Melbourne and being a Best Man, I'll be trying to "hammer it" in November to compensate and I'll go into more detail on that in my month end review/preview tomorrow/Tuesday.

Si

October Review

It has been a fascinating and rewarding month for Simon Everitt, but who cares about that loser?

Best man speech. Highlight : getting gently booed for slagging off the North East to room full of Mackems

For Simey "BRAPA" Everitt, it has been a horror show with only 13 GBG ticks achieved, two less than the actual minimum requirement, and a record low since BRAPA began officially in April 2014. Even in March 2014, I managed 16 ticks and I wasn't even trying then.

At least I can point to a valuable pre-emptive in the "Weighton Whippet" (Market Weighton), and possibly another at Allerton Castle if they keep John's Leeds Best cask on for another 12 months! Or perhaps not. And don't forget 11 Melbourne ticks for when ARAPA becomes official in the year 2043.

Allerton Castle - midlly pre-emptive

The three best pub experiences of the month?

1. Gallaghers Pub & Barbers, Birkenhead
2. Brothers Arms, Sheffield South
3. Queen's Hotel, Maltby

Hair with your pint? Quirky stuff at Gallaghers.

Some great days out then, the Stag Do in Liverpool standing out though back in East Yorkshire and back in Sheffield were other great BRAPA trips. Berkshire was interesting too, though I didn't give myself enough time on the way back which I really must learn from. Even some of the Melbourne pubs and bars were genuinely quite good.

November Preview

I need to be "on it like a car bonnet" in November, and I'm not settling for anything less than 25. We have already kicked off with a Tuesday night escapade (1st), Sheffield again the key location as we head out west of town for the remaining three pubs.

Saturday (5th) is a tricky one due to Bonfire commitments (they are burning me in a giant wicker phallus up at Market Weighton I hear), so I need to stay reasonable local, get an early start, possibly a place with 3-5 pubs in the same town/city, at least one opening before 11am. Research needed. The following day, I'll be using Hull City's Sunday kick off (6th) to help me finish East Yorkshire - I need just two more to complete to county.

The following Tuesday (8th), I'll have a bit more time on my hands so will head out west again for something that at least smells Lancastrian.

The Saturday after (12th) that sees me back in Berkshire, this time I'll be South South East of Reading and perhaps returning to the town itself if time allows. That will also be the date of my 15th anniversary in Yorkshire Bank so I'd like to commemorate that somehow!

After a Tuesday night in South Yorkshire in a place beginning with "W" (Wales?), Sat 19th is Sunderland away (probably only my 2nd game of the season!) where I have two ticks still to do plus a long-awaited first pint of real ale in the Ivy House. Unless I have a Fosters for old time's sake.

Yet more "W" Tuesday night capers on 22nd Nov and the following Saturday is the "Winter Heavy Woollen Tour" with the guys from work. We will be completing Halifax and making BRAPA debuts in places like Cleckheaton, Scholes and something else I've forgotten.

And November ends with another "W" South Yorkshire trip - yes there really are that many still to do, they'll take me into December.

If I can stick to this agenda, 25 may be achievable but one slip and I might fall short so the pressure is on, but I need to push myself.

BRAP away,

Si

I described Sunday's East Yorkshire trip as the Hallowe'en Special, but it couldn't match a freezing cold, dank and dark Tuesday night in West Sheffield for sheer horror. It was so chilly, the locals weren't even walking around in their regulation string vests.

But it was worth it. For the first time ever, I can say "I've visited all GBG listed pubs in Sheffield". In a way, it's a mission going back to late 2002 when I popped into the Devonshire Cat before some seedy punk rock gig at the (original) Corporation.

Here's what happened when the 52a bus finally made it through the rush hour traffic and plonked me in Crookes.......

It's a pizza party with a feline twist.

927. Punchbowl, Crookes, Sheffield West

For the first ten seconds after entering, I enjoyed this pub. My brain said "yum, the smell of pizza, and what a nice knitted red jumper the barman has got on". I quickly came to my senses when I heard an underprivileged Twild having a tantrum over the homemade ice-cream having already wolfed down a pizza. The sense of entitlement was horrendous and Mummy Twild had to calm it down. I'd spied a sign about drinking pale ales so I ordered a stout - which in Sheffield, always makes me feel I'm doing something rather naughty. The fireplace had a fake horrific Blackpool illuminations style hearth, the seating was patterned in a magic-eye way which would make Ember Inns blush, and I ended up sitting a bit too close to a Neanderthal Jarvis Cocker (NJC - there's one in every Sheffield pub) who scowled at me. With the Twild now calm, a hideous dull hum - the kind that can induce sickness - overwhelmed the pub for the next half hour, it even drowned out the background music, and I was starting to get a headache. I didn't enjoy the next 20 mins and was just waiting to finish my stout when the smiley Mrs NJC appeared with, rather randomly, two purple multi-packs of Whiskers cat biscuits/treats. And then something even I thought I'd never see in a pub happened. NJC had opened a bag and was crunching them - laughing with his wife as he did so. I couldn't help but stare and when he saw me, they both shuffled round the other side of the hearth slightly out of view. There was something very Twin Peaks about this whole pub for all the bland pizza based facade and lack of charming decor. Weird.

Name the only band on here I own an album by.

I did neither.

The wrong glass didn't help but my stout was excellent. It's all that was!

It was a long trek through the crisp Autumn leaves, past the York pub I visited earlier this year, and I ended up following a shadowy hooded figure across this poorly lit residential area ironically called Melbourne Avenue. A student girl jumped out of her skin when a cat appeared from the shadows, and then, back in Studentsville, the ghost of Clarke Carlisle asked me if I had a light.

There was something spooky going on tonight.

My phone battery drained so I couldn't get an outdoor shot of the pub, a shame really as six people were braving the cold to sit outside smoking......

928. Beer House, Sharrow, Sheffield

Uh-oh, I thought. Micropub and people sat outside, must be a tiny heaving place indoors. Except it wasn't. Oh, I do like Micropubs when they are multi-levelled and you can hide round corners (i.e. like normal pubs), hell it even had two toilets. I wish Tom had been here to ask if Blackcurrant Cordial was on and complete the holy trinity of micropubbery. The young barman with mutton chops was of the scrappy doo ilk, all ultra friendly bluster and when he did the whole "what style of beer do you like?" I simply said "something spooky!" Well THAT got the pub excited. "Ho ho, he must be still on it from t'hallowe'en!" I kind of admitted I was, "don't worry mate, we all know the feeling!" Soon I was drinking a "Mandarin Claw of Death" and with the barflies distracted by a blonde student who looked like Simone from Neighbours (she did "try before you buy" on everything.... ugh, the worst!), I escaped to a wonky table in the raised area. I was near two curmudgeonly old men who didn't seem to fit the youthful vibe. Later on, an excited old lady bounded in, spied the men, and told one that his niece was going to give birth before Christmas. "Oh great" he said "just another bloody Christmas present I have to buy." Classic Sheffield attitude.

Barman on the right, and his mates. And my Mandarin Claw of Death.

The scene so typically Micro.

After another bracing 20 minute walk where a man shouted "brisket" in a threatening way for no apparent reason (well, he was near Red's True Barbecue), I'd reached the promised land of my final Sheffield tick, and despite the all consuming firework banner, it was open!

Ah, the Chinese Fireworks Co Inn!

929. Beer Engine, Highfield, Sheffield

Wow, well this was like the antidote to the Punchbowl. The calmest, most serenely lit, chilled out place with sleepy looking punters, smiley staff, music that sounded like those dolphin echo CD's you get when you are trying to get to sleep. I tip toed in and had a hushed conversation with a really amiable young chap about this pumpkin beer which his mate in Huddersfield brewed at somewhere called Beer Ink. 6.5%, I didn't notice, I just went with the flow. Seriously, I've been to more tense Brown Cafes in Amsterdam than this pub. But the inevitable downside, the pub just wasn't pubby enough. The seating, the layout, it was all a bit clinical. And just my luck to end up in a side room with two psychotic hippie girls. I overheard them talking about drinking a glass of cranberry between pints. Presuming this was a tactic to keep them focussed, healthy, hydrated, between pints. I asked them about it and was told it was more designed and stopping them drinking as much full stop, but I realised I'd become the weirdo that butts into other people's conversations when it isn't wanted so I retreated back into my shell. Just as well, cos their long lost friend, the Ghost of Pete Burns, had arrived for a reunion drink. I felt sorry for GOPB because the next 20 minutes involved the most psychotic girl describing the neighbourhood cats in her garden as "stupid fucked up vermin infested creatures" to use a direct quote - cats definitely the theme of the night. I sensed she knew that not only was I a cranberry disbeliever, but also a cat lover. Time to leave.

Not a cat friendly pub

Recommended beer.

A better view of the pub.

I trekked back across the ring road towards Sheffield station, hopped on to the first train to L**ds without time for any more ale in Rutland or Sheffield Tap, and was in York for about 10pm which wasn't too bad when you think.

So as promised in my November preview, I pushed myself quite hard tonight, delighted to finish Sheffield, but still have SIX places beginning with "W" to visit in South Yorkshire before I can put this crazy county to bed and get back on West Yorks in the new year. Hurray!

Si

A bottle of Old Tom and an axe, typical Everitt bonfire fun.

Saturday morning dawned freezing cold and early, as I wanted a good start to the day for two reasons. Firstly, I had to be back in York for 5pm for the Everitt Family Bonfire (EFB). Secondly, I was having to play "avoid the Smog Monsters" who were away to Man City and threatened to be passing through York, therefore any trains coming from Teesside were off limits just in case.

Everyone at work had told me what a lovely place Didsbury was, but in the icy wind and gloom, it just felt like a main road with a huge cinema complex - in a word, 'Renfrew'. Interestingly, the Wetherspoons was positioned inconveniently in the middle of a huge traffic island. Before the pedestrian bridge was built, I wonder how many people died leaving this pub ..... I was nearly one.

Traffic Island Spoons fun in East Didsbury

930. Gateway, Didsbury

10:30am but the pub was in full swing like all good Wetherspoons, mainly thanks to three incredibly jovial oldies, who had a fluffy toy dog as a mascot which occasionally chipped in with a cutting comment about the blonde barmaid, who definitely didn't get her tan in the 'burbs of Manchester. "Behave yerself John" scolded the wife, "It's not me luv, it's the dog!" was how most conversations ended. Staff were very on-the-ball, and loved the "bantz" with the locals, so the most confusing "50p voucher incident" since Prestwick was a bit of a surprise. Firstly, he mumbled something about a festival, so it wasn't valid. He reconsidered, told me I was lucky, it did count, then knocked me a full quid off so I got my pint for £1.29. Just as well as my Maxim beer smelt of sick, and my tepid cooked breakfast didn't go down well. I'd been feeling a bit unsettled, and let's just say I got acquainted with their loos for a bit too much of my time here! Any gurgling from me didn't put off the psychotic looking young man next to me, who downed three pints of purple Strongbow in about 15 minutes. The table was sticky, full of crumbs despite being 10:20am when I arrived, and as the locals debated whether it was illegal to wake a sleeping dormouse, I left feeling utterly dreadful!

If it looks nice, it didn't do me any good!

I still felt dodgy when I "alighted" at Burton Road (which is nearer to Withington than Withington, fun fact) and to rub salt into the wound, the self proclaimed 11am opener the Victoria was still shut at half past. I kept walking and arrived in Fallowfield, but as it was 11:55am, I popped into my second Spoons of the day (called something like Great Central), not for a drink you understand .....

Time for a name change?

931. Friendship, Fallowfield

A pub with a name like this should at least have staff who smile and say "hiiiiiiii" when you walk in, and "byeeeeee" when you leave, rather than efficient businesspersons who had the air of people who'd make me sign a contract to render the transaction of my L S Lowry beer legally binding. Still, you can forgive a vast carpetted one room island barred Hydes pub that is this nice. I sat in the sunny window and started to recover from my earlier malaise, thanks mainly to the quality of ale and a series of freakish customers who seemed unfamiliar with the whole "getting served in a pub" concept. A ruddy faced simpleton in 1998 Kappa tracksuit struggled to raise the funds for his coke, much to the frustration of the impatient staff. Then a group of student boys made an exhibition of themselves circling the bar, seeming to think there were 'hidden' ales that they might not have seen on first view. If I told you they were Derby County fans, it might explain things. Let us just say I've never seen any group get as excited by Tom Ince and Darren Bent as this bunch of desperado rams. Yes, from my elevated position in the sun, sitting in judgement on the customers in true BRAPA style made me feel better. As I left, I took my glass back to the bar and thanked them. I got a scowl in return from three old men, maybe my almost bondage jeans and walking boots combo wasn't aesthetically pleasing enough.

Lovely pub!

The "men shed" outside looked a bit out of bounds.

A short walk back from where I'd come from took me back to Withington, and with some relief, I noticed the outer pub door open this time .....

When closed earlier on......

932. Victoria, Withington

From efficient and businesslike staff to downright mournful and exasperated judging by the sorry pair that greeted me here! Not that it lasted. As soon as a baby appeared about two minutes later, the pub (barmaid in particular) was laughing and cooing. Just one of those days when however cheerful I tried to be, I got nothing in return. Maybe they'd heard about BRAPA. I was all quite Hydesy again, and whilst this pub wasn't quite so lounge-like, it created a fantastic illusion of making a one roomer feel like a multi roomer with pool area, football TV area (there was no avoiding bloody Wolves v Derby for me!) and the locals chillout room. I enjoyed an ale "selected" by the locals apparently, which means all the proceeds go to charity which I have to say I was skeptical of. The multi-roomed feel plus the piped music meant I couldn't hear much local chat, which was a blessing because in the one "break in play", I overheard a diatribe from a young lady about "gardeners cutting hedges in less than pretty ways". Today was painful, and it was about to get worse .....

The "free" wine turned out to cost the best part of a bottle.

Chosen by you! But not me.

Get with the times Victoria!

U.S. Politics on the Withington Condom Machine

More cooing at babies at the tram stop, an increase in the number of glowing pregnant females and a vaping bearded pseud giving an awkward student the following motivational speech "You gotta live it, breathe it, feel it", told me one thing. Yes, I was fast approaching Chorlton-cum-Hardy.

Not hell on earth, as long as you are into shitty faux-Euro cafe bars with one syllable names......

933. Bar, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

An awkward, twee girl with angelic face and bad sleeves popped up from nowhere, scaring the crap out of me (which didn't take much today!), and I somehow ignored Titanic Plum Porter in favour of a local pale ale by a man called Dan - it had got to the stage where I was now quite happy to torture myself! I asked her if the extra 20p would help, to which she giggled like a pregnant hamster and disappeared again. A suspicious ginger bearded man (who I'm sure works concurrently in all of Chorlton's bars) held a mop in an angry way and put a "cleaning slippery floor" sign in my path to stop me venturing out of bounds. Soon all three of them were busy cleaning and moving stuff around, the third being an old woman called Sheila. I say old, she was 31, which is approaching death in Chorlton. Despite getting positioned facing the bar, next to a "fire" in a leather armchair, this was still somehow uncomfortable. The feeling you were drinking in a large cleaning cupboard combined with people moving house combined with bar more soulless than even Dulcimer or Parlour just wasn't helping my already fragile state of mind. Two bearded twats on laptops started making fun of Burnley "eee by gum, what is an Ewok?" was one random but memorable line. They then declared "Burnley is the most analog place on earth". Had I been quicker, I'd have interjected "take away the 'og' and you get what Chorlton is". Saviour came in the rarest of forms, an almost twild-like girl with her father. She shouted him from across the room to the bar "I want the pink drink ..... and gemme some crisps too, NOW!" "Yes, princess!" It was pretty clear who wore the trousers in this daddy daughter relationship.

QUIZ - What was the Pink Drink?

Quite a hilly climb to the next pub!

This view sums up my entire day

Ghostly pint of Dan's.

As I reflected in York Tap a couple of hours later pre-family bonfire, I'm not sure why today was so painful but it was. On paper, it looked a jolly quick jaunt to the usually reliable BRAPA county of Greater Manchester. But the cold, the dodgy stomach, food stuck in throat at one point, some miserable folk, combined to make this less fun than it should've been.

But them's the BRAPA breaks and happier times were ahead as I finished East Yorkshire the following day, which I will review Wednesday.

And I'm on half day from work tomorrow so I'm going to branch out from the usual South Yorkshire midweeking to something slightly more adventurous, though we've had a snow warning for the afternoon and I'm due to be "on higher ground" so it could be quite an experience!

See you soon if I don't die on the Moors / Peaks / Hills etc.

Si

Beverley doing it's best to be lovely despite the grim weather.

It has really hit home since September just what an impossible challenge BRAPA is. Not that I'm being defeatist. Just that I was up to 1,007 pubs. I came down to 897. And I won't get back to 1,007 again until at least late January, probably Feb, giving me only 7 months til the next big (even bigger) decrease in pub numbers when 2018 GBG is released. Waaaaaah!

Pumpkin burning on bonfire the previous night.

Not that I'm being defeatist (hang on, I just said that!) My point is, I'm focusing on the little victories so completing my first county of the 2017 GBG (East Yorkshire) was the morale booster I needed.

Amidst the remnants of spent bonfires and plastic firework casing, we drove over to Hull on a cold and wet Sunday morning, the prospect of a 14:15 kick off at home to Southampton was not enticing enough alone without a BRAPA injection (my first visit to the "KCom" this season).

Beverley had built a brand new multi-storey car park (free on Sundays) with what seemed very much like the sole intention to give us a handy parking place for the pub.......

Dad risks life at road junction for the sake of this blog photo - top man!

934. Sun Inn, Beverley

This pub was in many ways the perfect tonic to the troubles I suffered in Greater Manchester yesterday, warm welcoming atmosphere with some quirky decor and an authentic whiff of history about it. The two energetic men running it looked like the type you'd identify as "pub men" even if you saw them out of pub context (i.e. on a yacht drinking Campari with Helen Mirren). Directly above the bar was an amazing vaulted beamed ceiling which looked like the type to attract bats, but after Welsh holiday traumas in August, I didn't want to see one again this soon. A few snobby beer people sneered at the dull ale range - five on with the "exciting guest" being Hobgoblin, but it was nice so who cares, what I took more exception to was the overly fancy glass/vase it was served in. Behind us, a slim Ian Hislop and a young church rector enjoyed huge plates of Sunday Dinner, but somehow food just didn't seem to dominate at all here. "Final Countdown" suddenly played loudly for about 20 minutes (was it on repeat? Dad thinking it was some dig at Hull City's season). I sat next to an acoustic guitar hanging on the wall just in time to play the air guitar solo in the same song, which failed to amuse anyone apart from myself. There was also a piano with a tiny violin on it. I might have said unkind things about Beverley in the past, so I didn't reveal my BRAPA colours (revealing my card, see below photo, wasn't wise), in case I ended up in the (fake) cellar under the (fake) stairs. Good solid pubbing.

Strange glass but still an okay pint. Dad had a TT Landlord.

Crap photo of the ancient bat filled roof above bar

Where naughty pub bloggers end up.

The multi-storey car park hadn't collapsed in the intervening 35 minutes, so it was to Dunswell, which we knew from our brief flirtation with Hull Utd two seasons ago. Back then we thought "if only there was a good real ale pub somewhere near the ground rather than having to trek from Cottingham/Hull". Well, there was. All along, right under our noses.......

No, I'm not here to feed you - I'm taking a photo you silly hens!

935. Ship Inn, Dunswell

After almost being attacked by hens and run over by a leaving car, we were inside where a very impressive barmaid - who seemed keen to make an impact at BRAPA level - ignored Dad's swift and surprising decision to go for a Porter and gave us a detailed run down of all beers in about 10 seconds. Phew. We both still went for a Pennine porter and sat in a cosy lounge with fire where a strange old lady started counting and shuffling Worthington beermats as though we'd be impressed. What was more impressive was the nautical paraphernalia, deep sea diving helmet and array of knots which Dad tried to explain. I revived a long standing BRAPA custom by making a tit of myself trying to find the gents, but why oh why do pubs put the "ladies", "kitchen", "outdoor" and "private" doors all next to each other, with the "gents" on the other side of the bloody building. It happens too often and I'm going to write to CAMRA about it if things don't change! On a happier note, a 'delightful' young child (I won't call her a twild) was seemingly inspired by the girl in Chorlton's "Bar" yesterday for she demanded CUSTARD NOT ICE CREAM and then rode off on a pink bike. I could see beermat shuffle lady looking distastefully at her, and I thought a "stabbed through neck with sharpened beermat" incident was on the cards, but the moment passed.

It's time to put East Yorkshire to bed for another year.

Knots, wheels, fires and the like at the very good Ship in Dunswell.

We were so lacking in motivation re the Hull City game, we tossed a coin before we left. "Heads" we go. "Tails" we don't. "Heads" it was, and we somehow somehow won so thanks to Saints for going easy on us in that first half.

We popped in to Hole in the Wall on Spring Bank to have a two minute half of Sharp's Atlantic, friendly in a terrifying way but what a contrast to the pub we loved back circa 2003/2004.

East Yorkshire will set new challenges for the 2018 GBG, of that I am sure. New Micros at Market Weighton (which I did), Hedon, Withernsea and Howden (x2) have sprung up after the success of Hornsea and Driffield but whether I do a pre-emptive day later this year or wait, might depend how I'm feeling about my North Yorkshire progress. I think I'd lean towards getting my numbers up!

I'll be back on Friday for a review of my bonus Tuesday trip to Dobcross & Stalybridge.

A Tuesday afternoon off work was made all the more exciting by a "yellow" snow warning (not that anyone likes yellow snow), especially as I was off into t'hills......

Autumnal lunch along the canal at Greenfield

I hopped off the train at Greenfield, and walked what I was expecting to be a 40 minute uphill trek to Dobcross. Amazingly, it was more like 20, and this was dodging crazy roadworks and fish & chip eating students in Uppermill, which was a lot more like a metropolis than the sleepy rural cobbled hamlet I'd drunkenly remembered, when I visited the GBG pub here in the summer.

Not my car, before you ask, at pub number 1

936. Navigation Inn, Dobcross

The barmaid was a minx-like shoulder-less girl with the kind of gap in her teeth that would have got her drowned as a witch back in the day (yes, wrong part of Lancs I know) and my lazy "snow forecast" comment received the apathy it deserved. She instead decided to focus on my coins being very cold. I sat as far from the door as I could physically get in the warm lounge, surrounded by old duffers with their faces in the nosebag.. Entertainment followed in the form of a group from London, meeting some locals - "we've travelled three hours to get to this pub" said the posh outspoken woman, well I know that feeling luv, welcome to BRAPA. She soon told a story about being stuck in the bath which was a bit of a toe-curler, and I wasn't the only person listening in who was sad that she'd escaped from it. However, she later redeemed herself with quote of the day when scanning the food menu "I'd get the cheese and onion pie ..... if I liked cheese and onion". The comedy timing was superb. Her husband actually contemplated ordering it, but she warned him of the high calorie content. It was time to leave.

Count the poppies and agree with me to win a special BRAPA prize!

I swung a sharpish left outside the pub and walked up Sugar Lane into the village proper. And what a peaceful and picturesque looking place it was, the leaden sky suiting it a lot more than a bright summers day as chimneys billowed smoke in the distance.....

937. Swan (Top House), Dobcross

I nearly collided with a jolly waitress on the way in, which must have disorientated me as I then suffered that most awful affliction "bar blindness", and wandered into two side rooms before realising the bar had been behind me all along in the room I'd walked in to. Not a good start! The barman (who had an element of the "Fulham FC trainee" about him) was a good lad, but seemed hellbent on giving me a taster of this black cherry stout. "Why? It is awful?" is my new stock phrase in this situation as I almost resent the question but it didn't work on this occasion as he'd misheard me say I WANTED a taster, as if. I saw a green leather armchair in front of a candlelit fireplace, and knew this was the right room to be in, and settled down with gentle swathes of Glenn Miller playing in the background. I was so 'in the mood*', I had to pinch myself to remind myself that this was a Marston's pub. I'd never have known if it hadn't been for the beer range. I've been to some good ones (Upper Poppleton, Chester le Street etc) but this was the BEST yet. Many are quite crummy. A terrier yapped angrily and a distinct smell of stewed veg reminded me I'd chosen the seating area wisely. My beer was superb, best ever in a Marston's pub? And it was so warm and comfy, even a radiator behind me in the toilets warmed my arse whilst I pissed. Wonderful pub experience.

*No it's not the only Glenn Miller song I know, but it's hard to effortlessly squeeze Chattanooga Choo Choo, Perfidia or Pennsylvania 65000 into a blog entry, okay?!

My view from the green armchair

A fine pint of stout obviously served in the wrong glass(!)

After a gentle-ish stroll back towards Greenfield along a canal I'd spied earlier (the schoolkids were now roaming Uppermill brandishing clipboards), it was warm enough to sit and have lunch as the trains weren't due for a bit. I rang Dad to reassure him I'd not got stuck in the snow but he was enjoying his 3:24pm lunch so he rightly gave zero shits.

Note background pub "The Kingfisher", much more the Marstons I'd expect.

The train east was delayed so I took this as a sign that the BRAPA gods wanted me to delve deeper into Greater Manchester (Slaithwaite had been an option) so I took the also delayed train out to Stalybridge, feeling Ashton-Under-Lyne was just one stop too far.

I like Stalybridge, the folk seem very real if a bit odd at times. Plus, it is always dark and/or I am drunk when I'm there. Today, I was more sober than usual but it got very dark very quickly. Four different groups of people stopped to watch me take this next photo, nosy bunch, I may as well have been a flasher (my flash wasn't on).

Arty - so making a spectacle of myself was worth it!

938. White House, Stalybridge

And the fun didn't stop outside, as once in, the barmaid subjected me to quite the examination which would soon have me hiding in the far corner. The pint cost £2.61 - "give me the extra penny to save us extra change hassle" was her first demand. Thank god I had it. "You a CAMRA member (scum)? Lemme see you card, yeh?" was next. "You wanna try this beer, you'd better!" (I wasn't arguing this time), "It's called 'ginger' but it is only a name, it doesn't taste of ginger, got it?" Yes miss. I was almost relieved when a smiley man next to me started talking about the forthcoming snow. Being more polite than a Dobcross barmaid, I made conversation on these lines but he soon turned out to be more of a nutter than her - "Shotgun Mick" I later learned was his name, don't ask why. Re the ginger ale, he told the barmaid she was ginger too. "I'M NOT, I'M STRAWBERRY BLONDE!" she growled back. But then he pointed to me and said I'd told him to say it! She believed him too, and then whispered to me "you're just a visitor, you can take it!" Cheers. I left my coat n bag at the bar and went to the loo, but Shotgun Mick left immediately (amazingly not with my coat or bag) and with the barmaid still grinding her teeth, I slunk off to the far corner. Where I stayed, in cosy proper pub comfort, for the rest of my time here. She was definitely ginger.

Hiding behind my pint

Even closer to the station was my final 'tick' of the evening, the highlight of it really being that at one character, it is in the Guinness Book of Records for having the shortest pub name. I commented on Twitter that Chorlton-cum-Hardy must be well pissed off at that, which went down well for it's well nigh impossible to be a pub blogger and be kind about that place .....

Q. Just Q.

939. Q, Stalybridge

Bit of an odd one this. I arrived to the beaming, and shining faces of old locals who all acknowledged me in front of this amazing roaring fire. But no room on this side of the pub to even perch, so I had to go round to a posing table and face Stalybridge's answer to George Michael on his fifteenth pint of Guinness. Before that though, I was served a strange Cumbrian Ale called "Bada Boom" by a miserable dimple chinned blonde, old enough to know better, but far too young to care. Well, the first bit anyway. The pub felt a bit like a cross between a German sauna for old men and one of those fake rural pubs "in the town" - not that it lacked character, it just didn't know what it wanted to be which is starting to become a theme for Hydes pubs. A blackboard showed an amendment to the word "tomato", it was still wrong, suggesting two incorrect spellings of the word which seems barely possible. They seemed hellbent on sticking an "e" in there somewhere! A man then did something impossible and made ole'sour-face laugh - what had he said? "I'll have a pint of JD!" Fucking hilarious. Seriously, he was soon behind the bar grabbing some snacks/something he shouldn't, and she playfully commented on his rosy cheeks. It was time to get the hell out of here.

Q - not awful but kind of annoying (summed up by the sign).

And just as well because I was quickly meeting Twitter's favourite local pub expert Quosh for a quick half of Squawk Porter. I think it was a Squawk I drank when I met Martin Taylor so maybe it has to be a Twitter rule. (Sir Quinno was an Ascot ale, Tim Thomas a Kennet & Avon one, so it doesn't always follow).

It was a nice but brief meeting, most sober I've ever been in the wonderful Buffet Bar, and my delayed train then confused everybody by turning up 2 minutes early meaning I only drank a quarter of porter.

The kind of pub scene that is still totally normal in Stalybridge

Train back went all very smoothly right through to York where the snow still didn't start til 11pm so I missed all the fun.

Berking Mad!

Attentions now turn to Leg IX of the Berkshire : Berking Mad Challenge. I will be south south east of Reading this time out. If all goes according to plan, I reckon I can finish Berks in Feb. December (the main tricky trip) will be a 'mop up' of East Berks (Windsor, Sandhurst, Warfield and Moneyrow Green), Jan will see me finish Reading proper (3 pubs) plus St Nicholas Hurst, and Feb will be out west where I need to do Stockcross & Wickham. Then it'll be party time. Or Buckinghamshire.

Si

Possibly the most Berkshire quote I've ever seen (on the Leopard Number 3)

An annoying Polish man from Doncaster who was travelling to London to support South African rugby managed to make the journey down to Kings Cross seem twice as long as it should have done (laugh like a blocked gutter at his own jokes), and then Italian students with terrible catarrh did likewise on the Paddington to Reading leg. It wasn't a great morning for BRAPA's Euro race-relations. It rarely ever is.

At least the reassuring presence of taxi-driver Tara (the second male Tara I've met this year) helped me make up for lost time - I really needed to be at the first pub for 11am opening to achieve what I needed today, so the dent in my wallet was sort of worth it.

In the murk and teeming Berkshire rain, Tara looked less than confident the pub was open but his attitude was very much "I've done my job so see ya later Simey" so I was forced to tentatively push at the door like a limp tortoise until it thankfully swung open ......

940. Swan, Three Mile Cross

And here I was, standing at the bar like a sack of spuds for the next ten minutes as the new barmaid twatted around with bottles in fridges. No, I wasn't going to shout, or cough, or rustle my change, how will she learn otherwise? Eventually, a mother-hen style character who might be the landlady appeared, for she had a friendly demeanour, saw me photographing their chef (a wooden statue thing before you worry) and told me he'd been carved specially for the pub. I then witnessed the introduction of the new barmaid to another one, Dee & Fern, Fern & Dee to be precise, the start of a beautiful friendship, perhaps. The pub had a slight "early morning so don't expect us to be organised" feel with washing baskets and cleaning products, menacingly lurking in the background, but this was no Bar in Chorlton as it was an exceedingly cosy farmhouse style pub with some great decor, and bit of "off-beat out of place" stuff, possibly an attempt to appeal to visiting football fans. You know what I mean, a heart warming cute kitten picture directly next to a harsh quote about women faking orgasms and men being shitbags. We were almost in the shadow of the Madjeski, I say "almost" as the sun was not creating much shadow, the Madjeski isn't tall enough to be the Maracana, and Reading isn't Rio. A posh gent came in for 5 seconds, announcing "I thought I recognised that bum!" (he wasn't talking to me), before leaving. Top cameo. I sang along on my own to a horrific Grease Medley which was "fun", and wondered if as BRAPA king, I too could have a plaque in the toilets like other luminaries who've visited. Well, if Keith Curle can have one .....

The Swan chef recommends Chicken & Mushroom Pie

Loved my pint of Loddon, and only 3.5% to keep me sober.

Such was my enjoyment of the Swan, I'd lingered too long and wasn't going to make Shinfield for 12 noon. Oh well, it wasn't a bad 1.5 mile walk despite the weather and one wrong turning, but I soon found the one pub that no-one I spoke to today had heard of ........

Biggest Fosters sign on a GBG pub in living memory.

941. Bell & Bottle, Shinfield

The pub instantly threatened to be the more Berkshire brand of twee, with it's lack of carpet, brickwork, dim lighting etc, but I'd like to think it was a place of hidden depths. The barmaid was ultra friendly with her weather chat, try-before-you-buy failed attempt, and telling me how there are these old locals who come in once a week and sample as many as THREE different real ales on one night! Could I suspend my disbelief? She encouraged me to warm myself in front of their roaring fire from the leather sofa but one problem with that, no table nearby to rest pint! I had to improvise once I realised the kindling wasn't very stable, and dragged a stool from bar to sofa to balance my pint - I've not had to put such imagination into drink placement since I was in Stockport's Boar's Head. Anyway, I failed to get into trouble, even when her burly other half appeared, a rugby shirted twirly mustachioed chap who you'd not mess with, but looked more Victorian weightlifter than Phil Mitchell. All the while, the only other customer, a gloomy desparado, was on this extravagant Vegas triple gaming machine and was totally "in the zone". The back of the pub surprisingly opened out into bigger rooms with pool table and board games, though the furniture and decor didn't do it many favours in this humble pub bloggers opinion.

You could almost be in Las Vegas

Fire was the highlight

Improvising with the seating arrangements

I had a bus to catch and the sight of a driver of correct bus number parked up, eyes glued to newspaper, stuffing his sandwich into his fat gob surely meant he'd be opening the door to let me on shortly. But I was wrong, as a huge eyed young Asian lady told me, this was a farce she had to suffer every Saturday until a delayed bus finally pulls up behind, ten minutes late. Which it did.

Pub Men unite at The Bull

942. Bull, Barkham

After a painfully convoluted bus trip around every housing estate and country road going, I was finally at the "key" pub of the day - hurrah, "page eight" of the GBG complete (BRAPA page renumbering rules). My initial thoughts, "urrgh! food food food, and families eating it!" An old chap at the bar, who was to become a candidate for BRAPA man of the year (we'll call him Stan for that was his name) apologised for swearing under his breath as he didn't know I was stood behind. He then made an obscure reference to Budgie smugglers. Amidst all the food, I decided proper pub man unity was required, so we made friends - I'd also decided I disliked the barman as he asked me if I was waiting to be served or if I'd just come in for a chat! Oh yes, I travel hundreds of miles in the rain to come to rural pubs and chat to strangers at the bar(!) Then he asked if I was on my own. What was this? Not Saturday night in Melbourne mate. Luckily for him, the Rebellion Smuggler was one of the best quality pints I've had all year. And it's not even my fave beer. Stan impressed upon me, how despite drinking in here since the 70's, the pub needed food to survive and I should've seen the state of it before the current owners came in, on it's knees, no ales, and how he'd be forced to drink alone at home otherwise. So here's to food in pubs! (well, sort of! not really!) It wasn't quite a restaurant as in the building felt like a pub still. Another nice chap called Andy joined us - PUB MAN UNITY! His favourite pub was the Craven Arms in Appletreewick, and amidst much HSB, whisky and water, tales of dodgy diaphragms and accidentally racist Hounslow pub landlord's from the 1960's called Frank, plus obligatory BRAPA stories, this was a heartwarming little session.

I think it's time we talked BRAPA.

The barman probably took this toilet sign a bit too seriously.

After another ten minute bus delay, I was hopping off in Wokingham and what a mellow, unthreatening town it feels during the day. Compare it to my terrifying Monday night here back in April, and it's like two different places. I almost liked it. Twenty minutes march south of the centre and a close shave with a railway crossing, and I was in my fourth pub of the day .....

943. White Horse, Wokingham Without

It was an eerily quiet entrance - and unlike the Swan at Three Mile Cross, this time my voice echoed as I shouted for service, or just any human being really. Finally, an apologetic chef stepped out of the shadows and mumbled "she must've gone outside" as I ordered Tawny Owl, the one none Greene King beer on offer. The pub was pretty vast and sweeping, one roomed estatey lounge style, I suppose a bit Mr Bumble at Blackwater and a bit Cannie Man at Bracknell, only less fun. But before I could contemplate which of the many dark corners to hide in and smuggle my Scotch Eggs, two bounding hounds were unleashed - a man chasing one shouting "THAT IS NOT AN INDOOR TOY, BRAMLEY!" They were trying a bit too hard to win BRAPA Pets of the Year in any case, I gave them an obligatory stroke and ear scratch (I don't dislike dogs but they ain't cats) but still they persisted, which is where a better pub would step in and tell the dogs to "leave the poor man alone!" but instead, I had to sit it out for a good 20 minutes until they collapsed into sullen doggie masses on the carpet, beaten by the boredom. Which could be the tagline for the pub really .....

The dogs are finally beaten! Nice carpet btw.

My feelings on the whole experience, during a rare break from the mutts.

I made a concerted effort to get back to Paddington in ultra-quick time in the hope of one or two final pubs. Not quite sure why I booked myself as early off as 19:11 when I'd only got down for 10am. Really must give myself longer days in future! (I always say that).

And this is why it pays to give yourself plenty of time as Tom Irvin would tell you, as problems on the Hammersmith & City / Circle lines meant I was told (in helpful but patronising terms) to take the 'brown one' which I think (hope!) meant Bakerloo line. This had me scrabbling for my GBG seeing what stop I could get off at to visit a new pub. BRAPA on the hoof, I like it!

Oxford Circus was a seething mass of tourist zombie despair as it so often is, and after squashing through the gaps of some nighmare-esque Alfie Bowe theatre queue, I did indeed find myself on the outer reaches of Soho......

A man with a beard is outside because this is London

944. Star & Garter, Soho

London needs to cut down it's allowance to about fifty GBG entries because seriously, so many of their pubs are so boring and forgettable. And I'm not too sure why because architecturally a lot of them seem old, unspoilt, beautiful. But bored staff, transient clientele, crap beer range and quality, lack of warmth, comfort and atmosphere, all create a clusterfuck of pub despondency. This was the perfect example. Three handpumps - couldn't see any of the beers as they were being covered up by a gigantic crisp round, stacked high. I had to tell both crisp buyer and barman why I was struglging / being hesitant. My Spitfire, when I got it, not generally a bad beer from experience, was both warm and fizzy, and murky, how is this pub in the GBG? Remember the Victoria in Paddington, when Boak and/or Bailey helped me escape from a Judgey Jesus H. Christ by telling me about beautiful secret upstairs rooms. I convinced myself this pub had the same, but despite searching high and low and pushing about ten doors, the downstairs warren led nowhere. I couldn't even sit down. Looking around, the pub was busy but no one looked to be enjoying themselves apart from a girl with a nice tartan arse with her deadbeat father. And they sat in the one seat I did have earmarked. I've got loads of London still to do, and on this evidence, it'll only be fun if I try to steal olives off Spanish ladies again.

The expressions say it all

Tartan Arse and Deadbeat Dad try to brighten the mood

I popped into Parcel Yard for a swift half, though it was incredibly busy. Although there'd been no football on in the higher leagues, the train home was awash with drunken men of North Eastern persuasion though they were mainly a canny bunch, unlike the inevitable swarm getting on at York having to be restrained by police so I could get off first!

A good day in that I achieved what I'd set out to, plus a bonus London tick, though the pub quality declined from the excellent Swan as the day progressed - still, I probably love these monthly long distance days more than any other BRAPA day out.

Tomorrow night, I'm in Wales (no, not that one) so I'll see you Wednesday for a write up. I'm off to try and see this really big moon!

A mad old lady had already refused to take my seat on the train "aah've been stood up all bluddy day luvvie!" by the time a group of wide-eyed ghouls hopped off in front of me at Kiveton Bridge station. The worst offender was a swaying man with huge headphones. Soon, behind me all I could hear was "LA LA LA, DUM DUM DUM, DEE DEE DEE" - it must have been a 12 minute instrumental, but he followed me almost all the way to Wales. Freaks come out at night? Correction, 'Freaks come out at BRAPA'. With reassuring regularity.

I finally lost him only to encounter some crazed pot smoking teens on the corner of the road down to Wales, one of which was freaked out by "a crazy clown lurking in the shadows" near a disused petrol station. I didn't witness this, but it allowed me distraction enough to get passed them.

The pub looked grand, and was in a suitably quiet village location .....

Duke, Duke, Duke - Duke of Leeds, Duke Duke.

Rushed photo before the teenage terrors caught me up!

945. Duke of Leeds, Wales

I'd conclude that a 2015 refurbishment of this ancient pub hasn't been particularly sympathetic, not that I knew what it was like before. However, I can't imagine bookcase wallpaper, placemats and cutlery, magnolia colour scheme and those cheesy "funny quotes" on the walls featured in yesteryear. In fact, I could have still been in the arse-end of East Berkshire, had it not been for four curmudgeonly old blokes knocking back pint after pint of keg Stones - and even they were reduced to a posing table, grudgingly concluding "Ched Evans is a decent footballer you have to admit". The barmaid served me a Theakston Green Hop and a pretty lame half of the usually glorious Farmers Blonde, and though she looked impressed with my ability to produce exact change on each occasion, her lack of 'people' skills seemed at one with the majority of the sour faced clientele, The main barmaid (landlady) seemed a right character so I was sad she didn't serve me. I'd used my BRAPA honing device to locate the least foody room (and the nearest I could find to bench seating) but this contained both the (constantly revolving) kitchen door and the popular draughty door to the car park, suggesting drinkers are given short shrift here. And all the while, I was eyed with that "S.Y. Village Suspicion" ala Harley and Mapplewell (though these were both highly traditional pubs).

So many highlights in my Tuesday night South Yorkshire adventures this year, but Wales fell short. Fans of the Dog & Partridge in Yateley, Hants would approve.

It's Headache Towers at Wales

One of the 'Stones' gang (taken from my dungeon)

The walk back to Kiveton Bridge took a lot longer when you weren't being followed by a humming nutter, though the super moon was still very full in the sky. The journey back, with a lovely half of something in Sheffield Tap, was stress-free, and I'm still on course to finish South Yorkshire by the end of 2016. And wouldn't that be a good achievement?

Saturday sees me finish off Sunderland's remaining two pubs, and make my real ale debut at Ivy House, my first visit there in 18 years! And I'm only young, honest.

Si

Sunderland was set to it's default temperature of "bloody freezing" as us southern softies arrived on Saturday morning, with the biggest Hull City gang of the season. Not only me, Dad and Tom, but Ben and Christine had also joined us.

It was just like old times as I led them on a tour of my old university haunts, past classic pubs like The Borough and The Royalty (now given the cheesy moniker of the Stumble Inn for some stupid reason), and my old Uni accommodation on Chester Road. Don't forget Billy Singh's corner shop. And further down the road, a pub I didn't even know existed circa 1997-2000, though it did.

I'll always have a soft spot for the town (some may say city but it doesn't feel like one it's better than that), even 16 years on I won't let people slag it off!

19 minutes walking later, we were at our first pub .....

946. Chesters, Sunderland

Just to clarify, I won't let the town be slagged off BUT I didn't say anything about pubs that don't come up to scratch. As we walked underneath a roadside arched sign "CHESTERS" and down an autumnal path to this huge 'happy harvester' style building, I turned to the assembled gang and said "this is going to be shite isn't it?" to which they all agreed. It looked like the kind of place that chavs (or 'charvers' to be more North Eastern) would have a wedding reception. Once inside, I was at least pleasantly surprised by the warm and friendly welcome we received from landlord and landlady, sympathetic of the weather, Mr landlord told us he'd been watching his 9 year old son play football at 9:15am so he knew how cold it was. He also told us Anarchy brewery are from the North East. York Tap veterans would know this already, but our Lincolnshire friends tend to get confused by anything which isn't Batemans or Tom Wood's. Much to Dad's displeasure, Ben and his long legs seated themselves at a large posing table and the full enormity of the decor horror was unleashed in the form of another fake bookcase. The early Christmas decor actually took the edge off the horror, though Tom spotted a "dustweb" attached to a garland, which Christine suggested was left over from Hallowe'en decor rather than bad cleaning. You've heard of 'straight', 'handled' and 'nonic' glasses, but for the first time, we were treated to round bottomed ones. Any idea if these have an official name? Very strange, but the beer was top quality. Food was served in the form of "Pick n' Mix Planks". Whatever they are. Tom picked up a 2p coin on the way out, every pub has a silver lining.

We then walked to the Ivy House to meet John Watson (his current home pub of choice), retracing my steps of November 1998 on my only other visit here, down the back of Chester Oval .... very nostalgic. Well, Google Maps has replaced Jane Taylor, we weren't trying to avoid a pervert called Graeme, and it wasn't pitch black, but otherwise, exactly the same (apart from the Metro hadn't been built then).

Ivy House, Sunderland

The door swung open at the reassuringly early time of 11:55am as we'd been waiting outside with some of the gentler Hull City Southern Supporters who'd made this their designated pub. The youngish barstaff were a jolly bunch but I have to say "if I'd not known I'd been here before, I wouldn't have known." (I assume that makes no sense at all). Last time, I drank Fosters in a cosy corner to the right and played pool, now it seems to have an extended bar and is pretty geared up for dining. The Titanic Plum Porter, the comfy raised corner seating and interesting ceiling art made me feel all was well, but Tom, influenced by Martin Taylor's blogging, quickly noticed Prosecco signs and those horrid jam jars showing the beer colour. What was worse, I then realised "no beermats!". Truly unforgivable, caught off guard I hadn't brought an emergency one as I didn't think Sunderland would let me down in this manner. The beers were great, staff very efficient and the place was big enough and off the beaten track enough to mean it never felt crowded or uncomfy, not bad on a football day (and remember the S.S. were present!) But as a pub taken on face value, not a patch on the likes of Ship Isis, Kings Arms, Museum Vaults and Dun Cow. Yet it was a superb session and winning Ben's "21st century Hull City Goalkeepers" quiz (Tony Warner and Nicky Culkin were the top answers) was a particular highlight! Another was Dad accidentally getting ice in Tom's blackcurrant cordial and having to say "excuse me barman, will you de-ice me?" which he assures me is a direct quote.

I didn't make it to the Port Of Call, partly due to the comfort of what was turning into a great session, and partly due to the fact that John's Dad, Ken, arrived quite late and it would've been anti-social to move on so soon as to be also able to make it to the ground on time.

(To be honest, whether we play Sunderland next season or not, it is nice to have an option left over as places like West Herrington, East & West Boldon and Washington all need doing and likelihood is I'd be in Sunderland at some point on a day like this).

Then there was a football game which we won't talk about (highlight, lights going out, lowlight, lights coming back on) and it was back to York to meet Tom's parents in York Tap for a nightcap before fish & chips and home, and I'd conclude, a very enjoyable day all things considered!

Tuesday night sees more "W" action from South Yorkshire, before we get our Winter Woolies on next Saturday for the start of West Yorkshire's GBG 2017 entries.

Si

Two of the top pub types of "this time in our history" are Wetherspoons, and Micro Pubs. Like 'em or loathe 'em, they form the basis of the "Wath Upon Dearne Real Ale Scene" (WUDRAS) , proof that the small town is "on trend" which isn't something anyone's ever said about South Yorkshire before, ever.

After a needlessly long and boring bus ride from Barnsley (I should have done Swinton and short bus, said my new work buddy who went to school here), I realised there was a very pretty pedestrianised centre called the Market Cross. Just the odd bus occasionally skulked in and out. An edgy atmosphere was created by drinking, smoking, shouting and swearing "Yoofs", I counted four pockets of the shitbags in the otherwise peaceful dark gloom.

In summary, Wath-upon-Dearne is Newbury with menace.

Wath Tap, Wath-Upon-Dearne

On the recommendation of a local Twitterer, I decided this place, "Rotherham District's First Micro" had great pre-emptive potential, and whoever he was, by gum he wasn't wrong! I entered to see that classic staff combination of bawdy mother and easily embarrassed daughter, who was serving. As I scanned the six ales on offer, mother winked and said to me "she'll let you taste 'em if you are good!" to which I should've used my stock answer "I like to be brave and dive straight in!" On this occasion though, I was tongue-tied as daughter explained "can you tell she's my Mum?" "It's my job to embarrass her" replied Mum. The only other customer, who I later discovered was a deaf man called Dave, was eating takeaway fish & chips at a side table, using the pub's own cutlery. He helpfully tried to show his gratitude by going behind the bar and putting knife and fork in dishwasher but he managed to jam it so it wouldn't close! It wasn't a good night for Dave, a car alarm sounded and the four new customers had to shout "DAVE, DAVE, DAVE - IS THAT YOUR CAR ALARM?" three times. He eventually went to check on it, for Shitbag Group III had been causing mayhem right outside the pub. I was sat on the back window nearest the door and it was JUST like that "Shaun of the Dead" scene where the zombies can't quite get into the pub. A new customer was raving about the Stancil Movember Stout (which I was drinking and loving) so I joined in, although his wife told him "he wouldn't want a whole pint" which was wife speak for "I don't want you drinking a whole pint". A former butchers this place, had some nice tiling, and was a great hilarious pub experience.

Nice tiles and clocks

Amazing stouts and Derby beermats

Mum embarrasses daughter but deaf Dave is out of shot to the left.

I dodged shitbag groups I and II whilst IV were stood next to a police car which tried to scare them by driving up and putting it's sirens on briefly. But a screechy young lad just laughed and said "I know how to nick those things so you can just fuck off" to which the police car obliged, making an embarrassingly hasty retreat. I felt like I was missing something .....who's in charge? The kids?

Grand old frontage, a bit like an old, errrm, Church House??!

947. Church House, Wath-Upon-Dearne

So could this be the brilliant Spoons equivalent of the excellent micro pub? Well, no because that was in Maltby. Not that early signs here were too bad. The bar area seemed cosy, intimate and warm and was lined by moody old locals who weren't gonna move to let me in. One middle-aged barmaid did keep smiling sympathetically at me, but she didn't bloody serve me and about ten minutes later, I'd changed my drink choice about 5 times before a man with unusual earring finally appeared. Most of the beers were from Little Critters who I believe are the only Sheffield brewery who don't specialise in pale ales so there's some fake trivia to tell your friends. I wish I'd perched in the bar area because further back, the pub became more classic Spoons. Draughty and foody, one old man was wearing a dirty vest and not much else which in a weird way, was quite heartwarming. Most of the clientele were quite old and had to walk past me to leave the pub - interestingly, they all smelt like old library books. Yes, I had to make my own entertainment as it was all a bit boring. I was next to the condiments counter - FIVE bottles of mayo, all with less than one squirt left in them. Upsetting times, and don't get me started on the lone mango chutney. There was some extra seating upstairs, but who should be up there with the cool kids but Bawdy Mum?! We nodded to each other and she inexplicably said "I'm here for a ...meeting!" before two women who looked suspiciously like her mates walked upstairs with an ice bucket of Prosecco. I'm not judging you luv. My new work buddy Dave tells me he spent most of his sixth form in here - it is that kind of a pub ........

View to the bar where the old locals won't move for you.

The right side of the condiments (Mayo out of shot to the left, gap where brown sauce should be)

Bus 222 was delayed, and the bus driver was one of those maniacs determined to make up the time even if he killed all his passengers. Not that it stopped him stopping parallel to a car with it's lights right up, to open his door and tell the young female driver THREE TIMES "you're dazzling me you muppet!"

That summed up the whole evening. Loved it. A return to SY form after the Wales disappointment last week.

Bonus Archive BRAPA News (might be a bit boring unless you are hardcore).

And better news today when I realised I'd forgotten to tick off George Hotel, Easingwold, North Yorkshire (we'll call it pub number 948) and I'll archive it now .....

"Me and John Watson decided to have a car-trip out of York for Hallowe'en one year to do something special as we'd booked the day off and you can't really do anything spooky til late at night. I think it was a Friday so that'd probably put the year at 2008 (I guess it could've been 2003, I really have no idea!) Anyway, we parked up with the intention of having lunch and was quite a nice carpetted old Georgian pub. I actually remember having Pendle Witches Brew by Moorhouses and though it was a beer I was aware of, I'd hardly ever had it or seen it before so it was quite exciting(!) honest. Food wise, I had this incredible pork cracking sandwich/baguette thing where they made a big deal about "locally sourced pork" so I made a very Dad-esque joke about them going to strangle a pig at the back of the pub as we speak. It wasn't funny then, and my vegan sister didn't approve when I told her either."

Additionally, I honestly thought I could finally nail the "middle" pub I went to in Worcester on 10th May 2007 but am still struggling. No guarantee it was even in GBG as a weird man who "adopted" me chose it. I'll try and describe it and you can try and help. It must be a short walk from Cardinals Hat, it isn't the Dragon or that as they were pubs 1 and 3. I think it was near Cathedral too. It may well have had a tudorish frontage (if not, old looking) and it was wonderfully old inside too. Lots of beer mats on ceiling and walls - wooden and basic, not carpetted. Lots of ales on offer. Did have, I think multi-rooms, or at least dividing partitions and wasn't tiny, but ceiling I think was quite low. I saw some recent Worcester pub pics on RM's excellent blog but not quite ringing any bells (don't think it's the Bell).

And the pub in Royton I went to before Oldham away on 28th March 2005 that I was hoping was the Bull's Head Hotel definitely wasn't, but most likely the Dog & Partridge and it had one of the most miserable bunches of customer I've ever witnessed, despite being a proper classic JW Lees boozer. The only other option could have been the Puckersley Inn but I think we'd have chosen the nearer one and this looks a bit rural anyway.

Saturday sees me kick off West Yorkshire pubbing again with the winter woollen crawl. Three have pulled out, one isn't drinking for health reasons and one gets scared whenever she has to get a train anywhere - so it is gearing up for a classic already!

Si

With a Friends of Ham catch-up night cancelled, I thought it wise to fill-in a rare drinking space in my diary with an easy BRAPA tick to keep me chugging along in this productive month of November.

The "Black Friday" pedestrians were limping home sour faced and empty handed to their Horsforth and Hornbeam Park hovels, and I managed to just keep my eyes open long enough to hop off at North Yorkshire's favourite snooty twee-fest town, Harrowgayte.

The pub was t'other (nice) side of town so after a (probably) needless walk around the backstreets, I saw my pub looming large across a busy main road, at which point I got excited, forgot about personal safety, and stopped the traffic with some questionable road crossing which Tom Irvin would have approved.

Almost the last photo I ever took......

What kind of pub names itself simply as it's address? One that thinks names like Red Lion and the Fox & Grapes are too common and passe. that's what! So typically sneery Harrogate. Imagine if York's Bluebell was called 53 Fossgate, if Stockport's Crown was called 154 Heaton Lane, Preston's Moorbrook was called 37 North Road ..... you get the picture, life would be just that tiny bit shitter wouldn't it?

949. 10 Devonshire Place, Harrogate

So I entered with something of a negative mind set, and it says a lot that I'd warmed to the place even before I'd been served, and this was with a pregnant barmaid smiling hopefully as though she'd serve me any second without quite managing it (just like in Wath on Tuesday). The look the pub was going for was dimly candlelit, middle class, middle age, warm and homely, a hint of pretension but nothing you couldn't suck up with a smile. Speaking of which, don't venture into the "purple room" on the third floor or you may never be the same again. The beer was healthy, and the punters, the most friendly I've known on this, my 7th trip to the town. I fought may way through a series of posey couples leanings on posing tables ("look at me, look at me, I'm here, in public, enjoying myself!") to a backroom where surprise, surprise, there was a fair amount of bench seating available. Three mature ladies were cackling and on the gin, their make-up done in a way which made them all look like fortune tellers. Two "butch" men with two tiny greedy dogs were encouraging the ladies to get on the 'doubles'. "We want some fun in the back room tonight!" they declared. I refused to make eye contact, wanting to be a mere observer after a hideous working week. However, it's when you are at your least sociable that some 'character' comes to sit next to you, and it did in the form of Christopher, an older chap with the air of a well-to-do Yorkshire playwright. "Don't mind if I vape?" he said, "it's pretty inoffensive" as he practically sat on my left leg. I couldn't be anti-social and told him I'd never understood vaping and it smelt of cloves, but this turned out to be pain relief for a tooth problem and soon I was chatting teeth and dentists, he had a wet finger which spent half the night in the back of his mouth. But the chat progressed and he shared my views on Harrogate and York folk, the culture of North Yorkshire, he also used to work for Yorkshire Bank like me, and enjoyed the chat so got him on the BRAPA/Twitter mailing list (which doesn't really exist). I left him to his tooth woes, in this quite interesting pub.

Greedy dogs and a pint of porter

The less smart-arsed direct walk back to the station was unsurprisingly quicker, I suppose 10 Devonshire Place wasn't too different from Hales Bar, but with a slab of York's Guy Fawkes and a hint of Hull's Wm Hawkes thrown in.

Had time to pop in Harrogate Tap for a swift half of an Arbor beer called something about a tree, whilst I stood near a premature but not yet decorated tree .....

Better get a good night's sleep before we get cracking on West Yorkshire tomorrow! I'll be back on Sunday for a review. Sweet pubby dreams.

Si

Feezing Frog at York Station

It was time for the half yearly BRAPA day out with those brave folk from work who are willing to trek from pub to pub to help me in my quest. Regulars Rich Ellis (drinking lime and soda for alternate pints as part of a health drive) and Jason "Mr Angry" Garrett were with me, and we were joined by the reassuring presence of Piper, though four people were unable to attend which was disappointing but not unexpected!

After meeting at L**ds and getting train to the wondrous town of Halifax (one of my favourite pub towns in the UK), my GBG app decided to make a fool of me in front of other people by having our first pub plotted in the wrong place, just as did with the Barum Top when I came here a year or two ago. Finally, I found it hidden behind a theatre.

Caught in the rainbow vortex of Halifax

950. Victorian Craft Beer Cafe, Halifax

The scouse landlord was smoking outside when we went in, and having explained BRAPA, he gave us a run down of the highlights of this self-proclaimed "best pub in Halifax" which was obviously (a) a bar and (b) not quite as good as three other pubs in town I can think of. Having said that, it was excellent and the line "you'll be impressed with our toilets" is one I'd like to hear more. In this case, it was a reference to 1920's nudey lady pictures. Very North Rigton or Phoenix in York. "They are 90 years old but the girls still look great!" declared the bald customer who'd perhaps had one too many fizzy keg ales from the taps at the end. I was excited to see Cloudwater cask "yes, your eyes do not deceive you" said the barman. Cloudwater are a brewery I always unfairly slag off for being the face of "craft" so a bit ironic I first see it on cask in a bar with "craft" in the title. It was beautiful and we took it up these mini stairs full of board games and weird instruments to a hidden side room, with tiling which made you feel you were in a chilly fish & chip shop. Another point to the barman was that he gave us complimentary pub beermats as souvenirs. CAMRA should enforce this as policy. Though his slagging off Barum Top 'Spoons for getting in the GBG was something I couldn't fully agree with as I thought it was pretty decent. What happened to pub unity? However, all in all a cracking little place and a good start to the day.

A few minutes walk away, I accidentally navigated to the back of the next pub which was almost traumatic as a Dad was teaching his 6 year old boy to drive, almost with disastrous consequences for BRAPA as we had the inaugural pub photo. It all looked a bit seedy and industrially estatey.

951. Gundog, Halifax

I got the barman to confirm that we hadn't used the main entrance, but not to worry as this pub was a rival to the likes of Big Six and Three Pigeons for pure Halifax pub joy. The central corridor area where we were served, rooms off left and right. I briefly tried to explain bar billiards to the gang - none of them had even seen a table before (I may have to send them to Reading for a lesson), though I refused to sit in here on account of the bookcase wallpaper! Rich checked in on Facebook, which also must have been confused by the pubs gloriousness, as it asked him "is it good for dancing?" I suppose at this time, with no customers, you could pirouette from room to room. I was meanwhile like a pub tourist, snapping away like David Bailey (if that is a real person) for you don't get pubs as photogenic as this very often. We sat in perhaps the nicest room off to the right, where some unconvincing but admirable local artwork was on sale, and almost regrettably, nothing weird or upsetting happened until we left, possibly because I wasn't concentrating.

I managed to flag us down a taxi and despite the friendly taxi driver not seeming very confident where Scholes was, he took us there pretty directly, missed the turning, and ditched us in a lay-by. It was rural up here, and the mist had returned.

952. Stafford Arms, Scholes

Proper crazy pub full of mad staff and locals, this is exactly why I'd say (so far) that West Yorkshire is the strongest county I've been to in BRAPA so far. The barmaid had strange glint in her eye, and when she told us "it was a cold day to be walking around these parts", I admitted we'd cheated and got a taxi. "Oooh hoh, cheating is allowed in here" she replied with an exaggerated wink at several of the chaps propping up the bar, who suddenly looked a bit sheepish. The buzz word of the pub was "black" though, hard to tell why they found the word so funny, but they did. Whether they were doing impressions of the artist in the Fast Show who paints in black, or the never-ending discussion about local liquorice which sounded like some kind of euphemism I couldn't quite get. We sat round the corner in a cosy lounge of this Tim Taylor's pub and Rich decided everyone was probably swingers. I went to get her to phone a taxi which was another strange but funny foray into their lair, but a communication breakdown meant the others didn't know I'd booked it, so when it arrived sharpish, we had to neck our beers and run off, which is a good way to leave this classic pub.

Another short taxi ride found us in Cleckheaton, to a pub I'd been 'warned' might get in the GBG soon but I kind of took it with a pinch of salt because Cleckheaton isn't the kind of place you'd come to for a pre-emptive.

I've all gone a bit Dr Who at the Rose & Crown.

953. Rose & Crown, Cleckheaton

Warm and close-knit with a bustling throng of couples who seemed to be combining speed-dating with eating meals, for during the 35 minutes or so we were there, THREE different couples/groups started and finished a meal on the table next to us, each one consisting of beef, gravy and stewed veg. Talk about faces in the nosebags, but how romantic such a rushed meal can be is unclear. One thing was clear, this must be a candidate for the happiest pub in the UK. Everything provoked uproarious laughter, with a jolly little baldie man at the bar the main ring leader, like some hyperactive West Yorkshire Dalai Lama. If you ordered three pints of "Old Tosser" in York and said "three old tossers because we're three old tossers", people would roll their eyes in a "ugh, CAMRA twats are so unfunny" kind of a way. But here, they almost had to get paper bags out to control their breathing they were laughing so hard. One middle aged woman who I'd suspected hadn't appreciated some of our more colourful language, turned to us, and said "I hope you enjoy the rest of ya pints lads (and lass)", whilst a hi-vis new arrival swarmed the bar and seemed to be doing a constant jig, or he may have had a nervous twitch, What everyone was on, I couldn't say.

Hi-vis man struggling to stay still

Rich used his "local knowledge" to locate a taxi rank in the middle of town, and soon we were Norristhorpe bound, a place I assumed had been made up by the GBG compilers as a practical joke to send pub tickers on a wild goose chase, but just like Kirkheaton and Altofts, it is actually real!

Jason, me and Pipes, at the final tick of the day

954. Rising Sun, Norristhorpe

With the sun setting over outer Dewsbury, it seemed a fitting time to go to a Rising Sun pub, and in true Heavy Woollen tradition, there has to be one pub of which my memories are slightly hazy, just as in the the Taproom Batley (2014), Reindeer at Overton (summer 2015) or the King William IV in Greenfield (summer 2016). However, we had some early controversy as my Hawkshead Brodie's Prime (I was the only one on the dark ale still, cos I'm, hardcore obviously) was pinched by a woman who sped off to an elevated crowded drinking area. When I finally tracked her down, she said "that's your pint isn't it?" in a very weary voice, which made me think she has a habit of doing this. I think "grrr gimme gimme" was my slightly sozzled reply. Despite the pub having been refurbished over a year ago now, the paint smell was in evidence and although my buddies commented on how nice the pub was, I couldn't help but feel it wasn't quite in the same league as the others today, though come here on a hot summer's day with the amazing views and location, and I bet it's a cracking outdoor drinking experience. The music was notable in it's wonderful 80's shitness, so bad that it was good, I'd never even heard of Climie Fisher until today!

A beer that is about to cause much controversy.

Back in Dewsbury, it wouldn't be right not to finish at the West Riding Refreshment Rooms - and anyone who had the misfortune to witness by "Periscope Debut" via Twitter will know I was rather drunk at the time! When I get back up to 1,000 pubs, I'm going to do a "Top Twenty BRAPA Pubs so far" (unless Martin Taylor sues me as he has a famous top 100 feature) and it is fair to say the WRRR must have a great chance of making the final cut.

Me and Piper left AFTER Richard and Jason (a first for any work-based day or night out, anywhere ever) and after a dreadful KFC, I was in bed by 9pm!! Superb day, and I'll see you all in South Yorkshire on Tuesday night for more outer Rotherham based fun beginning with a W. And that's not a sentence you hear every day.

Using a BRAPA card as a beermat is always a last resort (Chequers, Pub 955)

* Wickersley wins on the away "good club" rule.

The heaving 16:48 from L**ds to Rotherham should have been more than a two carriage train, as it couldn't fit everyone on despite the "move down the carriage!" pleas. By Wakefield, we were ten minutes late and as a consequence, I had to catch a bus that dropped me on a busy main road between the two pubs, instead of just outside (bus driver was new and didn't have a clue).

When is a bus twild not a twild? When the parents are twarents. With a Dad (played by a chav Frank Spencer "oooh Betty it won't stop crying"), and Mum (an unmotivated Rose West), what chance did this poor little bastard have? Horrific earring or not, at the age of about 4. Only in outer Rotherham.

Both Whiston pubs were, in Halifax tradition, not where the GBG App pushpin stated .......

Just like Croatia (or Leyton Orient)

955. Chequers, Whiston

It was a seriously freezing evening and it must've been etched all over my face, for the old local who turned round said "cold enough for you out there, lad?!" That was as "real" as the pub got in became quite a sterile experience, despite a wonderful pint of Moonshine. Okay, so I located "the best seat in the house", in an armchair of relative comfort, between Christmas tree and tiny fake fire which was warming. There were no beermats and I'd forgotten my emergency one! The barmaid had "danger" written all over her (not literally, I don't think, well I don't know) but she was the type you'd want to elope with if you just sat there drinking and staring all night. No time for that though today - I think the pub was incredibly proud (surprised?) of being in the Good Beer Guide as there were signs everywhere. Another sign "we don't serve fast food, we serve good food fast!" kind of summed up it's limited charm. To give the pub credit, the "foodie" area was very well hidden out to the right, to the extent where you could happily forget their meaningless existence. A woman with a fat arse seemed to trying to feel heat from "my" fire, her boyfriend looked a dullard too, and the second I started buttoning my jacket to leave, she was STRAIGHT in my seat. I even tried to make a joke out of it, but she wasn't the most quick witted creature, and that kinda summed up the pub.

Proud of being in the GBG

Yawn.

I skidded around the corner onto the main drag and 10 minutes later, I found myself seeing not the name of the pub, but that most worrying of signs .... "Ember Inn!"

...because the Ember photo didn't come out very well

956. Hind, Whiston

But after a bad experience in Redcar, I've learnt to cope by inventing "Ember Bingo". And I ticked off the vast majority on my imaginary "card". It was actually "above average" in that I got a great pint of something unusual (Bread & Butter by Vocation), there were no crumbs or food debris on floor or table, it was comfy, and the clientele didn't act like people who'd never been to a pub before. I count that as 4 "fails". But these are the things I did tick .....

Situated on busy and soulless main road drag in middle of nowhere
You see the Ember sign before the pub name
Full of middle aged women eating
Christmas tree with tacky blue lights (seasonal bonus)
Barman with irritating name (Charlie in this case) who doesn't give a shit
Roaring fire giving off absolutely zero heat
Empty glasses and plates cluttering tables, should've been cleared away hours ago
Mismatched furniture which doesn't belong in a pub
Inappropriate shitty lager beermat (Carling in this case)

So as you can imagine, I quite enjoyed the misery!

The scene so typically Ember

Despite the lateness of the hour, I was too near to Wickersley to ignore it, especially as alphabetically it was next on the list anyway, and I'm not sure I can face another visit to Rotherham this year. A short bus ride (when it finally appeared), a swift left turn at a huge corner pub, past the cricket pitch, down a lane, and I was there.

I'm always anxious pre-club in the GBG. You just don't know what type of reception you are going to get. The GBG tells you to show your CAMRA card or the book itself, but what is the truth. I've categorised clubs into three levels of welcome.

1. Relaxed - "stop waving your card and book around like a ponce, come in, settle down and have a pint and stop making an exhibition of yourself" (see Bolton Ukranian Social Club)
2. Firm but Fair - "we'll welcome you with open arms but here's the rules - you have to engage with us fully, you have to show us your card, you have to sign the guest book, you have to leave a nice comment - then everyone's happy!" (see Hungerford Club)
3. Danger Danger "we've told your sort you're not welcome here you CAMRA scum" (Penistone).

957. Wickersley Old Village Cricket Club

Luckily, this was about a 1.5 on the scale. She did allude to be being a club member, but when I said I was in CAMRA, her eyes flickered in recognition of such an organisation and she didn't even want to see my card, simply warning me my beer wasn't quite as cheap as it would've been. It would've been cruel to chuck me out, I'd already had to ask three burly smokers where the entrance door was - it was a bit ski lodge from the outside, proper sweeping loungey pub on the inside. And she'd already had a chat with me on (what else), the freezing night. "I've turned mi heating off and am not sure it was a good idea!" she declared ruefully. I sat adjacent to a large TV but started itching and coming out in a rash when I noticed those two most obnoxious of football teams, L**ds and Liverpool. A group of men watched, two sat and three stood behind forming a kind of tiered stand which amused me. There was a young family in and the two daughters were displaying over excitable Twild like behaviour, but like on the bus, I let it slide as they were bored shitless as any 8 year old girl would be forced to watch Mum and Dad drink Fosters in a place like this. Though I loved it. On the way out, everyone said bye, even people I didn't even know were in here, lurking in corners. My faith in the GBG club is restored - for now at least!

Great pint of Chantry but is Martin Taylor right, is the man on the lower left crying?

After the bus back to Rotherham "Interchange" (sorry but it's just a lame bus station not even attached to the railway station) I had 35 mins before a train to L**ds so time to revisit the Bridge.

And what a pub this is as me and Tom discovered last December. People talk about Cutlers and New York Tavern a lot, but this is perhaps the best of three crackers. Barman asked how I was and where I'd been, called everyone "luv" (male and female), was a proper burly guy and when he heard Billy Sharp had missed a penalty for Sheffield Utd and they'd lost at home to Walsall, his reaction and language re the Blades was worth the admission price alone! A man came in because his wife was caught short needing a wee. A beautiful exchange followed between barman and hubbie. Hubbie saying etiquette states you should always buy a half in such a situation, barman telling him as a guy with a weak bladder, he wouldn't dream of enforcing this rule. But hubbie was adamant he should behave in the correct manner. Then Liverpool scored twice and all was well with the world. Only downside, perhaps the worst pint glass I've seen this year outside Scottish Stores....

Back on the train, I half considered a "live" periscope update but didn't want the world to suffer anymore so just kept warm, got tea in L**ds, and was home 11:45pm. Three down, two to go,

Si

Ho ho ho! We are approaching that magical time of year where people go to pubs in silly jumpers, act like idiots, stand at the bar, and generally make you crave miserable January pubbing. But it won't stop the well-oiled machine called BRAPA from turning over for one final push in 2016......

November Review

I'd aimed for 25, I achieved 30 new GBG pubs and one excellent pre-emptive (Wath Tap) but I did really push myself quite hard all month after the terrible October. So a good outcome and should be back in striking distance of the 1,000 come the New Year (on 957 as I write this).

Some great days were had, enjoyed getting back into the South Yorkshire Tuesday night swing. The Dobcross/Stalybridge day was a great bonus. The quality was high on the Winter Woollen trail. Berkshire was, well, worthwhile, and though I felt ill on Greater Manchester day, enjoyed some of the pubs. Finishing East Yorkshire (again) was a highlight.

The general pub standard of the month was not the most fantastic ever, but I've picked three that I'm sure any proper pubber would enjoy:

1. Gundog, Halifax
2. Swan Inn (Top House), Dobcross
3. Swan, Three Mile Cross

So they go into the mix for "BRAPA Pub of the Year" award.

December Preview

Of course Christmas parties and nights out can distract me from BRAPA duties so I am determined to be single-minded, well as much as possible without becoming a festive pariah.

And it all starts in style with a weekend double header. An East Berkshire mop-up on Saturday (key pub at Moneyrow Green, four of my remaining ten in this county) and then a North Yorkshire Dales chauffeur day on Sunday (key pubs, two at Aysgarth).

The following week sees me doing BRAPA on Sunday rather than Saturday and I may get myself out Cheshire way again if feeling more adventurous than Greater Manchester! Alphabetically, Cheshire is my first "local" county.

On the 17th, it is my monthly Hull City outing as we make our first trip to West Ham's new Olympic monstrosity. Re pubs, I know Tom has "irons" in the fire so am willing to listen to his proposals before making a final decision as I know he can be a bit over adventurous at times on match days.

Christmas Eve irritatingly falls on a Saturday, and as it is my Mum's birthday, I will be spending the day with Wales' favourite ankle victim rather than jetting around the UK.

New Year's Eve is also a Saturday therefore, a bit annoying too but reckon I can have day out somewhere pre-party but can only imagine what the pubs will be like - or do people stay in and be sensible until about 7 or 8pm? Hmmmm, it's a new world to me, NYE daytime drinking.

Excitingly, on Tuesday nights, I am only two pubs away from completing South Yorkshire so assuming I can do that before Christmas, I am going to "mop up" any North Yorkshire pubs I can do on evenings before focussing on West Yorkshire in the new year. These could include Skipton (may need to be a Friday), Scarborough (bit outlandish but hey ho), Thirsk and West Haddlesey (if I can work out a bus). I think Coxwold may be too much but will look into it just in case.

Happy festive season, keep on pubbing and remember a pub is for life, not just for Christmas.

Si

Having successfully dodged the demonic combination of Christmas shoppers and England rugby fans, I was at Windsor & Eton Central (why do they need a Riverside too, just greedy) before 11am so I had time to wander into my most frequented Windsor building, Boots, to buy some mouthwash. This will have BRAPA relevance as we'll see in tomorrow's review .....

£3.20 for a pint of Fosters, but conditions apply. What could they be?

958. Acre, Windsor

It didn't look like a pub, and if it wasn't for the blackboards outside, I'm sure I'd have walked past. Inside, it all became clear as it was definitely a club, and when I answered the inquiring looks of Mrs Acre with a request for an 11am pint, it wasn't what she was expecting (no I'm not a lost tourist, no I'm not collecting for charity). She gathered herself and offered me a CAMRA discount and I soon sat opposite an increasingly frustrated Mr Acre, wrestling with half a Christmas tree and 50 feet worth of lights and tinsel. I admitted I felt guilty sitting here with a pint, watching (but not guilty enough to volunteer to help). He was relieved when a tanned white tooth barmaid arrived. "JADE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I MEAN, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" She was reluctant to be put in charge of tree decorating, but with "Message in a Bottle" playing, it's fair to say he'd sent an S.O.S. out. A cheeky local man with the gaunt look of East Berkshire had spied some Party Poppers in amongst the tat, and asked Jade if he could nick one, explaining he was going to "use it on an Arsenal fan later" which sounded unnecessarily violent but as we'll see later, wholly acceptable. Amusing little club, and surprised but pleased that parallels to Wickersley's Cricket Club could be made.

Struggling on his own, Mr Acre.

Mrs Acre and Jade's arse to the rescue

It was the greatest taxi rip-off! I was well chuffed finding a taxi outside Windsor Castle to take me to Moneyrow Green, and the guy's sheer enthusiasm for BRAPA, hatred of Aussie sportsmen's lack of self-deprication and his Skipton relatives couldn't shake the feeling, WE WERE GOING THE WRONG WAY! Not directly anyway, this dude lives at Bray, he must know the area. A308 and turn left at Holyport is what I'd do, no chance, we were heading out Cranbourne way! Utter shite, He knew I knew and to stop the ensuing awkwardness, he turned off the meter at £20 when he actually did get lost! Lack of meter was probably a tell-tale sign.

The left side, where I entered

The right side, where I ended up.

959. White Hart, Moneyrow Green

My taxi driver should have come to buy me a drink, as our barmaid was at least half Aussie and told me I'd be comfier in the right hand room where there were settees and a fire. What she didn't tell me was this meant walking through the carpark with my pint to get there, but I kind of like pubs where you have to do this, feels proper, ya know, Tickhill style. Her little helper seemed a quirky jolly lass too ("my family are all in showbiz, do you want to hear my Scouse/Welsh accent?" err no luv), whilst an old man kept the conversation going by stoking up Eng v Aus rugby hostilities. Our barmaid meanwhile, told a story about realising British Airways don't do direct flights to Melbourne, so she'd complained to them that this was unacceptable, which seemed amusing to me in an arrogant way. What with the board games, overly red decor and bar billiards, the pub only really needed a carpet and some Summer Lightning and it would have been quite Hop Leaf in Reading, but the lack of beermats meant this pub was veering perilously close to rural Berkshire blandness - managing to stay on the right side, which was nice to see as the Curridge's, Theale's and Aldermaston's of this world can get you down after a while.

Emergency beermat gets it's first of 4 outings this weekend!

A bit spartan, but pleasingly so.

More warmth than an Ember fire

If a wife found any husband in this remote location, she deserves the house.

A 12:53 bus was on hand to only rip me off £4 to take me the few minutes to Warfield, ugh, maybe I should have walked (everywhere!) but the lack of pavements looked 'harrowing'.

960. Plough & Harrow, Warfield

A cacophony of multi-coloured screaming tinsel hanging from every conceivable part of the ceiling was the first thing to greet me. Next was the equally bright couple who ran the pub - it was like the whole experience had my drink spiked with "happy pills". I was so taken unawares, I did a rare "try before you buy" on a surprisingly nice wintry Greene King guest, a poor local having to move out of my way at the bar, which he did theatrically back-stepping 5 paces to the wall, and then I made him direct me to the loos as punishment for being a martyr. He must've hated me. Excellent. The bar was heaving with eggs, a nice nod towards the rural pub experience of old, though it was a bit unconvincing as the pub was full of bumbling posh upper-middle class fools. "Oooh this is very civilised!" said the most irritating woman on a table of four near me as I hunched over a window seat trying my best to be miserable in the face of too much joy. The table were soon arguing whether the 'venison' was in pie or sausage form, so Mr P&H appeared from nowhere to re-explain the menu to the old duffers. He then brought them free calamari. "Not rubbery like you were expecting IS IT?" he said accusingly. "Our fish n chips are great - fish caught at night on 24 hour boats, actually, large vessels, the top Michelin chefs use the same as us, but WE used them before they got famous, a few delays at sea because of the weather recently". As I spluttered "bullshit" into the remnants of my GK, I realised that I needed a brisk walk into Bracknell to clear my head of this madness.

Tinsel and Greene King - a winning combo!

I didn't even mention the Astroturfed toilet window.

As if Bracknell wasn't a debilitating enough town to be in (despite it's 24 hour smell of baked bread which is the highpoint), the trains were all delayed and the station was heaving with lost souls. An American tourist girl asked where the waiting room was, she was laughed out of the place. I crossed the road for a "hopefully pre-emptive" tick called the Goose - where the Adnams Ghost Ship was excellent quality but the locals were rough A.F. Standing room only so I stood near some guys to feign interest in the rugby, being the kind of pub where"keeping your eyes on a screen, any screen" seemed like a safe bet. "Boo!" said one man next to me. "Alright mate?" I replied, to which he eyeballed me and stormed off to talk a toothless chav outside the loo about his failing love life. Weird.

Saying boo in the Goose

I'd been doing so well for time, and with me back on the 9pm to York, it was probably a good thing that I'd been slowed down but after more delays and confusion in Wokingham, and half a mind to abandon Sandhurst for the day, I ploughed on, revitalised after about 8 cheesestrings and a chat with a posh old lady about BRAPA (always the most baffled audience).

Dusk falls on Sandhurst, but what delights lie within?

961. Rose & Crown, Sandhurst

Homely warm atmosphere, lots of smiling faces, a blonde barmaid making a "frothy head" comment, I ordered an ale with a Brazilian name which I'll never remember - anyway I could see why this pub has won awards, it was worth the wait. I turn round to locate a seat for I'd spied a raised area, but I was amazed by what I saw! A Winter Wonderland, Tim Burton style, of skeletons, skulls, B-movie horror posters, all cocooned in blue fairy lights, snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, fake cobwebs, it was quite a sight for sore eyes. Now whether they couldn't be arsed to take their Hallowe'en decorations down, or whether they were bored of the twee cliched Xmas decor, this certainly left an impression. I felt like I was drinking in an enchanted forest, I'm sure an owl hooted and a black cat screeched at me. Maybe it was too much beer. Whatever, a twild was only three tables away but his yelps were rendered useless as the decor muffled his voice, and the lights incapacitated him. Great stuff, can we have this kind of thing all year round in every pub in York?

Back in London via Reading, I had more than enough time for my now traditional once a month Saturday evening disappointment. I jumped off the Tube at Piccadilly Circus which was so busy, it was like errrm, errrm .....

Soho pubs and the Lyric theatre were nearby, so after 2 minutes stood outside composing myself, I decided to brave it....

962. Lyric, Soho

After seeing some stereotypical hipsters gently remonstrating with a doorman and eventually being convinced they were far too fragile for such a busy pub environment, I had a similar conversation with him, and he let me in "as a Christmas present". Gosh, I hope it isn't the nicest prezzie I get this year! No, to be fair, this was a rare positive experience. The crowds, like doorman, seemed to be very accommodating in "pushing me to the bar", like how life would be if BRAPA was famous! You could've been in an outer Bradford village for the attitude that the punters showed "eeee, get in there lad!" I even had time to break off to help take the piss out of a student with the most horrendous pure nylon Christmas shirt that has ever been witnessed, I even gave it a stroke! He was hounded out of the pub / or left of his own accord, am sure sparks were flying from everything he came into contact with. My ale, Solaris Pale something bollocks was actually my favourite pint of the day, shame you couldn't swing a kitten in here. I managed to perch between two stools near a screen showing West Ham v Arsenal. No one was in the least bit interested until Arsenal scored 3 in 3 minutes and then every bearded tit starting "fan-girling" over Alexis Sanchez and I really really wished I'd picked up a few Party Poppers back in Windsor ....... everyone knows the Hammers defence is leakier than my bladder after 6 pints.

Pushed to the bar!

Moody shot of me getting annoyed by plastic Gooners.

I had ages to wait at Kings Cross but with a 'North Yorks Chauffeur' day on Sunday, I had to be steady - and Parcel Yard was four deep at the bar anyway and it is quite rubbish sometimes so I got coffee, got on train early, tried to work out if the weirdo near me was from North Lincolnshire, played a train bingo game like my Ember Inns one, and was home for 11pm.

Only SIX Berkshire pubs to do, and most of them are in Reading! Hooray, see you back there in the New Year.

Si

BRAPA - A Millers Tale of Two Spoons

BRAPA - Liverpool & Birkenhead

BRAPA - Returning to the South of Sheffield

ARAPA - Australian "Real Ale" Pub Adventure - Part One ("Pubs 1-5)

ARAPA - Australian "Real Ale" Pub Adventure Pt 2 ("Pubs" 6-11)

BRAPA - East Yorkshire Hallow-eve Special

BRAPA - October Review / November Preview

BRAPA - Finishing Sheffield (at long last!)

BRAPA - A painful day in the Manchester 'burbs

BRAPA - East Yorkshire : COMPLETE (well, til Sept 2017)

BRAPA - Dobcross 2-2 Stalybridge

BRAPA - Berkshire Part IX (Three Mile Cross, Shinfield, Barkham & Wokingham)

BRAPA - Duke of Leeds, Wales, South Yorkshire

BRAPA - Chesters & Ivy House, Sunderland

BRAPA - Wath-Upon-Dearne : On Trend

BRAPA - Friday Frenzy in Harrogate

BRAPA - Winter Woollen Adventure in West Yorkshire

BRAPA - Whiston 2-1 Wickersley*

BRAPA - November Review / December Preview

BRAPA - Berkshire Part X (Windsor, Moneyrow Green, Warfield, Sandhurst)