BRAPA (British Real Ale Pub Adventure)

"Eeee by gum" exclaimed my Dad, Bernard "Chaffeur" Everitt as we pulled into an unpromising looking eco-lodge development just outside Aysgarth on Sunday morning where a twild was hanging from a swing and a bearded young couple tried to look energetic, "I can't see this being open at 11am on a Sunday...."

I told him to trust me, after all, both the GBG and Whatpub specified 11am opener Sunday. But being a man of action, he'd found a reception area to the right of the bar, which was sitting in darkness. "Is your bar open?" we asked the boss-man. Had he replied with "11am? On a Sunday?" he'd have had a point. But his response was "Bar? Baaaarrrrr? BAAARRRRR?" as though he'd been wondering for years what that long counter with drink fonts along it was all about. We agreed to return at 12 noon.

No wonder that as we pulled up at the other Aysgarth 11am Sunday establishment, the good chauffeur had convinced himself we'd never get inside .....

963. Aysgarth Falls Hotel

Even inside at the bar (albeit, very lowly lit with not a soul in sight). Dad spent the next five minutes muttering that this was no guarantee we'd get served, but then a nervous looking old chap appeared and soon, two pints of Isaac Poad 1863 from York's newest brewery were ours. We sat in the warm and very Dalesy bar, and apart from spotting a backwards Old Peculiar clock, we just spent the next 20 mins as follows:
Me : "oooh nice place this isn't it?"
Dad : "mmmm decent pint isn't it?"
Me : "very cosy, the place, not the pint, which is nice too, glad we got served."
Dad: "mm hmm"
Things started to pick up when the old hubbie barman chap started being called "chef" by his various relatives, a possible sign they take food too seriously. Then, crazy Mrs Falls Hotel appeared with the promise "I'm about to inflict some Christmas music on you both, sorry!" Not wanting to be Christmas curmudgeons, we tried to remain positive, even in the face of Mariah Carey's background bleating. Such positivity on our part was dismissed, Mrs FH decided we both hated Christmas, hated the music, hated the decor, probably the hotel, and were generally having a miserable time. The harder we tried to reassure her, the worse it got - so we left. This might be the pub where you can pay to look at a waterfall in their garden, but if I want to see running water, I'd go to the gents for free.

I hate Jam Jars, but not Christmas.

Nicer than it looks, promise.

964. Henderson's Bistro, Aysgarth

12:02 and it was sarcastic slow handclap time for this ultra modern weird comfy contraption, they'd located the bar, and by jove, it was open! Mrs Bistro, who'd been lurking in the shadows whilst her husband was being a "bar denier", knew we must be on some crazy pub crawl (good guess) so after some BRAPA chat, she declared she was delighted to be pub 964 on the list and we took our pints of grapefruity Semer Water to a low leather settee where, as you may expect, my emergency beer mat was required. As there was a wildlife magazine on the "coffee table" I used a squirrel's face instead - this was the bravest BRAPA protest of 2016. Apple air freshener was the overwhelming pub scent, the toilets were hidden from the restaurant by the kind of screens you get naked behind for your GP, but despite all this, I've had a pint in plenty worse places. Staff were really good, though Mr Bistro was still looking perplexed every time he entered the bar, preferring to stay in the "day centre" style area. Lunchtime couples came in, all bearded with a whiff of middle class glamping holiday about them. The highlight was when a self-important looking woman marched out of a side room with a tiny dog under her arm, straight for the restaurant, like she was showing them the "Special of the Day". And that sums up the Bistro.

Me at 11am, notice bar on left, looking very closed.

Take that squirrel face!

A short drive down the pretty Bishopsdale road took us to a great little village where we'd had a dubious pub-closed incident in the summer, when they were away on holiday yet still able to jet back from Ibiza to open at 6pm every evening .....

Dad at Thoralby, and the door is open!

965. George Inn, Thoralby

It was all very "Moneyrow Green" as the barman tried to entice us away from the chilly seat on the far side to sit on comfier seating by the bar, near the fire. But unlike me, Dad was very quick to say no, by which he meant "I can hide in this huge settle and eat my own sandwich without you seeing me so there!" Gotta be strategic in these food orientated Yorkshire Dales pubs. But at least it was a proper old style pub, with an outdoor loo which is a dying breed these days - York's Royal Oak went from an 8/10 to a 3/10 since it moved it's toilets indoors, though that's a different story. Martin Taylor will be delighted to hear that Dire Straits 'Brothers in Arms' was playing, and I enjoyed EVERY minute. Punk rock. And when you thought the excitement couldn't get any more high octane, Dad went to the car to grab a folder containing shower designs as I'm having a bathroom refit in the new year. Oh yes, high octane. No wonder I forgot to take my much awaited "Oral B in Thoralby" photo and had to cheat in the Fox later on. The Buckden Pike was a quality pint, and a reminder of where we were headed next.

The pint photo I did take

Get the bluddy fire in (don't you hate it when the logs are "for show"?)

The pint photo I should have taken.

Even by Yorkshire Dales standards, the area around Buckden was spectacular, really pretty village and one of those picture postcard pubs I found in the not too far away Arncliffe, and a couple of others - Malham's Lister Arms springs to mind.

966. Buck Inn, Buckden

And an above average selection of ales and two fires in probably made this pub of the day, though the lack of Dire Straits and insistence on playing any song utilised in an advert for soap or washing up liquid was a choice that only the gaggle of clucky mother hen barmaids can explain. "Lesley" raced straight over to the far end of the room, where we'd taken our pints of Rocket Fuel, brandishing menus in our faces. When we explained that we were just here for a drink, her heart seemed to visibly break before our eyes, like "no-one has EVER said that before in this pub." Shades of the Guinea in Moggerhanger or the Square & Compass in North Rigton, where I was almost rugby tackled to the floor by a hopeful waitress. However, the pub will be remembered for the conversation we witnessed next to us - and all because a young bearded couple of mountain bikers joked with the waitress "what do you do for night life round here?" She didn't get the joke, and started trying to come up with ideas! Despite the conversation naturally petering out, she hung around, explaining her "lack of Yorkshire accent" came from a Dortmund upbringing, whilst she now lives in Keighley (she did have a strong Yorkshire accent) Even when their food arrived, she STILL stayed and chatted shit. Boundaries woman! It was painful to watch. One of them had to ask her to go and find some mint sauce (even though he was eating everything but lamb) to get rid of her. On the way out I heard her asking another couple what they were doing for the rest of the day. Stop. Talking.

Pint action shot

When the talking stops. In the mirror.

Back in York, we popped into the Fox as in tradition on such days where we planned strategy for our next chauffeur day encompassing three North Yorkshire pubs, two beginning with a C, one with a G. Crikey, I might be able to finish the whole of Yorkshire before September 2017.

On the downside, work is so crazy due to that project which sent me to Oz, I may have to temporarily knock Tuesday night BRAPA on the head - at least far away ones, and concentrate on easier ones as I'm having to finish work and 5pm or 6pm for forseeable future.

I'll be back on the slightly later day of Sunday for some W based fun.

Si Ev

The York branch of the BRAPA nerve-centre

Can I have my weekend back please? Not often I say that but after a pathetic return of one new pub and a highly pre-emptive pre-emptive, I'm not pleased with myself. It all went wrong when I slept in until 1pm on Saturday, despite having only had 3 drinks on the Friday Christmas do - one of these being a can of Red Stripe, the other a pint of vinegar at the usually woeful Parkside Tavern in L**ds.

I spent more time here than anywhere else over the weekend!

Sunday travelling and pubbing is far inferior to Saturday as any pub goer will tell you, but why trains to Worksop only started approx 2pm when I was in Sheffield for 10:30am was just plain rude?! It was time to pop into the proxy BRAPA nerve centre in Sheffield to gather my thoughts .....

Working out plan B in Sheffield Tap

Soon I was in a taxi for the 'short' 8 mile run up to Wortley (busses would take too long and I figured if I got there n back ASAP, Worksop was still on). The taxi driver said he'd wait for me until I asked him to take me to Chapeltown on the way back to save cost, when he decided to ditch me and give me a card with their number. When I rang it to say I was in Wortley, they coughed nervously and said they had nothing available all day!

Time to stop stressing and breathe in South Yorkshire quality.

967. Wortley Men's Club, Wortley

The Club of the Year awards are fully justified, and for 35 mins at least, I was able to enjoy the splendour of this amazing place as time seemed to stop. You know when you are stood at the bar, three locals let you go before them (remember, they are club members, I'm a CAMRA interloper) before nodding towards a complimentary spread of cheese and biscuits, you are in a good place. Someone asked an old lady what she wanted to drink but she said "ey up, I want to get mi cheese n biccies and get settled first". It summed up the place, no one under 60 but me. A man volunteered to take my photo as I was (slyly) snapping away like tourist scum, a huge portrait of her Maj and Phil Windsor looked down on me, there was enough tinsel to shame the Plough & Harrow in Warfield, and a man stood up with a microphone to announce the prize winning raffle numbers - the runner up prize being a mixed grill, the winner got a gallon of beer. He couldn't find the chalk for the blackboard to record the numbers. An old stager called Horace thought he'd spied it on top of a shelf, but it was only dust. Horace was politely asked to get his eyes tested. The only music that played was Johnny Cash. I didn't take any complimentary cheese n biscuits, it didn't feel right, plus Judgey Jesus would have probably walked in and thrown a giant olive at my head. If it hadn't been for the BRAPA 2016 staple of Derby County and Tom Ince playing brilliantly on a TV screen, it'd have been 100% successful. 99% will have to do. Are you watching Penistone? This is how a club should treat visitors.

Me and the Christmas raffle prizes inc modern radio cassette player (perhaps).

The wise men get to grips with BRAPA

Raffle time in Wortley and the excitement is palpable.

Ignoring Tom Ince and Phil Windsor, this place is wonderful.

It only seemed right to hop on a bus to Penistone after that, and then a long wait in the most rattly single glazed waiting room in history and a long train journey back to Sheffield. By this time, Worksop hopes were looking slim with work tomorrow, and a train cancellation around Retford/Donny made my decision easier, so I played safe.

40 mins waiting in Sheffield Tap, I'm starting to finally get a feel for this place, on one of their silly tiny tables with beer of the year Bingham's Stout and some half a Bad Seed.....

Note the 85 year old lady in background who drank rest of Sheff Tap under the table (whilst sleeping).

Back in York, it was nearly dusk but time to visit a place which only opened on Friday (Thursday if you are a shareholder, Punk Rock!! Dire Straits Style!)

5 minutes walk from my flat, BrewDog arrives in York!

BrewDog, York

I knew the Aberdeen one was a highly optimistic pre-emptive so I couldn't ignore this on my doorstep could I, especially as rumours that BrewDog may return to cask have been circulating on and off for a while now. And then who'll be laughing? Me, that's who! I entered to the smell of newness, very much like SociAle which opened just down the road a few months ago, though this is a deliberately darker dingier effort, designed with the serious (some may say discerning) beer (keg) drinker in mind. I was greeted by a friendly personable barman (imagine Peter Andre if he lived under the city walls for 5 years and wore a beanie hat at all times) and he asked if this was my first visit. "You've only been open two days so errm yeah!" was my reply. He asked me what brought me here so I told him I live 5 mins walk and I normally drank cask ale in pubs like Brigantes next door - I had to get that in. A man with a reddy brown beard and a lumberjack shirt (I'm not making this up) turned slowly to look at me, did he disapprove of my comment? I felt like I was in a SeetheLizards parody blog, I bet he was called Luke, Three leather booth seats were taken by slightly pregnant women who seemed to be judging how much Hardcore IPA they'd have to drink to spawn a hipster Twild. I headed for an excited sign shouting "MORE SEATING THIS WAY", it was a bit like being in a ghost train. I thought I'd gone outside, but it actually had a roof and reminded me of being in a gig venue with no music and Pret a Manger. I asked a woman if I could perch on her bench "yuurrr, we're leaving in a minutsh anywaysh" she slurred. They were still there half an hour later. My drink was called Hoppy Christmas, served in a 2/3 measure because even the wildest punks know it is the final 1/3 that kills you. Just ask Sid. The folk in here made for great people watching. The four stages of BrewDog bloke evolution - Seasick Steve, Tony Law, Dominic Diamond, Dave Gorman. Well apart from two middle aged Americans who looked lost in a Simon and Garfunkel kind of way (definitely a SeetheLizards parody!) I left having quite enjoyed it in an amusing 'ticked off' kinda way but I'm not cool enough to fully appreciate the intricacies of this chain.

So you may think Sunday's pubs couldn't be ANY more different, but in one sense, they were identical. They were almost exact stereotypes of themselves. And that is reassuring. To me.

Midweek BRAPA Update

Only one South Yorkshire pub left to do, New Year's Eve is the day! I was perhaps a bit hasty with my "work is too stressful so am not doing midweek BRAPA for now" decision last week. Even the 'Project Team' thought this was a crying shame (or do Aussies and Glaswegians just encourage drinking at any opportunity?).

To compromise, I'm going to go back to the 2014 strategy i.e. instead of going alphabetically, do what is closest to Leeds and work my way outwards, by which time, things may've settled down. So West / North Yorkshire midweeks start again tomorrow, and as penance for my crappy weekend, I'm off to squeeze an extra one in on Friday night too pre-West Ham.

Have a good week all,

After another horrid 'project' day, it was a great relief to be able to tick off a pub only a couple of miles from L**ds, my place of work. Fittingly, the bus departed from opposite sister pub North Bar, at a stop which I'd always squinted at in fear from the safety of a pub window - if you like fried chicken and tattoos, this is the street for you.

I was warned by crazy work colleague Karen L that my bus would be full of weirdos, but nothing had braced me for an encounter with 'Catherine the receptionist', who shouted to me from afar, so the whole bus soon knew my BRAPA plans.

In the black drizzly evening, I soon arrived, the other highlight of the short journey being a girl on her phone matter-of-factly saying "yes, she works as an elf at the Trafford Centre on Wednesdays".

You'll just have to imagine the glowing red bit says "Further", ok?

968. Further North, Chapel Allerton

This was what you'd called an "intimate" venue, a much smaller squarer room than it's Leeds counterpart, where everyone seemed to be dressed and styled in 1970's garb, apart from an HMV style dog it had an element of 1996 about it. Even the Christmas jumpers were worn in a demure "what of it, I wear this all year round and I look bloody good in it" kind of way. Weird adult jazz music created something very lounge lizardy about the whole set up, a selection of odd lampshades intermingled with branches of Christmas trees and green tinsel, only added to the vibe. The barman was a helpful young chap - determined to get me to do a "try before you buy" on a peppery Magic Rock porter, I had to explain I wanted to "jump straight in" as it may ward off early signs of man-flu I'd been feeling. This appeased him and caused the pub to look at me enquiringly, as if weighing up how sympathetic they felt towards my ailment, before deciding they gave zero fucks. They returned to their tankards of Euro beer. Oh well, worth a try. I took my pint to the 'radiator' seat, one of those that can give you piles simply by leaning your shoulder on it. I watched two couples theatrically meet up 'by chance' and sit down for a drink in cosy fashion (swingers obviously) and the dog, which hadn't read the script, punctuated the calmness with sharp yelps every ten minutes.

It'll ward off man-flu but it is a tough one to drink!

Lampshades and stuff.

A crazy man helped me flag down a 3A bus when I wasn't concentrating and soon I was back at Vicar Lane, where I made the short walk to the railway station, home in York by 8pm, Sorted.

Next Tuesday, in what will be the unofficial "BRAPA Christmas Special", I'll be visiting a pub I suspect doesn't actually exist as no-one has even heard of the place, never mind the pub! I'm going along for the jolly anyway, could be a good one to write up.

Si

Pub 970, Ship at Gidea Park

Three more East London pubs were ticked off in the name of BRAPA yesterday, to rocket it up the league table by 8 places, overtaking counties as amazing as Lincolnshire, Glamorgan and Ayrshire.

2016 BRAPA started in East London, so it seems fitting that the last "social" day of the year should finish there.

In Leeds Stick & Twist on Friday, alas Eva Hart didn't read the script.

All round BRAPA legend Tom Irvin tracked me and Dad down on the train going east out of Liverpool Street towards Essex, with the honing instincts of a bloodhound with a ginger beard and a bad cough.

969. Eva Hart, Chadwell Heath

I'm sure the percentage of GBG pubs listed under London that are Wetherspoons is higher than elsewhere in the UK, and with no 50p vouchers seeming to cover the month of December, it felt like salt was being rubbed into my wounds (I was still suffering with man-flu). Eva Hart the woman is famous for being one of the Titanic's oldest survivors, so the lack of Titanic beers made me feel like they'd missed a trick. It was "Weltons" ales all the way, but not before the barmaid (who Dad labelled "gossip knickers") kept following her old crone gossip buddy around the bar to talk about car parks despite the fact that a shitload of customers were waiting to be served, by her, the only staff member! She called us 'dear' though and sounded like Babs Windsor so something of a consolation. As 'Spoons go, this was quite a pretty and cosy one, and we found a quiet booth in the raised area, quiet until Tom hacked his guts up and the pub alarm went off (not connected I don't think). The barmaid said she was "off to change the cellar" which sounded like a huge task. Our table was sticky and covered in crumbs, but the ale, strangely called "Heat Was In the Very Sod" was nicely festive.
Quite a typical early morning London 'Spoons experience.

Some Xmassy Welton brews to try once gossip knickers gets herself into gear.

A couple of stops further east was Gidea Park, and a shortish walk from the railway station saw us at this beautiful looking old pub, amazingly it still wasn't 12 noon so Dad was a bit eager trying to break in, a few locals with the look of unhappy Hammers about them lurked in the background.

A bloody foggy morning in East London / Essex.

Close up shows what Tom thinks of pub Christmas parties, plus locals.

970. Ship, Gidea Park

It felt like good manners to let the locals go in first as we heard the door unlock from within - not that we had a choice - but what I hadn't accounted for was another group racing around through a side door from the carpark. You snooze you lose! Popular pub, and you could see why with low beams, nice and creaky, attempts at quirky decor. Shame then that my jolly "hello!" to the barmaid wasn't reciprocated. Miserable bitch, I thought, until I heard her sounding off to an equally miserable blue-topped local about how her morning couldn't have gone any worse. She was rostered on til 7pm, and Friday night had obviously been busy, she'd had a lot of cleaning up to do. Should I suggest working in the pub trade might not be for her, best not, might get barred. She then had to tell me the Brewers Gold was off, I just nodded sympathetically. Poor lady. My Courage Best was lame, but the Tim Taylor Landlord was superb - this wasn't official BRAPA so I could stay for two pints, hurray. The locals were watchful, not as friendly as they should've been, and I hit my head on the soft ceiling cushion on the way to the gents, and I'm a short-arse which just shows how low the roof is. I was ankle deep in water as I stood at the urinal, I made a joke about it, I got glared at by the ghost of one of the Kray twins. It was that kind of pub.

Stain glassed Ship selfie

One stop back down the line found us in Romford, a place I've always wanted to go to since I found out Steve Davis had the Pool nickname of the Romford Slim and 90's chav girls had hairstyles known as Romford Facelifts. The place itself was a bustling little Metropolis, plenty of characters, and it is fair to say the 'Spoons reflected that ......

The locals don't stop for BRAPA photos. "Come on Gran, let's get ya home".

971. Moon & Stars, Romford

Probably one of the more obvious pre-match drinking venues for West Ham fans despite the relative distance from their new Olympic soulless monstrosity, this was a hotbed of hubbub but a surprisingly open and friendly one. The young lads seemed to have abandoned any vague Green Street leanings in favour of the chirpy Cockney wideboy approach. Meanwhile, the oldsters looked like they were out of day release from the 'home', with their suits and army badges and insistence on calling you 'sir' before a carer appeared out of nowhere to help "get them back down the stairs". In searching for a table, Dad was asked to help two old dears carry a tray of coffee and pastries up four steps. He was described as 'very kind' as profuse thanks was showered upon him. We perched between Noel Edmonds fruit machine and the bar, it was standing room only of course, supping a very good Lymestone ale called 'Stone Cold' before the mad dash to the new stadium. Quite a classy place this pub and Romford, if you dare to look beneath the surface!

"Gor bloimey""Lavva Dack""'Av a banana!""Oim foreva blowing babbles".

After a game where the frame of West Ham's goal was man of the match, it was important not to dwell on another defeat and just be pleased it is easier to escape from Stratford than their old ground - which meant BRAPA possibilities were back on the agenda......

972. Old Red Cow, Smithfield

I'd noticed how close this was to Barbican on the way in, liked what I read, liked that it is on the 'first page' of London in the Good Beer Guide, so thought I'd give it a go. (as if I get to choose what pubs I go to!) We entered to a squashy one roomed square pub room, with a nice selection of Moor beers and a few eager staff surprised to see non suited, non Prosecco drinkers in their pub. As young ladies with long legs dangled from posing tables (it was like being in an advert for leg waxing), I realised that if London pubbing has taught me one thing, it is always worth exploring upstairs and downstairs for 'hidden' rooms. And upstairs, I found an extra bar and we timed it just right as Hipster Roy Wood and Wizzard were just saying their farewells to some gushing staff. Dad was loving this place as a potential new stop off point on his frequent trips to London, but Tom was more cautious - noticing that ordering a bowl of chips for £4 was almost on a par with his entire weekly food spend! And I'm all for Scotch Eggs as pub snacks, but what the heck is a Padrow Pepper when it's at home? Never seen one of them in Rochdale. And why was the Christmas garland table decor so OTT that you couldn't rest your elbows on the tables? But let's not complain too much, this was, as Central London goes, a pretty darn good pub to be in. The beer upstairs was keg only but Dad got me a Titanic Stout for the road (rail?), it felt like the day had come full circle.

A blurry Red Cow

Hipster Wizzard are about to depart.

Upstairs bar, I finally got my Titanic!

It was a nice quick & painless journey back to York - I'll be back probably on Tuesday for a West or North Yorkshire pub tick as we wrap things up before the Christmas break. Have a good week. I've lost my voice which might be tricky when ordering beer.

A chance Google Maps based conversation with my new 'Static Data' buddies, Messrs Dawson & Beckett, helped me to realise that the mythical railway station of Kirkstall Forge was actually real, and less than a ten minute walk from this mythical pub, which I'd asked 25 Leeds based folk about, only to receive 25 blank expressions......

It should have all been very straightforward, had I not mistaken 17:46 for 17:40 on the train scoreboard, and hence, I missed my train and had almost an hour to wait. I popped into Scarbrough Taps (as everyone still calls it) during post-work Christmas Nicholson's chaos (am sure this pub was better in 2003) and I got chatting with the bubbly Lisa from Castleford about internet dating, 20 year old man-children and obviously BRAPA, before I escaped.

Ten minutes later I was walking through dark woodland between canal and river, slightly behind the silhouette of a man who I was convinced was about to turn around and murder me. He resisted. I grew to love him, he was like my casual captor who couldn't be arsed. It was all very Stockholm Syndrome.

The pub is real!

It's named after Kirkstall Abbey, wherever that is.

973. Abbey Inn, Newlay

I could sense the anticipation emanating from the clientele as soon as I entered. They lined the pub's bench-seating looking hopeful. I'd love to believe they were sat there with their BRAPA bingo cards about to cross off "nine hundred and seventy three, I'm off for a pee" but there was something bigger afoot. As I expressed delight at a Christmas based Tetley's guest (great caramelly ale flavours, who knew?), the two young barmen looked surprised in a disgusted way and I was just about to ask them if they weren't fans of it, when a huge dreadlocked West Indian strode up and announced "you know I said we'd brought our own power, I lied!" What was going on? Oh well, with the main bar room a hive of activity, I took my pint to the pool room up two steps at the back of the pub where nothing much happened for the next quarter of an hour. Eventually, a grumpy man appeared and thinking we were kindred spirits relegated to the back room, I tried to make conversation but he just wanted to vape and "get some peace and quiet" as he told someone later, fair enough misery guts, two can play at that game, I hate people too. An excitable group of Mum's and daughters appeared and it soon became clear carol singing was on the agenda (they stole vaper man's vaping juice accidentally which was funny). A nervous but friendly thirty something couple squeezed in next to me, we chatted BRAPA but she was worried she'd forgotten the words to Silent Night. The professional West Indian singers kicked off early with some non-Christmas tunes, "Stand by Me", "Brothers in Arms", "Anarchy in the UK" (I can't remember, I'm guessing but I did get told off for complaining they weren't festive enough). It was time to sneak off before the whole pub got going on the carols. Phew, I could hardly move for folk. So much for a 'made up' pub! A community haven.

This area was lined with people too by the time I left

Excellent pint!

I thought he was a paedophile but it is far worse.....

BRAPA is now closed for Christmas so ho, ho, ho, and all that business. Have a good 'un one n all.

I'm getting a couple of bonus ticks in North Lincs on Boxing Day and I'll be back for West Yorkshire fun next midweek. I have to go about nine miles out of Leeds which still isn't bad.

It's what Liz Smith would've wanted. I achieved my first Lincolnshire pub ticks for the first time in nearly two years. It was a Boxing Day bonanza in the renegade "North East" of the county, which seems to think it is a county in it's own right. We'll call it "Post Humberside Hangover Syndrome" (PHHS).

Me and Dad drove down over the Humber Bridge, where the waters looked particularly murky and forboding on a chilly Monday morning - we were meeting the vast majority of the "Welly gang", our Hull City friends who used to frequent the Wellington in Hull which for a time circa 2008 was probably the best pub on the planet.

974. Haven Inn, Barrow Haven

Dad reported photobombing twild interference as he stepped up to take the BRAPA outdoor pub photo, sadly he didn't capture them in shot. The location was quite remote, but there were plenty of diners lurking and I had to veer to one side to avoid collision with an elderly woman with dark glasses, stick AND scooter. The pub seemed to have something of a reception room, which I think might have been a dining conservatory, and finding the bar wasn't immediately obvious which is never a good sign. We saw our Welly gang in the corner as I went to grab myself a pint of Tom Wood's best bitter (still a novelty to a York boy like me) - the barman juggled the change expertly, but he did probably have six fingers on each hand so a bit of a cheat. Furthermore, I had to go back for a 'top up' as I'd got a three quarter measure but I'd rather blame lively quality bubbly beer than bad staffery. If that's a word. Tom was able to recount a humourous exchange on their arrival:
STAFF : Hi. Are you dining with us today?
WELLY GANG : We haven't decided yet.
STAFF : Have you booked a table?
WELLY GANG ; No
STAFF : Well you're not dining with us then!
Classic 2016 pub culture. Well, the pub had a nice cosy feel despite the dining, some brunettes skulked around trying to be gorgeous, a wooden pheasant dominated the window, the roof was low and had beams, walls were a nice warming red, I grabbed a beermat from another table as instructed by Chris Irvin, and I was told about some floods of 2013 almost destroying the pub. I felt the wall behind me, It was dry. On the way out, local expert Christine took me and Dad up a steep bank behind the pub to admire the views of Barrow Haven itself. I almost commented it looked incredibly Lincs but she told me it reminded her of East Yorkshire. This pub did remind of the Hope & Anchor at Blacktoft, only a bit more sterile. Still, worth the trip out.

The Pheasant sees all.

Lovely (photoshopped) view out the back of the pub.

A short drive through Barrow back to Barton allowed us to have a local history tour of the area, everything from coal to the post office, as Bernard drove slowly to allow Bernie to keep up.

Ben, me, Christine arrive in Barton.

975. White Swan, Barton-upon-Humber

As we walked in, Ben and Christine were greeted heartily by the friendly young bar chap and strike me pink if I didn't see one Tom Wood's or Batemans beer, but a selection of strong dark winter guest ales - just what you need when you are about to watch Hull City playing at home to Manchester City. The highlight was the Yorkshire Heart Blackheart Stout - I don't often talk about individual beers cos beer is usually boring, but you gotta try it, absolute classic. The pub had something of an airy modern feel, but still did just enough to be cosy and comfortable though some carpets and bench seating would be a nice addition in 2017. I may have imagined a fire, but a Christmas tree decorated in pump clips is tasteful in anyone's book(!) We sat and chatted about celebrity deaths - we'd already done the Hull City quiz in the last pub which I'd like to think I won but nobody was keeping score. Boo. Suddenly, I saw a bright shining light emanating from the midriffs of a few new arrivals - yellow bellies galore, led by the friendly but slightly mad presence of "Scunny Sarah" who's previous appearance was at the Rising Sun Beer Festival in Sheffield so she has a 100% BRAPA record. Kick off was fast approaching, it became clear me n Dad were the only ones actually going to the game! It felt a bit like a practical joke, but this was a great pub session, reminiscent of Welly days of yore.

Ben as confused by the Xmas tree decor as me.

Nice view of the White Swan bar.

Inappropriate behaviour from the hand dryer.

Me and Dad managed to squeeze in a quick half at the George in Hull, which after many false dawns, has become a good pub which no longer has to rely on a small window for popularity. The beers were all Abbeydale and Bradfield so wonder if a Sheffield person has taken over. I read somewhere that the last time it was this good a pub, Charles II was on the throne!

Micky Phelan getting in a quick pint before the trek to the KCOM.

Hull City then played well for ages but still lost 0-3 thanks to some terrible substitutions (too much Abbeydale Moonshine Micky!) which left you wondering if life would have been better if Dad hadn't turned right over the Humber Bridge and had instead carried on to the likes of Winterton and Burton-upon-Stather.

Whether or not I squeeze in a West Yorkshire tick tomorrow night, I'll definitely be back on Saturday for some New Year's Eve fun - it's what George Michael would've wanted.

Picture the scene. You, my favourite blog/twitter followers, are sat at a series of awkward round tables in a dimly lit arena. Dire Straits is playing. Cloudwater Key Keg is being served (very nice) by P.I.S.S. barmaids and there are Twilds running amok.

BRAPA BRUNETTE OF THE YEAR

The barmaid at the Tally Ho in Eversley wins the award this year. Jolly Hockeysticks she might have been, and it might have been 11am and I was the only customer, but her high breeding, high cheekboned ways were kind of charming, and the news her Grandad owned the pub back in 1765 or something (she wasn't that old) was nice to learn, and she tipped me off that her bezzie mate owned the pub in nearby Yateley, which made an otherwise incredibly dull pub more exciting. And her ability to straddle the Berkshire/Hampshire border was second to none. Phwoar!

Brunette within

BRAPA PUB-MAN OF THE YEAR

There really is only one Martin "RetiredMartin" Taylor and his unswerving support for BRAPA since he first 'liked' my photo of the pub in Whipsnade the other year has been truly fantastic. I sometimes wonder if BRAPA and the blogs would be done so whole-heartedly if I didn't know he existed, doing his own pub-ticking challenge. Thanks Martin. Love reading his adventures too, glad am not the only crazy one out there (I guess Duncan Mackay and Alan Winfield could also come under that category). Anyway, honourable mentions for other Twitterers I've met this year. The hospitality shown by Tim Thomas and Sir Quinno have made Berkshire into a great pub ticking county, great to meet Quosh in Stalybridge, and without making everyone sound like Pokemon Go characters, it'd be great to 'catch 'em all'. There should be an "I-Spy" book, where people like Pub Curmudgeon and that crazy Lager chap are like 500 points or something daft. Mark Crilley would have to be 1,000 points. Bring on 2017! I'd also like to give honourable mentions to the brilliant Bernard "Dad" Everitt and Thomas "Tom" Irvin, I don't take you for granted guys .... *starts to well up*.

BRAPA P.I.S.S. BARMAID OF THE YEAR

She's "Pretty if She Smiles" (but she never ever does), and this year it is the barmaid at the Hare & Hounds in Hindley. With her "Wigan Facelift" and 20 layers of foundation and fake tan, what is not to love? You work in a pub this good, come on luv, give us a smile. Having said that, when locals sit at the bar watching YouTube videos of men getting pinned to walls by forklift trucks, screaming until their last breath is expelled, whilst vaping in her face, maybe I wouldn't smile either.

BRAPA TWILD OF THE YEAR

As one excellent band once sang, "is your child hyperactive, or is he perhaps just a twat?" BRAPA can reveal he is definitely a twat. But it was the She-Twilds at crazy Wetherspoons Ralph Fitz Randall in the pretty North Yorkshire town of Richmond who win it this year. To be fair to the little shitbags, the parents are almost certainly 100% to blame and the fact that one girl commented she didn't know whether her Mum was "'avin' a fag or 'avin a piss" (almost a direct quote) told it's own story. I'd already been moved from a comfy seat by a couple of chavs into the middle of the pub, so 'Spoons Twildery I was NOT in the mood for.

Twilds within.

BRAPA FOOTBALL DAY OF THE YEAR

N.F.F.D. (non football football days) have been one of the best BRAPA inventions of 2016. This means we (usually me, Dad and Tom) can't be arsed to pay £50 to watch Hull City lose at a soulless venue we've been to before, so instead more BRAPA pubs can be achieved by skipping the 1500-1654 bit out altogether. My favourite day this year was on 5th March when we went to Birmingham - the standard of pubs is usually good in West Midlands but places like Spotted Dog, Woodman, Prince of Wales and Mossley thingummyjig were wonderful pubs, even if the White Swan in Digbeth was a freezing cold huge space lacking any charm. A superb day, and a BRAPA debut for my pink jumper which always gets slagged off.

One of my fave photos of the BRAPA year, on brilliant day in Brum

BRAPA PLACE OF THE YEAR

CAMRA tossers like me enjoy debating which town is best out of Derby, Norwich and York for real ale pubs. The answer is clear, it is Sheffield. I already knew Kelham Island and the City Centre had plenty to offer, but the West and South of the city have tonnes to offer. I couldn't pick a fave if I tried. Places like Blake Hotel, Shakespeare, University Arms, Mount Pleasant, White Lion, Brothers Arms etc etc have made my Tuesday night adventures so much fun. I'd like to give an honourable mention to Morecambe which gets a bit of stick of being a shithole, but it is a REAL shithole with proper folk (i.e. not bland and sterile) and there are a million worse places in the UK, trust me, I've been to Theale, Maidenhead AND Doncaster.

Sheffield being good.

BRAPA COMEDY MOMENT OF THE YEAR

Good grief, the Victoria in Paddington almost blew my BRAPA mind - I was like "how the hell am I gonna write this one up in a long paragraph?" Most post-Berkshire London pub ticks have been pretty bland experiences, but this was superb. People remember Judgey Jesus, Olives and the Spanish/French girls but the barman having a meltdown whilst on his shift, and the incredible hidden upstairs room and weird closet where barstaff folded knives and forks into napkins made for one of the most entertaining and weirdest BRAPA experiences of all time. Beer was great too, I'd really recommend a visit here.

BRAPA PRE-EMPTIVE PUB OF THE YEAR

You know me, if I hear about a pub that is almost certain to be in a future edition of the GBG whilst I'm in town, I'll try and squeeze it in to my agenda. The likes of Wath Tap (Wath Upon Dearne), Cow & Cask (Newbury) and Gallaghers (Cross Hills) were all well worthy of the admission price alone (well, so to speak) but my ultimate winner and one I'm hoping will get in the 2018 GBG is Scottish Stores at Kings Cross in London. Parcel Yard is so hit n miss, it is brilliant to find somewhere this good so close to the station before the long trip back to York. Staff are great, beer is great, building is great - okay so it also won "worst pint glass of the year" award for that Budvar monstrosity (I was drinking a session ale from rural Essex!) but wow, I love this place. Where else would you get asked "are you part of this 1960's Hippie themed event?" when you walk into the pub in a 2007/08 Hull City top a pair of jeans?

Shit glass, great pub. Man tries to clash with flooring.

BRAPA QUOTE OF THE YEAR

Bernard Everitt in the Clarence, Bury, 30/01/16. "Enjoy your fart-arse ponce burger" (To a poor unsuspecting man who had made the unwise decision to eat in this poor excuse for a pub). Runner up, also Bernard Everitt - to a young barman at Ivy House in Sunderland "Please could you de-ice me?"

BRAPA PET OF THE YEAR

Purdie at the cat in the incredibly strange Wombell Arms in Wass. Possibly the most vocal cat I have ever met, and she was so friendly. Why don't more pubs do cats? It really annoys me. Okay, I haven't had dogs shoved down my face this year compared to 2015, but I do believe a good pub pet, whatever it is, even a dog, can improve a pub by 3.4% and that is scientific fact. I know Tom is still hopeful I will meet a parrot that squawks "Brian Laws is a Wanker" at half hourly intervals.

BRAPA CLIENTELE OF THE YEAR

Hungerford Club, down in West Berkshire was the undisputed champion of 2016 when I visited back on a sunny Sunday in late April. I'd walked miles, London Pride was the only ale, I'd had to go through the motions of the club and sign in etc but once I sat down, I was made to feel part of the "family" by the barmaid and all the wonderful locals - even allowed to join in the barbecue and buffet. Such a heart-warming moment, especially as I was spending 4 days alone in a Reading Premier Inn, enough to make anyone feel a bit like they were going insane!

BRAPA NIGHTMARE DAY OF THE YEAR

It is fair to say you baaarstards like to see me suffer. Why else was my blog "A pub blog with no pubs" (where I tried in vain to visit the Cock Inn in Birdwell) my MOST READ BLOG for the best part of the year?? Thanks! But my ultimate worst day was 27th August when I went up to North North Yorkshire, already pissed off my new GBG hadn't yet arrived. Saltburn Cricket Club was closed. I then wasted best part of £6 on a winding bus route to Loftus. PUB CLOSED! Bus back delayed by 30 mins. Redcar East was not only an Ember Inn, but it was race day - I spent about 20 min waiting to get served, my pint was vinegar but too busy to return it. Then to top things off, Eaglescliffe pubs were nowhere near the station despite what the GBG claimed, and then Hull City conceded a 90th minute goal when I was back in York Tap. Awful day!

Redcar Racegoers.

BRAPA "THIS IS THE BEST TRIP, I'VE EVER BEEN ON" AWARD

And if you can hear Phil Brown singing in your head about now, I apologise. I'm tempted to say Australia as personally, it was an amazing unexpected experience, but the lack of BRAPA pub ticks was concerning (though I tried to make the best of it with ARAPA and even got a pint of cask ale in the Penny Blue). Instead, it is a joint award for my 4 day Berkshire trip back in April, and my Scottish jaunt to Ayrshire in June. Both really fun and rewarding experiences, where I ended up with a pickled liver but over 20 pub ticks in a short few days.

Abbotsford in Ayr, a classic BRAPA trip.

BRAPA "WORST CLIENTELE" AWARD

Wokingham at 10pm on a Monday night is a scary place to be, make no mistake, However, the first pub I went in, the Queen's Head, was an absolute cracker of a 15th century cruck framed timber inn (so the GBG says anyway). Barmaid was ultra friendly, and most of the locals were engaged in happy relaxed conversation. BUT. One man. Paint stained overalls. A stand-up comic he said. I had no direct interaction with him but he made my skin crawl. It was his erratic behaviour - one minute, he'd pretend he was the devil with horns, next thing, he'd run the length of the pub on imaginary horse singing Black Beauty shouting something about highwaymen and making weird sexual references. I was terrified. And he has ruined a probably decent town for me, forever. I returned to Wokingham recently, popped into Costa Coffee to use the bogs. He was obviously in my mind cos when I opened the door on way out, I jumped out of my skin thinking he was in front of me. It was actually a 5 foot 2 Chinese tourist girl. See, I'm scarred for life.

BRAPA OUTDOOR PUB EXPERIENCE

One thing I struggle to get my head around in BRAPA is the whole "taking your pint outside on a lovely summers day". My worry of course, how can I review a pub properly if I spend 95% of my time here in the garden rather than in the pub? But I guess it's all part of the pub if you really think about it! This year, the award goes to the Admiral Rodney Inn at Criggion near the Welsh border. I was with Dad, and the whole experience was utterly magical. Nervy but genius barman, perfect Salopian Oracle, amazing Fish n Chips in a basket, and most of all, the serene and silent outdoor experience with background mountains - not a main road or any traffic noise anywhere near. Sublime. Honourable mention too for the Baxter Arms in Fenwick, where I drank 3 pints in about 20 mins (exaggeration) and didn't feel a thing. Chilly wind? I didn't feel that either.

Heaven in Criggion (once the tour bus scum departed obviously ;)

BRAPA "MOMENT OF CONTENTMENT" OF THE YEAR

I'm never happier than when I'm in a great pub and this year, the whole "is it or isn't it going to be open?" scenario on the crazy remote drive to the Anchor, Anchor had me a bag of nerves. To find this ramshackle old building with "Open 7-11" daubed on the wall and to realise, yes it is open, and walk in and find the barman leaning behind the bar with an air of the "what-of-it" was just wonderful. A very different experience came at the Newbury, Newbury - a gastro hell-hole downstairs but to find this hidden deserted bar upstairs was amazing, especially when staff started coming up offering me snacks and re-fills like I was some kind of VIP. Hats of to them. Must be something about pubs named after the place they are in.

BRAPA WORST PUB EXPERIENCE OF THE YEAR

I could do a separate blog, obviously! On the face of it, it should be Butchers Arms in Sunderland - the only pub that hasn't served real ale in BRAPA history (on the basis we hadn't yet reached Thursday in the week!) But as a pub, I liked it, especially pissing in a broom cupboard, And the guy himself was more hapless than awful. Another contender would be Penistone's unwelcoming Royal British Legion Club where I was told in no uncertain terms "we've told YOUR lot, you are not welcome here!" Being collateral damage in a local CAMRA dispute is not something that felt very fair, yet I did enjoy my pint, was made welcome in the main room, and got mistaken for a guy having a job interview, so I wouldn't vote for this either. What about the Bull in Theale, a pub symptomatic of everything wrong with pubs in the south east of the UK. Yet, it was so bland, it was almost hard to get angry with. And I could apply that to Soho's depressive Star & Garter. The consolation here being that the rest of the customers looked even more depressed than me - which actually cheered me up a bit! I want to mention a few more - Crown & Shuttle (Spitalfields), Tap on the Line (Kew), Bar (Chorlton cum Hardy), JG Sharps (Largs), Turner's Mill (Redcar), Rhinoceros (Rotherham), Punchbowl (Sheffield : West) and Jack in the Box (Altrincham). All of these made me want to puke in my own mouth and choke on my vomit. But the ultimate winner has to be Clarence in Bury. Words cannot describe the true shitfest. The most jarring factor looking back was that they were celebrating a 110 year anniversary and wanted people's memories of the pub from yesteryear. "I remember the days when a pint of blackcurrant didn't cost £2.80" "I remember a time when drinkers didn't have to stand up for people eating fart arse ponce burgers". Being in a town like Bury where I'd expect things to be down to earth, working class, and "real" just made it all the worse.

BRAPA PUB EXPERIENCE OF THE YEAR

I'm glad that I have even more contenders in this category than in the "worst" pub category. I've got it down to about 20, I loved all of these experiences massively. Swan Inn, Dobcross. Bell Inn, Aldworth. Sip Club, Stretford. Guildford Arms, Edinburgh. Shakespeare, Kelham Island. Masons Arms, Billinge. Queen's Hotel, Maltby. Wortley Men's Club. Mallard, Worksop. Cover Bridge Inn, East Witton. Crown, Lofthouse. Falstaff, Derby. Hopleaf, Reading. Eagle, Salford. Old Vic, Darlington. Admiral Rodney, Criggion. Major Tom's, Harrogate. Gundog, Halifax. Clarence, Marske. Ebor, Bishopthorpe. Spotted Cow, Malton. Rose & Crown, Hoylandswaine. A winner? I will let you pick.

And that concludes the awards, bring on the 2017 pub ticking!

Si

My only two prior bits of knowledge on Worksop were as follows - I once had to retrieve a cricket ball on the boundary rope for a big West Indian called Otis Gibson. Secondly, Maid Marian and Her Merry Men was supposed to be set there (Devon in reality). So it was with some surprise that I saw no mud huts or stray cricket balls as I wandered around the market place at 10am. Quite a decent town (many include my Mum had warned me of scroat potential) and female people smiled, and it was easy to navigate.

Typical Worksop locals

I found the bus station so I knew exactly what Bay I was using later (Bay B, baby, baby) and then ventured back to my first pub for 10:55am, getting briefly distracted by something I thought was a micro-pub pre-emptive tick:

I thought key cutting was to do with key-kegs, ok? Shoe repairs? Not sure.

976. Unicorn, Worksop

Like the brilliantly balls-to-the-wall boozer that it is, the pub was in full swing before 11am and the half Chinese barmaid was obviously from the "I'm very friendly to a point but I take no nonsense from idiots" school. £2 for a perfect pint of Christmassy Welbeck Abbey was superb. Had I been brave enough to take a photo of the locals sat in a line facing the bar, it would have been "pub photo of the year" but I chickened out. They aren't animals in a zoo. Not quite. Instead, I was hailed by a crazy old chap referred to as "Uncle Albert" despite the lack of beard, he was all gums and weird Savile-esque noises. But I sat along the bench from him and it was nice to see a series of younger men bring their pints of Carling over to him for a 5 minute chat. Community is alive and well here. He seemed to be having trouble operating his 1997 mobile phone, and when I told him I was from York and on a pub-ticking mission, he looked at me like I was an alien and our relationship was ruined. On the plus side, the silent TV screens seemed to indicate Patricia Routledge and Ken Dodd had died overnight until I realised it was New Year's Honours list. Then a screen showing the darts had "Unicorn" printed on each dartboard, like this pub had a monopoly on the world. The barmaid was working hard on her own, commenting "the staff who've refused to work today will get their reward in the New Year when they are cut!" which sounded even more sinister than intended. Great pub.

Uncle Albert (left) buys a pint for Sandy and his huge coat/scarf combo.

Jam jars can be overlooked for once, a great pint.

The bus was inevitably delayed by 10 mins but a bunch of us, including an ultra annoying woman who nobody seemed to like, hopped on. The best fact I learnt was that Barry Harris is always moaning. Not sure who he is but I'd like to meet him. I jumped off the 19A at Woodsetts where the pub was just over a crossroads .....

This is how you finish South Yorkshire

977. Butchers Arms, Woodsetts

Celebratory moment it certainly was, I'd promised myself back in February on my first trip to Armthorpe that I'd finish South Yorkshire by the end of 2016. I left it late, but I did it. Having said that, this pub fell kind of flat. Even from the outside, the whole 70's Estate pub stuck onto old building looked a bit rubbish. Raw Brewery Tap I hear, loved their beers when they had lots on in Barnsley's Old Number 7 on a football day, so why then, would they only have 1 on out of 5 pumps? It could just have easily been Black Sheep, Dukeries, Tring or Imperial brewery tap. As I was getting served, a cute elfin Asian barmaid shouted "you've got that coat on again!" I was about to comment it was my favourite, when I realised she was talking to an old man. It would prove a bit ironic in that the pub was FREEZING COLD and I (and everyone else) kept coats and scarves on for the duration. Something to do with "Raw"? My Dad always judges how good a pub is by how long it takes him to remove his coat, he'd not have been a fan. I then caused a minor stir by refusing to accept a 'loyalty card'. "One off visit" I explained, before hastily adding "unfortunately". A blatant lie but at least I got a warm smile off elfin barmaid who by now was wrestling a cash register. The music was shit, pub was dull, experience was quite drab all round as I used my STABILO highlighter to finish highlighting South Yorkshire. One overheard conversation to end on:

LOCAL : "What is going on in here tonight then?"

BARMAID : "It is New Year's Eve."

And it really was that kind of pub.

Zzzzzz.

Wonky tree and late presents

I got chatting to a lady at the bus stop who had once complained about the temperature in the Butchers Arms when she had a meal there, so I wasn't alone.

Back in Worksop, I wandered back towards the railway station where two pubs were within view ....

978. Station Hotel, Worksop.

Ignoring the Carling pub sign, this pub was surprisingly homely, lounge-like with a touch of the working men's club about it. Long and thin, opening out at either end. The staff were again of the feisty female ilk, and the first question "would you like a loyalty card?" was again rejected. Don't think I've been asked this in 976 BRAPA pubs previously, then twice in one hour! This time it caused no stir, the locals were all sympathetic smiles as though "why is this poor chap drinking alone on New Year's Eve" so I tried to look content. A local old man was dithering at the bar next to me, but his glasses were steamed up so he couldn't tell which beers were which, or what percentages they were so "to be safe", he decided to "just keep trying halves" with the reasoning "I can come back for more later if I like them" which lead to much laughter from the bar area. I sat facing the bar on some leather bench seating, only for a loud middle aged woman to sit next to me - her perfume was strong so I couldn't taste my Cocoa Stout, and the whining alsatian that had wandered in off the street seemed to share my opinion as it collapsed in the far corner. Interesting trivia for future Hull City quizzes - where did I see most Hull City goals in the 2016/17 season? Answer, Station Hotel in Worksop. As for some reason, their TV was obsessed with us. Perfume-lady gang kept expanding as more 50 somethings arrived, but the men were notably less excitable than the women. "I'm just wondering how much longer we've all got to live" replied one man to a Happy New Year greeting. Classic Notts response.

Pub men having a chat. My pint glass didn't help taste of beer either.

View of the lounge before Perfume lady gang arrived.

Right on the station was yet another GBG pub, of course, I could've got an earlier train home to York but that'd just have seemed wrong .....

Mallard, taken at 10am before opening time.

979. Mallard, Worksop

The scene that greeted me made me realise I was in somewhere quite special straight away. A small square carpetted room, full of well-being, pub hubbub and comfort. A couple of locals parted to allow me into the handpumps, where a friendly barmaid wasn't offering loyalty cards, and a seat had just been vacated so I joined the locals lining the walls supping regular darts themed ale 'Shanghai' by Double Top. One lad, who looked like he was on an anti-social BRAPA style mission, hadn't read the Mallard script, put his headphones in, put his feet up, and lay back as though he was in his bedroom. Not cool behaviour. One man, sat on the stool at the bar, seemed to be like the ringmaster, spinning round at regular intervals to check if people were having a good time and enjoying the beer. It took a chance comment about how white wine was better than red to spark me into life, and I went on a pointless rant which even made Mr Anti-Social temporarily remove his headphones, But it soon led to BRAPA chat, a man tried to counter-impress the locals by saying he was following a book to "drink 1001 beer before you die" but compared with 4500 pubs, it didn't have the same effect. So take that chump! The barmaid declared she was going home to watch Harry Potter in her pyjamas (a comment EXACTLY the same as made by my favourite BRAPA barmaid ever, at the Dispensary in Liverpool). Amazing little place, almost stayed for another but remembered Retford was waiting for me.

I'd wanted to be out of Worksop fairly early, not just because I was worried about NYE transport, but because Donny fans were returning from a 12:15 kick off at BloodyRubbishMansfield and I didn't want to get caught up in the "16 pack of Stella Crowd" I'd experienced on the way in.

After re-aquainting myself with Retford's idiotic split level station (I told a poor cleaning lady I thought it was ridiculous), I went to not the nearest pub as I had time to kill, so I went to the second nearest to the station....

980. BeerHeadz, Retford

Ending 2016 BRAPPing with a pub ending in a "z" seemed wrong, but maybe symptomatic of the modern pub age we live in - yes, this was a micro pub though less micro and less pubby than the Mallard, but still a jolly little place even if there wasn't a seat to speak of, so I cosied up to the coat stand by the front door with a pint of Tiny Rebel "Fugg Life" from Wales. If the pub name seemed mildly annoying, then we also had "Toiletz" and "Gentz". The crowd was pretty middle aged, dogs and beer bellies and people being miserable about New Year celebrations (despite obvious drunkeness) was the order of the day. The landlord has a huge coat and scarf on at all times, I wonder if he'd just come from Woodsetts. The pub sold it's own merchandise. I can't imagine walking around in a "BeerHeadz" t-shirt. The ghost of Rick Parfitt stood up and suddenly declared that "no-one likes the word 'Micro' anymore". And then an emotional (i.e. drunk) woman left her group saying "wow, it will be 2017 when I see you all again!" Considering it was nearly 5pm on New Year's Eve, it didn't get the exciting reaction she was hoping for.

The journey home went well, trouble free, straight through to York without a Donny fan in sight. See you for 2017 pub ticking and a Strategy Preview of the forthcoming year.

Si

December 2016 Review

December is notoriously a tricky month to get a healthy BRAPA quota ticked off, mainly because 'normal' people remember pubs exist, get time off work, and decide it is a good time to "meet" up for drinks in pubs I have been to before. I also feel more ill in December than any other time of year, so motivation is lower for that reason! All things considered, I was happy with my return of 23 new pubs and one pre-emptive, beating the 20 I managed in 2015 but well under the impressive 30 I achieved in 2014.

My three favourite experiences were:

1. Wortley Men's Club, Wortley, South Yorkshire
2. Mallard, Worksop, Nottinghamshire
3. Rose & Crown, Sandhurst, Berkshire

The quite bizarre Rose & Crown in Sandhurst.

The highlight was finishing South Yorkshire on New Year's Eve (even if the pub was a bit crummy) and getting a potentially difficult day in Berkshire completed smoothly, meaning I only have six pubs left to aim at here. An enjoyable Sunday in the Dales with Dad, a Boxing Day boost in North Lincolnshire and an Essex/East London day at West Ham were all good occasions, as was the return of some West Yorkshire ticking on Tuesday evenings.

I start the new year on 980 pub ticks, which means the 1,000 should be back up by the end of Jan. But where will it be? Somewhere better than the Delph in Orrell this time I hope. The BRAPA Strategy Time Machine suggests it will happen on Mon 23rd Jan around 12 noon in Central London.

2017 Preview

Rather than focus on January, I'm looking ahead to the year as a whole with key counties in my mind that I really want to "pummel" in 2017. Here is a brief rundown......

West Yorkshire - Tuesday evenings see me return to my favourite BRAPA ticking county so far as there are plenty in the 2017 GBG I haven't done before. I've so far managed Chapel Allerton and Newlay in December, and continue to work my way "out of Leeds" by mileage.

Berkshire - Six pubs to do, to be done over two trips in Jan (Reading area) and Feb (West Berks) where I hope to catch up with Sir Quinno and Tim Thomas respectively for a final (sob!) time.

Buckinghamshire - And from March, I will focus on Bucks starting with an anti-clockwise tour of outer Milton Keynes. After a South Bucks day in early April, I'll have the first BRAPA beezer of the year at the end of the month, basing myself in Aylesbury where I might be the first person to go on holiday there. Very much like I did with Reading last year. Can't wait to get going on Bucks!

Now some might ask if I'm "mopping up" those new Bedfordshire entrants appearing in the 2017 GBG. The answer is no, after much thought, I've decided I won't look at Bedfordshire again (unless passing through by chance) until I've completed Worcestershire for the first time (gimme a few years!) I am sure Luton can survive without me until then.

Cheshire - Alphabetically, Cheshire is the first county I'd class as semi-local, meaning I'm going to really get cracking on this (hopefully a monthly trip like Bucks). My Lymm day (which was my most read blog of 2016) took me to Agden Wharf, so alphabetically, I'm now looking at Alsagar amongst others soon but gaps in my calendar aren't as frequent as I'd like until the summer.

Agden Wharf lit the blue touch paper on Cheshire ticking back in September

North Yorkshire - In a change of strategy in 2016, my never-ending quest to finish this vast sprawling county (impossible even though I live in it!) has become the domain of Si Dad chauffeur days, and I see that continuing in the New Year with the odd exception of ones I can mop up on Tuesday nights or a return to that pesky Saltburn area. With South and East Yorkshire done until September, could I perhaps finish all Yorkshire before then? A tantalising prospect (for me).

NFFD (Non-football-football-days) will continue in force with Tom and Dad, partly dependent on where Hull City are playing, but sometimes that is as irrelevant as a Ryan Mason substitute appearance so expect to see the odd trip to the likes of London, Greater Manchester and Merseyside. As for my summer trip, I'm thinking of breaking with Scottish tradition and flying to Cornwall but if the pasty munchers don't want me, Greater Glasgow & Clyde Valley excites me muchly!

See you all soon, Si

So, a New Year and plenty of exciting (or not) BRAPA pubs to visit and write 'lovely' things about ...

And that has actually been true so far, as me and Dad arrived in a chilly Birmingham New Street station on Bank Holiday Monday morning to find Tom leaning out of the Tipton train like something from a Brummie Brothers Grimm Fairytale. By Sandwell & Dudley, Twitter legend West Brom EL had hopped on and soon the four of us were skidding on the icy pavements towards the first BRAPA pub of 2017 which El told me was once owned by the Tipton Slasher, William Perry, Champion Boxer - amazing the facts you'd miss without local knowledge.

Let's get 2017 pub ticking show on the road

981. Fountain Inn, Tipton

And an excellent start to find a warm traditional no-frills pub selling Titanic Plum Porter (a fitting first pint of the year which El realised I wanted before even I did!) An early candidate for most inappropriate footwear of the year came from an old man propped against the bar like he'd been there since New Year's Eve, some weird slipper things which I couldn't stop scowling at, they really offended my sensitivities in view of the slippy pavements. I couldn't observe all due to being "sociable", but the pub had a nice bolshy atmosphere going on so when I noticed a barmaid giving a stern telling off to a customer for trying to steal a cob from the cabinet (this is obviously the type of pub that does food in the proper pub way), I smiled over thinking it was done in jest only to realise she looked red-faced and properly angry. Was she planning on becoming a modern day Tipton Slasher I wondered. We squeezed in a quick half before the bus, Hobson Town Crier (which strangely has been following Dad around all Christmas - not literally) was on, I let him go to the bar under the circs, whilst Tom picked up a cob but did actually pay for it which was something of a shame. A pub everyone should visit. I even let El use the green stabilo (best brand) highlighter to 'tick it off'.

We sat here - note bench seating and beermats which you can't take for granted!

View to the bar and the local with weird footwear.

After a meandering bus journey around some crazy Tipton-ish estates, we arrived at pub two which was near an area closer to West Bromwich called Great Bridge .....

Me and Dad are all smiles outside, but would it be any good inside?

982. Rising Sun, Tipton

Yes, it was pretty evident from the moment we stepped inside that we were in a classic. Dad even temporarily turned into a Tony Gubba football commentary .... "OH I say, This is it, This IS IT, quite remarkable, oh yes, it's there!!!!!" Even the unflappable barmaid who has probably seen everything in this pub looked half amused by his thrilled reaction and it wasn't long before Dad was telling us about 'linen fold' architecture in the bar design - which is enough BRAPA culture for the entire year thanks very much. El went for a cigarette break, Tom tried to remember why South Norwood might make such a good day out, and me and Dad took great joy in finding a fault with the pub - 80's music videos played too loudly. And when that changed to Sinead O'Connor's crazy crying bald head, you could almost tell by the emotion in her voice that she was singing Mike Phelan's death knell. It was that kind of pub. An early contender for pub of the year?

After some expert bus-hopping from Tom had us in West Bromwich in ultra-quick time, El took us to a pre-emptive (we didn't have time for the Crown & Cushion*) which I think he felt confident would be in next year's GBG.....

Tom, me and El arrive at the Wheatsheaf.

Wheatsheaf, West Bromwich

The only pub in West Brom I really know is the Vine, and this felt strangely reminiscent, only slightly less long and thin. El ordered us an "Old Ale" by Holdens before we could blink (well me and Dad, this would have been a harsh ale introduction for Tom) , they sadly didn't do pints but it was beautiful hybrid of tarmac and syrup, just how I like it. I heard on the grapevine that this ale makes over 60's quite obstructive and sure enough, soon Dad was claiming he wasn't going to the match, until he was brought round again with the remedy, a quick sip of Black Country Bitter. This pub had this fantastic family community feel but I think they went a bit too far when a barmaid plonked her twild ON the bar whilst I was getting served, is there anything sadder than a Bar Twild who hasn't learnt the joys of getting smashed on Old Ale? Probably not. Lovely pub though, best get in t'GBG.

Bar Twild.

Towards the back of the pub

After 45 minutes of good but frustrating stuff from Hull City, we were subjected to the most spineless second 45 ever. "Phelan has to go" I said, which means I now have the same brain as Ehab Allam. Which is depressing.

But when I said to Dad after approx 80 mins "oh well, consolation is at least we can get 1 or 2 Birmingham ticks in before our train home!" only to find both pubs (Pure Craft Bar & Kitchen AND Queen's Arms) shut, this was even more depressing.

I mean I know it is a Bank Holiday, it is 2nd Jan, but 5:30pm in centre of Birmingham, I think that is quite ridiculous. At least the Post Office Vaults came to my rescue (for a THIRD time in my life!) and we had a nice warming underground pint of something from Huddersfield.

A great day out, despite various hurdles (and I tripped over a road sign in Brum and am only telling you this because Tom said he'd shame me if I didn't cos he's evil!), and lovely to meet El who may get a full time West Midlands BRAPA contract if he can keep up this good form in the January window.

* A weird trend is evolving, the "reverse pre-emptive". It started on Boxing Day in Barton when I asked Christine Andrew how come we weren't ticking off the George Inn. She indicated that's because it probably won't be in the GBG again (next year at least!). And I sensed something similar with Crown & Cushion (even though we ran out of time anyway), a bit like no-one really believed it was a GBG pub. Interesting trend which I'll see if this continues and let you know.

I may as well be making pancakes

Fast forward 24 hours then after a knackering first day back of work, dosed up on honey & lemon to stop "cold number 4" from taking hold, I'm legging it down a windswept Old Road in Farsley.

I knew the shortcut from New Pudsey railway station from the days when I used to go round to my friend Emily's house for cottage pie and a game with the kittens.

I walked fast and was at the pub in about 15 minutes, passing weird shops with names like "You are takin' the Pizza" and "Window to the Womb" (and I thought Pudsey was weird).

The Fleece in early January gloom

983. Fleece, Farsley

I know a lad who went up to the bar in this pub, asked for a pint, only to be told be a stern barmaid "this is a golfers pub you know!" It didn't stop him being served when he asked, she just thought he should be aware. So dressed in my finest tank top, tartan trousers and carrying a niblick (kidding I promise), I strode confidently up to the bar where a friendly 18 year old bar boy had boring pub questions for me. (a) Did I want to try the ale first? NO! (b) Did I have a CAMRA card? YES! (c) Did he want to see it? No, I had a trustworthy face (not his official words, it was more "no one would lie about being in CAMRA"). All the staff were remarkably young considering the fierce "if you're not 25 you better bloody prove your 18 okay you fresh-faced shitbags?" signs all over the pub. A friendly newbie blonde barmaid smiled at me, but didn't know how to spell "Excelsior", but we'll forgive her on account on being blonde and from Farsley. I sat in the front bar where I was joined by Seasick Steve (lost on his way back from Hootenanny) and he provided unlikely drama when he ordered a "Mocha". This caused a stir with the lively twenty-somethings in the back bar who seemed to be a mixture of kitchen staff and off-duty-staff:

"What IS Mocha?"

"Coffee and chocolate mixed together"

"Does it have marshmallows in? I love marshmallows in my hot chocolate on a cold night!"

"Errrm no, I don't think so ..... Steve, Steve, do you want sugar?"

"Oooh don't gimme sugar luv, sugar kills me!"

This is exactly why pubs are amazing. I had to feign interest in a circa 2001 re-run of L**ds playing away at the Gooners whilst this was going on. Nowt else happened, I just sat in a corner and tried to be invisible. Oh, a bald man called Martin came in, danced around a bit, told Steve "I'm off to do my hair". Steve asked if he was having a wax. It was time I left.

After a 15 minute hike back up t'hill, just managing to get the next train, I was sweating and exhausted but glad I did it though a hard one to get motivated for before.

My next two West Yorkshire places are both 12 miles from Leeds so which do I choose first? Well, one has weird opening (well, closing) hours on a Tuesday so I might be there sooner than you think.

Have a jolly good evening and see you all soon,

I had to act quickly. My two nearest West Yorkshire pub ticks were both 12 miles from L**ds, but one shuts 6:30pm every weekday except Friday, too early for my usual Tuesday night venture.

So it came to pass that at 5:20pm on Fri 6th Jan 2017, I was stood in a train carriage hurtling towards Dewsbury chatting to my new fave work buddy and local resident, Miss Hannah Gilroy, about subjects as joyous as 'tricky job interviews', 'epilepsy' and Shannon Matthews.

Before you could say "who's hiding in that divan bed?", she handed me over to "Kind Random Old Man" who was heading for the bus station and was happy to walk me down - I felt like a Dewsbury shaped baton. After some gentle BRAPA chat, he came up with quote of the year so far. "I'm not a real ale drinker, I don't like beer. I'll drink the odd lager, but I had a pint of Guinness in the eighties and it put me off!"

Jeeeeez! I told him I wouldn't try converting him. Dewsbury bus station was a sterile affair, the most fun moment when a senile old lady with zimmer-frame was given a right royal rollocking by a station 'official' for not having waited where she should've and therefore missing her bus. "WHAT AM I GONNA DO WITH YOU KNOW?" he whined.

20 mins later, I was in Ossett where I avoided some lurking bus station chavs and found this weird precinct area which looked very 70's in the gloom, but hurrah, I spied my "pub"!

The lights are on, and someone's at home.

984. Bier Huis, Ossett

I use inverted commas because it was more shop than pub, as you can probably see even from the photo. A smiling satisfied pair of customers were leaving as I entered, and said 'hi' so a nice friendly start. The shop had those weird carpet tiles, which make me think Doncaster Brewery Tap, but then there was an element of Cardiff's Gravity Station too, with just one large communal table - this was being used by a jovial bunch of middle-agers and I had to skirt around them to find the sole handpump hiding in the corner. At £2 a pint, am not surprised it's kept a secret! There were two nice staff members, the serving baldie-man who was vaguely 'Lord of the Rings', plus a wild-eyed merry bearded chap whose eyes implored people to ask him about the beers on sale. I could've perched on the huge table and got into conversation, but it felt a bit awkward and squashed so I took my pint around the room, 'window shopping' and came away with two cans of something trendy, and some cheese-based biscuity snacks for a party I'm off to in Hull tomorrow. The Bier Huis was surprisingly friendly to me considering I spent most of the time in my long black coat doing a slow perimeter of the shop like some Dickensian beer obsessed spectral lurker. I assured them I was having fun. One slight downside, one customer had a 2017 Good Beer Guide out on the table. I think I started to hear a growling from my bag. Yes, my own GBG has now turned feral, and it cannot stand rivals. It was time to leave before it decided to mark it's territory. No-one wants a pissy rucksack. Everyone wished me a cheery goodbye, a strange but pleasant experience.

Spot the one that I'm drinking!

A view from the far corner.

Ossett bus station was more terrifying than Dewsbury, they played dreary classical music to try and placate the local teenage shit-bags. The bus journey went quick and then rather annoyingly, a direct train to York was due immediately so I saw this as a sign not to go to the utterly amazing West Riding Refreshment Rooms. Boooo! That's a Dewsbury first for me.

I was back in York well before 8pm, job done, only 12 West Yorkshire pubs to go. The next on Tuesday evening, again just 12 miles from L**ds. I can W.Yorks done by late spring if I crack on!

Happy weekends all, Si

This was a pub-ticking first for me as I met BRAPA-chauffeur elite Dad at York's Designer Outlet at 10am on a sunny, breezy morning - I DID NOT KNOW WHERE I WAS GOING!

The clues I'd been given was that it was a town with at least 3 pubs, at least one of which opens 11am or earlier. But how could this be? It certainly wasn't Yorkshire as nothing fit the bill, and my suspicions of Lancashire were soon put to bed as I noticed us heading eastwards. I correctly guessed Lincolnshire but my next two thoughts, Brigg and Gainsborough, were both wrong. Dad had gone even more ambitious, Louth! I'd forgotten it existed.

Mystical shot of the church from the car window

We eventually arrived and parked up, a bustling market town with a positive feel, not too many bland high street shops, and if you forget Preston exists, the highest single church spire in England which dominated the town, but in a good way. Our first pub was just underneath and Dad was taking his BRAPA photography duties more seriously with each trip that goes by.....

Dad basically leapt out onto the road to take this.

985. Wheatsheaf, Louth

Bit of a confusing entrance, as if you turn immediately left, you'd walk straight into the back of the bar, but then there is a door with another (main bar) to the right. After flapping about and eventual remembering I'm supposed to be good at walking into pubs, I was declining the draught Bass in favour of something mysteriously murky (but well kept) local tasting called Tipsy Toad, which I later on was not at all surprised came from Tom Wood. We sat in the left bar which was notable for two things. A huge dip in the ceiling which made me imagine a huge hairy Greek man having a bath and jolly singalong right about my head, ready to drop at any moment. And secondly, a coffee machine that took up the entire bar and chugged away irritatingly. To be fair to it, it wasn't a namby pamby Goring Miller of Mansfield effort, but a proper Samuel Pepys 17th century balls-to-the-wall London Coffee House effort. The type of coffee that makes you want to bury cheese in your garden. Dad observed two old men near us, they'd just played tennis together and now seemed to form a book group (for two) - one commenting "I've just tried a bit of chick-lit". Highly unexpected. Matched only by a later comment "Did you read the one about the aftermath of the northern invasion?? EVERYONE STARVED!" Spoiler alert much? With a roaring fire in each room, this must be the most acceptable pub to have a gin menu ever.

A short walk into the more central part of town took us down a little alleyway called Pawnshop Passage to a Wetherspoons named after a man who loved talking about the iron (and I don't mean Scunthorpe Utd).

Dad ready to join a queue

986. Joseph Morton, Louth

Arrrggghhh, WHY IS EVERYONE QUEUING? That was my first and pretty much only thought of this identikit 'Spoons effort which won't stick in the mind for any other reason, not even the two tweens eating hotdogs twice as big as their jaundiced Lincolnshire faces. Bar etiquette is one of the first things visitors to the UK get taught, so why would people in Louth suddenly think a snaking queue blocking half the pub floor is preferable to leaning against the bar and letting the capable staff decide who is next? Utter fools. Only twice before in a pub have I seen queuing. Firstly, and it doesn't really count, the Black Swan in York on folk festival day, but we all know old folkies don't live in the real world so have no concept of social convention. The other time, also a Spoons - the Eric Bartholomew in Morecambe. I put this down to Morecambe trying to make itself look more cultured, but it just made everyone look thick. So Dad's view is "there's a queue, we'd better queue", mine is "I'm leaning on the bar and ranting about how ridiculous it is". An old man agreed with me and a barmaid heard me and said she'd serve me. "Hah!" I thought, "and Dad is still three people back." But she got waylaid with some coffee ditherer (not Dad) and he was soon in the hot-seat, and shouting what ale did I want. And to make things worse, the ale I wanted was called "Thanks Pa" so it just sounded like I was thanking him from afar, til I ran over and had to point at the pump clip. Traumatic, I try and be nice about 'Spoons but there are times they really let you down, mainly due to clientele or staff incompetence. Nice 6% ale it was though!

A bit closer to the car and off the main drag was pub three, it was gonna be an improvement.....

Ahhh, my very Own Cow

987. Brown Cow, Louth

So Dad's photo diligence hadn't lasted the pace, I blame Wetherspoons coffee, but on the plus side, this felt like a proper traditional street corner local - a bit like the Dog & Bone in Lincoln but kind of nothing like the interior if that makes any sense. A landlady who looks like she's been there for centuries pulling the frothiest Harvest Pale ever witnessed, an eight year old boy being forced to take plates of chips to slobbish football fans, and the classic line of the day "that was in the days when they used the same needle for everything". Ahhh, well just as we were all reminiscing about the golden days of hepatitis and awkwardly craning our necks to see Man Utd easily beating a limp Reading, something that made perfect sense in the context of this pub happened. A shady looking bearded chef emerged and revealed two pairs of gleaming new trainers which he tried to sell to the dodgy chaps at the bar, who were sporting a shiny new pair as it was, all the more noticeable considering their unkempt state from ankle up. Before you could say "off the back of a lorry", the standard of the Harvest Pale was rapidly deteriorating, it was time to drink up and go.

Landlady sees all.

Gleaming pints, gleaming trainers.

We hopped back in the car because our final pub was well worth waiting for, out east of the town.

Still clutching my reusable Sainsbury's carrier of BRAPA kit.

988. Gas Lamp Lounge, Louth

Only 22 pubs with gas lights left in the UK, and not many can have a brewery underneath the pub like here (Fulstow). So a pretty special place to tick off and you walk in to this serene atmosphere, no music, just yokel Lincs chatter and laughter, and a nice wood burner. The beers seemed pretty strong, I had one called Northway IPA which tasted of cloves and we were both soon hallucinating - well Dad was convinced Micky Phelan enjoying a pint with his mates and one of Dad's old York magistrate buddies. I needed the loo (where Phelan was sat) so said "I'll walk past and smell him to see if it's him". I was serious at the time but have no idea what he'd smell like. Weird what happens in pubs isn't it? Anyway, despite the carefree expression you'd expect from a man relieved of his duties at the shower of poo which is Hull City, he was far too young. A visiting man at the bar made a point of proudly telling the staff "I don't wanna be having a pint!" before adding "but I'll sample a few halves and see how I get on". It was that kind of pub.

A few home brewed ales, and some silly pots.

Fake Micky P and friends under the old Hull Brewery sign.

It was a long drive back to Hull where I was going to a party in pre-emptive shoe-in Furley & Co, via a Travelodge, some City of Culture second world war recreations, and Walters, where I had my most "haunted" pub experience ever, but that is a story for another day cos it is bed time.

Conclusion, I like Louth, and if Lincolnshire is all like this, I've been unfair on it in the past. But Dad has set a dangerous precedent, everywhere north of Louth in Lincs is now fair-game for chauffeur day ticking (well, once I've finished North Yorkshire).

I'm back in West Yorkshire tomorrow, somewhere exactly as far from L**ds as Ossett is.

Good night! Si

On Tuesday night, before my man-flu became full blown woman-flu, when I was still capable of functioning on a pubby level, I made the short train journey to Normanton.

The highlight of the journey were two older men who hopped on at Castleford with their Heron Foods carrier bags, carrying on like a more working class version of the Chuckle Brothers. Had they said "to me, to you" it wouldn't have surprised anyone in the carriage. As I knocked a desultory empty can of Carling onto the floor with my left foot, we'd reached our destination.

This had been an 11th hour "eureka" BRAPA moment for me, realising Normanton was little more than a 15 minute stroll from the Altofts pub I needed. Despite taking two needless wrong turnings, I was soon glancing at a very dark unpromising inn sign by 6pm, but luckily, light was gleaming almost fluorescently from the windows ......

Illuminated, but not the pub sign.

989. Robin Hood, Altofts

The Robin Hood didn't have the 'feel' of a pub from the outside, with no door on the street, or to the right, so the locals in the window watched in amused fashion as I eventually located the door on the left - the place looked like a WMC. Nothing like making yourself look like a pub tourist in deepest West Yorkshire on a cold January night is there? As I tiptoed tentatively past the rabbit warren of rooms to locate the bar, I decided to at least smile and make (pleading) eye contact with the perched selection of scary locals - this was make or break - but luckily, the baldest baldie man said "hi" to me, the whole pub breathed again, relaxed, and the conversation continued normally. I was served by a kind looking nervy man with bad eczema, and chose a stout from the Tarn 51 brewery. But what I didn't approve of was a bowl of half eaten peanuts on the bar (peanut allergy sufferer I am) and hoped he'd obeyed the "top half of the glass is the customers, bottom half belongs to barman" rule as I didn't want another Wargrave / Henlow incident. With over an hour til my train back, I had to nurse this pint and get a re-fill, without feeling I was gonna die. A few couples started to appear once we reached 7pm, one man told a story about how he was on course for a 147 break in a recent snooker match when he broke down on 32! The amount of agonising detail in his description had us all wincing, especially the patient woman he was with who can't have been his wife, perhaps an internet date. "Too much check side on it" or "covering the black spot with the cue ball" were his two favourite reasons/excuses. It was all too much for me, and I left early so I could walk slowly back to the station where I scared a lame dog.

Getting comfy in my corner for the next hour with GBG and stout.

Nice view of the pub inc the nice man who was first to acknowledge my arrival.

So a good pub but not quite sure it had the wow factor of the Graziers at nearby Stanley which it has presumably ejected from the GBG, not that this doesn't deserve it's place I'd say. Only 11 left and 2 of them should be done on Tuesday all being well.

I say "all being well" because tomorrow's trip to Berkshire is in doubt due to this horrible flu, bit better than yesterday but whether I can drag myself around in the freezing cold is another matter! Time for an early night and see how it goes...... light a BRAPA-shaped candle for me please.

It's fair to say that after two days in bed unable to move and then only three hours sleep due to too much inactivity, I wasn't best prepared for my penultimate trip for Berkshire ticking, but I forced myself as it seemed like the 'key' journey of the month. Surely getting myself on the 07:01 was the hardest part, right? Hmmmm, well the pain lasted well into the afternoon!

All I did learn from the journey was that 'cultured' Doncaster Rovers fans drink Strongbow Dark Fruits instead of Carling.

I walked the short way to St Nicholas Hurst from Winnersh railway station (sadly not Winnersh Triangle which sounds like a lady-part to me!) despite Google Maps making out I was about to kill myself, and had 20 minutes til the pub opened so I walked around this place called "Dinton Pastures". Ever been to Virginia Water? It is a bit like that for the Mid Berkshire "elite" with less water, more mud, fewer dogs and less frisbee-beardie-toffs.

990. Wheelwrights Arms, St Nicholas Hurst

11:55am and I'd waited long enough, hurrah the pub is open early and the angry dogs I'd seen behind a gate earlier had been disappeared. I was looking for hand-pulled lemsip to no avail, at least I found an ale described as "zingy", in this, the most Wadworthy Wadworth I'd seen since a 2004 visit to Swindon. A bit like the Rowbarge at Woolhampton, this pub was massively gastro yet still likeable at the same time - staff with a good attitude and an area which felt like a shrine to Wadworth and the 'old days' of drinkers pubs helped enormously. Along with a dog that came in for a bowl of water, I was called "sweet pea". A man in blue, the only other "drinker" ordered a pint at 12 noon, and went back for another at 12:08pm 'to beat the lunchtime rush'. I smiled at him in a "drinkers together" way but he just looked guilty in a "don't tell the wife" warning look. Forgetting my emergency beermat was a bad mistake, symptomatic of the lack of sleep. and I'd suffer again for this today. The pub busied up mainly with old duffers, and I was aware the bloke behind me was deaf, but when he expressed massive shock at his liver casserole, I realised he was forgetful too, which much make meal times a huge surprise for him each time food appears! I'd just been researching my next West Yorkshire trip when I looked up to see a snobby woman scowling at me from the bar. I was nursing my last sip of ale, and she wanted my seat. So I took the piss for as long as I could (well, about 5 mins more) before slowly leaving, returning my glass and smiling sweetly in her sour face as I did so!

A view of my mini-republic in the 'Wadworth' bar.

Lack of beermat, but ideal place to leave my BRAPA card.

I walked back to Winnersh for the delayed train back to Reading (waiting another hour for a bus which then took 40 mins didn't appeal) and after a struggle to escape the barriers, I hot footed it a mile across town out 'east'.

And so nice it was to be down some cute little backstreets in Reading, it almost reminded me of my trip to Old Aberdeen though maybe I am exaggerating a bit. Still, there's no better pub location than hidden in a row of terraced houses, in my experience:

Approaching the Eldon

991. Eldon Arms, Reading

I was very surprised to find myself the only customer on arrival, still I got the friendliest greeting all day from the landlady and landlord, who were just sat reading their papers. We agreed it was another chilly day, which allowed me to mention my flu, in an attempt to gain some sympathy which worked in a 6/10 kind of way! In fact, if I had one criticism of the pub, it'd be it was a bit too cold. Again, we had a big Wadworth influence though I think I went for a guest, and took it along with a local CAMRA mag to the far left of the pub, where the walls were adorned with pumpclips, Lighthouse Family blared out a bit too loudly. If I was surprised to see not one local in here, the next man who appeared was also a stranger, though a more southern one than me. He scanned the beers and said "oh, what a great selection!" I felt outraged, like "I'm their favourite so shut it visitor man!" Then he took a close up photo of the Cask Marque accreditation on the wall so I wondered if he was visiting all of these pubs, but I avoided eye contact cos I was not at my sociable best. Good thing was, his big fat head perfectly obscured me from the owners so I could smuggle my steak bite. Every cloud. He got lost finding the loo (amateur), tried to say hi, so I waved a dismissive hand cos I was reading an article in the CAMRA mag which mentioned Quinno ("hi Quinno!" I said out loud, as he was in Prague and couldn't join me today). I left telling the couple "thanks for great pint" but Mr Cask Marque had just done that so my words sounded hollow. Bastard!

View to the bar in the golden era pre Mr Cask Marque

Me getting my BRAPA kit in order (the scarf was soon back on!)

Back into the middle of town, pub number three was one I'd passed regularly on my April 'Beezer' here when I stayed in the Premier Inn. Although Quinno mentioned it back then, I never suspected it'd get in the GBG!

992. Purple Turtle, Reading

The Pairple Tairtle (as they say in Hull) is apparently notorious of many a wild drunken night of people's misspent youths (according to the GBG), and still closes 3am, presumably quality ale is all that has changed. My entrance was so stereotypical 'rock club during the day' I'd pretty much rehearsed it in my head on the walk up. I enter to find a group of hyperactive lads playing table fussball, frantically trying to impress some disinterested girls. whilst an equally disinterested green haired barmaid serves me from the one ale available whilst Foo Fighters play on a video jukebox. Plus everything was luminous purple, so much so that if I was to keep the Aberdeen theme going, you could say this is a less good version of Krakatoa. Well, me and a bald man exchanged pained smiles ("we are the only respectable people here") as we took our respective pints of Elsie Mo (very well kept I must report) to posing tables. They did also have Tutts Clump cider on, which has probably gone from Aldworth to Cool in 12 months. I noticed drum kits were being used as lights, and there was a stage were local bands probably play. I'd guess it's quite a good little venue, but as a daytime GBG tick it can feel a bit depressing, as with the Alma in Bolton. I'm probably just getting old! Anyway, I think it was here my flu started to properly subside, it probably found plenty of like minded viral species to latch on to. Still, not all bad and wait til the Kinky Koala gets in the GBG in a few years..... (you think I'm joking?)

Castle Rock in a Sharp's glass, and the stage.

Purple City! Note the drum kit lights. Groovy baby.

I kept walking west, past the Castle Tap which I'd visited as a pre-emptive last year, and past something called Old Reading Brewery (I think) which looked like it could a potential brilliant place. My final pub of the day was even more deliciously side-street than the Eldon.

Hedge stops outdoor locals from seeing me taking pub photo!

993. Foresters Arms, Reading

The moment I walked through the door, I felt at home. And that wasn't just because both ales were guests from Tim Taylor and Black Sheep. If I saw such a range in York, I'd probably roll my eyes, but in Reading? Well, it almost brought a proud Yorkshire tear to them (okay, I'm exaggerating). Anyway, the pub was busy, almost all old men laughing and joking and watching the football results coming through on Sky Sports News. The barmaid was a kind old lady, and I took a mass 'smoking break' exodus as an opportunity to stretch out and make myself comfy at a corner table (though near enough the door to make a quick getaway if needed! Not that it would be). My highlight might well have been the struggle it took me to find the loos, as it allowed me to go down an outdoor corridor, through this back pool room, and I eventually found them outdoors round the back. It is a small and basic pub, yet somehow wonderful and reminded me a bit of Golden Ball and Slip Inn in York, only smaller with a stronger community feel. A bald man with nice aftershave struggled to hang a coat on the rack behind me, and then Hull City scored to go 2-1 up! Later, I went to the look again and Hull City scored again! A lucky pub too, even if I suspected the majority of locals had Bournemouth down for the win judging by their reactions. Losers. Actually, the 2nd luckiest Hull City pub of all time (2 goals in 32 mins) after the Wigmore Arms in Luton (3 goals in 28 mins). Really enjoyed this pub!

Well, I was booked on the 19:00 which I was pleased about for once (couldn't face a London pub!) so I embarked on what was quite a slow meandering journey towards Kings Cross where a nice Welsh lady let me sit in first class to Paddington because the train guard had stopped checking tickets. And then up to York, I had Newcastle, Hartlepool and Doncaster ALL on the same train which amazingly worked well as it caused an equilibrium of douchebaggery.

Only ONE more Berkshire trip to do, only TWO pubs, both out West. That is next month. Very exciting. Now, every trip I am planning seems to have Buckinghamshire in mind and I've got plenty coming up before January is out.

So a tough day physically, but some great pubs and I'll be back on Tuesday for the latest West Yorkshire tick(s).

Titus Salt might have banned "beershops" in his visionary town of Saltaire, but on all three of my visits so far, my purpose has been just that (he also has a Wetherspoons named after him in Bradford, and his family home is now a pub near Wakefield). Ever get the feeling you are being mocked?

After the yearly 'squashed like sardines' 17:26 train service from L**ds (I couldn't do that every evening), I walked the ten minutes or so past t'mills and little houses to their new micro-pub ......

994. Cap & Collar, Saltaire

Built in 2014, this was about as 'true' to the Hillier-esque wet dream vision of a micro-pub as you could expect to see. A small pale and draughty room, presided over by a jolly landlord and a lot of expectant looks on arrival from a mainly youngish professional crowd, but no actual acknowledgement. I ordered a Saltaire stout no 5 (when in Rome....) and took it to a high stool with an inordinately small 'seat' - I'm no 'fat-arse' but you'd have to have the butt-clenching qualities of a tight-jeaned hipster to balance on these monstrosities. I don't like facing "away" from the pub cos I'm a nosy pub observer but it would have meant facing either (a) a necking European couple or (b) a frustrated theatre actor who eventually stood in the centre of the pub and broke into song ("I can't see-ee-ee, your smi-iiii-le anymorrrrrre" he crooned), terrifying all who shared the intimate space. My stout had an unwelcome fizz, bookcase wallpaper seemed unnecessarily tasteless, and two bearded suits decided to steer clear of the stout when they were informed that it had a hint of vanilla to it, and returned to the safety of their euro shizz. Later, one of them was forced to justify why his wife hadn't turned up .... "she's normally reliable, I promise ..... she must've lost her phone!" Of course mate. I watched a lady outside parallel parking on a hill, it was painful, it summed up this place. More Titus Bramble than Titus Salt.

Spooky reverse reflection shot through the window

Fizzy.

So it's fair to say I embarked on the 10-15 stroll to Shipley not exactly high on anticipation, knowing that my next pub was also described as a 2014 built micro-pub. I took a chance down an unpromising dark lane behind Costa Coffee and a bowling alley, the kind of place you go to take the bins out and have a quick slash if you are caught short. And as Ace of Base once sang during their own pub challenge of the 90's, 'I saw the sign' .....

Plenty of odd fellows in Odd Fellows.

995. Odd Fellows

But isn't this just the sheer joy of pub-ticking? When expectations are at the lowest, you get a welcome boost. Hurrah! And apart from being an unpromising 'space' converted into a place for local drinkers, this was about as far removed from the stereotypical Micro-pub vision as was humanely possible. And all the better for it in my humble opinion. Four ales on, Tetley's, Black Sheep, Askrigg Ale and Copper Dragon Best Bitter, this was the most traditional ale line up in a micro ever - Sam Smith's drip mat, Bass mirror too. Even Carling was on! The landlord spied me photographing my pint, told me he'd top it up even though I'd had two swigs, and said he'd have brought me a brewery glass if he'd have known. I took my pint to the other side of the roompub where Shipley's version of Benefit Street were eagerly watching the green baize of a pool table being meticulously cleaned and ironed in readiness for the "Shipley Ladies League big match", starting later on. "You can iron mi shirt when you've finished with that table!" said one toothless chap to much hilarity. Conversation did end up getting a bit heated (and all due lack of commitment from certain members of the ladies pool league). But this was a cosy warm place, a nice flat pint, a seat you could sit on, and a happy clientele. I don't ask for much from pubs, just to be honest, basic and real, let them speak for themselves and the quality will shine through, very much like the Foresters on Saturday or the Rising Sun in Tipton. With Tom in mind, I even wondered if it could break the final micro-pub taboo and offer blackcurrant cordial, and I only had to glance at the bar to see a bottle sitting there. Genius.

My special re-filling pint

Pool table maintenance and the lovely locals

Calm after the storm - everyone has left but me.

So that cheered me up, and as you can see, the (official) 1,000th pub is fast approaching.

Anti-climatically, it will take place in LONDON. Probably on Saturday. I know 4 pubs it won't be as I know the agenda on Saturday up to that point, I can surmise it might be somewhere close to Gipsy Hill. But not Gipsy Hill. Streatham Hill? Dulwich? Crystal Palace? Forest Hill? Battersea? Balham? Clapham? Something like that.

And if not, Marylebone on Monday. Bet you are all excited now(!)

Let's hope it is less dull than the Delph in Orrell (my fake 1,000th back in August).

See you there!

Tom and Dad at the bar in my 1000th BRAPA pub!

South London might not be, on paper at least, my most eagerly anticipated area of the Good Beer Guide to complete, but casting my hazy memory back to Saturday, I must admit I was highly impressed with the beer quality, and most pubs, if not the lack of beermats!

It all started on one of those fantastic winter mornings with hot breath and bright sunshine illuminating the amusingly named Penge to almost technicolour levels of joy. And like all good pub holidays, it started with a 'Spoons ......

Hey ho, let's go! Me and Tom about to "go inside"

996. Moon & Stars, Penge

I was served my the most unpromising looking "team leader" ever seen in any workplace organisation. He squinted at me through thick rimmed glasses, scratched a glue ear, wiped a trail of snot from his nose, before finally gearing himself up to make Tom's blackcurrant cordial. I liked him, he got the job done. To spice up his drink, Tom washed it down with some Amoxicillin for a chest infection, but no one would bat an eyelid in here as everyone in this wonderful 'Spoons seemed to be on medication and played by Paul Whitehouse. There was a cosy fire which seemed as rare for a Wetherpsoons as did the lack of beermats which I'm gonna keep mentioning(!), and perhaps the jam-jars offering the different shades of dark brown on offer. A man with a white stick eagerly went up for his third coffee re-fill, perilously close to our table but I admired his blind confidence. We admired the pub carpet (a unique one for every Wetherspoons, so I hear) so I tried to remember how Romford's Moon & Stars carpet differed. With the whole pub now seemingly returning for free coffee to wash down their whisky (were we missing out?), it seemed that providing you could prove Dickensian descent, you were entitled to it. There was also a vague Wizard of Oz theme I didn't really understand, but it just added to the fantastical quality this place possessed.

Old men + sunlight = magical pubbing

Tom's drugs, no beermat, Burton Bridge Porter.

A carpet I want in my home.

Once we'd located the direction of the tram-line, we travelled up towards South Norwood, where Tom had inexplicably arranged for us to come many months ago. Problem is, he couldn't remember why and legend of the landlady (72 years old? been here since 1972? worked here 72 years? been here since 1772?) was growing in a Jesus-Olives kind of way.....

Tom and Dad are ready to go in.

997. Joiners Arms, South Norwood

And this was my favourite pub of the day for being the most pubby. And our hostess didn't disappoint, as I waited to be served patiently, she seemed oblivious to both myself and an army of frustrated regulars. Without shouting at her (I'd hate to have been responsible for a 245 year old keeling over), we tried every trick in the book - coughing, rustling change, breathing, going "brrrrr cold out there innit?" til she eventually turned round, bewildered to see a bar full of customers! I ordered a perfect pint of Purity Mad Goose and positioned myself between Liverpool v Swansea and two tropical fish, who mouthed "Brian Laws is a wanker, is a wanker" in a desperate bid to win pub pet of the year. It is hard being a fish, I'd imagine, their fish food was on the bar next to the bar snacks and ales, they'd just have to queue with the rest of us. As Jordan Henderson beat his own record of "most times given the ball away in a BRAPA pub", a man perched at the bar seemed amused by our anti Premier League chatter and as I looked around, I could really admire what a gem of a pub this is. When "cold toilet corridors" are the biggest criticism (thanks Dad), you know you are in a good place.

Tropical fish, never wet themselves at Wembley.

Classic pub, note the scaly old croc (no, not that barmaid!)

A cold but majestic toilet corridor.

Back to the tram and heading t'other way, we were soon in Beckenham which Dad had decided was gonna be classy before we arrived (oh, and before I renamed it David Beckenham). The towns love of public toilet schemes was an encouraging sign, even if I did walk us the wrong way round to the pub. My phone died already (stupid iPhones, hence no outdoor picture and forgot to do it on way out).

998. Bricklayers Arms, Beckenham

Maybe more what you'd expect from a South London pub in 2017, this was light, bright and breezy with relatively jolly young staff and an unhealthy smattering of plastic Scousers, always the worst type of armchair fan which I've never been able to shake off since I was at primary school in Saffron Walden in the mid to late 80's! I ordered a cracking pint of Proper Job (one of my faves though not a universally popular ale!) and Dad lamented pubs having 6 pumpclips stuck on one pump. He has a point. Of note was Spiderman climbing a wall in the corner (best Spidey pub action outside Llansillin), Tom's disbelief at a tomato and onion salad, the "incredible shrinking dog", and an insistence of visiting ale drinkers providing Whatpub ratings which is good, and am surprised is not more widespread. A third dog was added into the mix "he won't bite, he just gets in the way!" said owner as I hurdled the creature on way to the loo. I think we were justified in our celebrations at a Swansea winner, and we turned round and smirked to see the armchair fans were suddenly claiming they "didn't care!" and went outside to smoke. Losers. But not me, Or this pub, another good 'un.

Three South London pubs, three positive experiences! What's going on? Tom had unspecified misgivings about a trip to Gipsy Hill (or Streatham Hill where he lives in constant fear of his Aunt, the only person I've ever known to scare him) so took us instead to Shortlands, which is kind of part of Bromley and is kind of in Kent but it isn't, very confusing!

999. Shortlands Tavern, Shortlands, Bromley

If that was bamboo outside, I'm sure I once read that if you see bamboo outside a building, the inhabitants are swingers. But I tried to put this thought out of my mind. I was soon lamenting my THIRD beermatless pub of the day - my Watney emergency one was getting quite a hammering already as it propped up my Brentwood Maple something or other mild. The pub had a well-heeled middle aged crowd, was a bit foody, so was time to be a hypocrite and say if you can't beat 'em join 'em (our sandwiches hadn't been filling enough) and after Dad was served ("Can you advise me of your seating arrangements?") I was soon wolfing down a superb Thai Green Curry (despite declaring my hatred of Thai food) and needed an extra half of "Plain Ale" to wash it down which might put me in breach of BRAPA regulations, though I invented them so I don't care. Although the pub had that unmistakable "we've tried to make it appealing for your less traditional pub goer", it had some nice dark wood, etched glass and something of a community feel to keep up the whole "I've been wrong about S.London" vibe of today.

Dad studies the clipboard menu monstrosity, quality food is looming!

Poor emergency beermat taking a hammering

A table of people wonder what it must be like in the Anchor Anchor (maybe).

So, the 1,000 was upon us and we (Tom) decided on Brixton. Dunno if it is me but the stereotype I had in mind was something youthful, fun and vibrant, and to get off the train and see a man with dreadlocks singing to a ghetto blaster in the street whilst skinny hippie girls danced around him (remember I was quite drunk by now), seemed almost too stereotypical to be real, but I was loving it and was sure Dad was about to roll up a joint given half the chance .....

It's time for a landmark!

1000. Trinity Arms, Brixton

Standing room only was the only problem here, for 80% of my stay at least - Dad & Tom had to resort to circling the bar to look at some pictures of the Royal Family drinking pints of Young's Special back in t'day to keep them sane. I was anxious to make pub 1,000 a special event but with the staff busy, brisk and breezy, asking them if they were aware pub royalty was present might make me sound like I had a big ego, so an indoor photo had to do (and Tom couldn't even be arsed to smile for that!) On a happier note, Tom found an ice-bucket to decant his erroneous 'ice' into, pubs do occasionally insist on serving blackcurrant with ice no matter what the instruction! In many ways, this was a better pub than the Delph in Orrell where I got my "fake" thousand up back in August, but the fanfare for this one was less great if Twitter was anything to go by. Well, we eventually got seated in some comfy armchairs though Tom and Dad had to get back for their trains, and I was left listening to some crazed girls jabbering on about Brixton Academy as though 'live' music had only been invented in the past 24 hours. I dragged myself up eventually and headed towards Croydon.

A moment to celebrate, though you might not know it!

I was staying two nights in Croydon (a last minute decision as I was meeting a friend in London on Monday and it hardly seemed worth heading back up to York for one day!) After checking in to the cheapest Travelodge I could find, it felt only right to get a bonus tick in at my closest pub....

1001. George, Croydon

In perfect pub symmetry, we ended the day as we'd started, in Wetherspoons 'heaven'. It did occur to me that Croydon had this 'reputation'. and 'Spoons at 8pm on a Saturday has a 'reputation', so it was with some trepidation that I pushed in between a Red Bull and Vodka drinking pair of local scroats to order some strange but perfect ale from Tillingbourne , wherever that is (clue, not Yorkshire). Handing over my '50p off' voucher in these circs was comparable to asking for a nudey magazine off the top shelf! I took my ale to the darkest, quietest corner ledge, observing the locals like Attenborough on a Kenyan safari (I'm not calling them animals, I don't think). But to be honest, the atmosphere was convivial for the most part, apart from one drunk chap who crawled to the loo and never came back, which was reason for concern for one of his friends, but a source of much amusement for the rest of the table! Some felt he'd slipped out of a back window. Somehow.

A P.I.S.S. barmaid photobombing my Tillingbourne ale picture!

Quite a calm, serene Saturday night in Croydon, shame!

It was off to bed with my Waitrose snacks (living like a king!) as I'd be up early for my unscheduled "day two" pub -ticking on Sunday. I'll write that report tomorrow.

Pubs visited 6 = pubs with beermats 2, pubs without 4.

And for those of you following me on Twitter, a couple of bonus North Yorkshire pub ticks tomorrow (and one on Fri, three on Sat) I'll be getting under my belt & reporting on. By the end of this week, I reckon I'll be quite a bit closer to finishing this impossible county!

When you wake up on a Sunday morning in a Croydon Travelodge with a "to do" list of 3,599 items, you start wondering if you are unnecessarily complicating life.

And this was the kind of day wish left me wishing I could rewind and do differently.

Even from the miserable breakfast in the Travelodge cos they'd all but run out of food (I'd have gone to Skylark 'Spoons instead had I not paid!), today just didn't go well.

I got myself to Marylebone and purchased an "add-on" to Great Missenden, a spur of the moment decision with the aim of walking 2.5 miles to the Crown at Little Missenden, but the A413 could have been the A1(M) and I couldn't walk along it! I tried two different ways, worked out a long-winded rural third, but knowing the pub was closing 3pm, I'd not make it in time.

I sulkily appreciated the pretty town of Great Missenden with it's Roald Dahl museum & twild wannabees, and jumped on the next available train to Chorleywood. From there, a brisk 25 minute walk to Chenies had me nervous. I'd lost confidence and had to spend 5 mins on the A404 but thankfully, this was a nice A road with a path and everything!

I walked into Chenies, lovely little place - have I ever been so relieved to see a pub? It was nearly 3pm already and my first of the day, rubbish Simon!

Have I ever been so pleased to see a pub - I could cry!

1002. Red Lion, Chenies

Just to explain, with me being so close to finishing Berkshire, I was eager to get cracking with Buckinghamshire hence my insistence on making a 'London' trip more complex than needed! The pub is described as an "autarchic freehouse(!)" and it seemed the Sunday lunch crowd were outstaying their welcome (or people eat late in Chenies) and the place was bouncing, like the waitresses tight tops, and it was one of those pubs with an army of staff in a tiny space which almost outnumbered clientele. I'd originally thought the sign said "anarchic freehouse" which may have been nearer the truth. "It's been manic today!" wailed one barmaid, as I paid £3.70 for a Vale Best (incredibly lively bubbly bitter) in ten and twenty pence coins, to a young bar-lad, a nice funny youth who stuck his tongue out whenever he was concentrating, like on counting change and stuff. Soon a mellow Sunday hubbub took over, all coffee n cream and prosecco n nuts. Two friendly posh men who looked like well-groomed Bob Dylan's stood at the bar and said 'hi' to me in a smooth classy way, but guess what, I needed that emergency beermat yet again!

The other side of Chorleywood was only a mile or so from Heronsgate, where there was a pub I'd wanted to visit since 2004.

In our early days of going to the Whalebone in Hull before home games, me and Dad were struck by the random array of CAMRA magazines and we picked up the Hertfordshire one, Dad saw a full page advert about how great this place was. When we got promoted and were playing Watford, we entertained the idea of coming here pre-match but it never actually happened, til now, 13 years on!

Land of Liberty, Peace and Plenty!

1003. Land of Liberty, Peace and Plenty, Heronsgate

The pub name is very wordy, enough to give the bar posers of Chorlton-cum-Hardy sleepless nights with it's evil multi syllaballed ways. It was one of those "you know it's a class act as soon as you step through the door" pubs. The landlord's friendly smile, the exciting range of (4 out of 6 Yorkshire ales) seemed rare, bare boarded floor but comfortable, a sleeping dog, happy old and middle-aged locals, A big blackboard declared their target of 370 beers to put on in 2017, to beat their 369 total of 2016. Whilst I was there, York Snowflake (5 out of 7!) was chalked on a board just above me - this reminded me of Hull's Wellington at it's best, but with a bit more pub hubbub. Considering I'd arrived with a stone in my shoe, a snotty nose, needing a pee, my sense of well-being had gone through the roof within 2 minutes of arrival. Oh, and mobile phones were strictly prohibited but it was still perfect timing to be included in a Twitter chat about beer quality in GBG pubs. I'd been trying to work out what made this place special, and I think the fact everyone was drinking ale and talking about it passionately - plus the landlord took time out to come and chat to an old man in the corner about the weather - a nice touch. Classic pub.

Boring dog, great beer, pub beermats!

The target board and a man who became a blue column from waist down.

Although it was pitch black and freezing cold, I was buoyed by this experience and decided to hang around for a tube to Chesham where I had an out of town pub to do (Chesham is at the end of the Metropolitan line, only runs twice an hour as some go to Amersham).

I'm no weather expert but it must have been about minus 100 or something and if the walk wasn't painful enough, eventually the street lights and the pavement ran out and with cars whizzing with full beam headlights round a sharp bend on the B4505, and me not be able to see one step in front of me, it was a heavy heart I gave it up - I was only 0.3 miles from the turning - so frustrating. But I wouldn't be here now to write this if I'd carried on!

By the time I got back to Croydon, I'd been out 9 hours for a 2 pub return. I hate BRAPA! It was approaching closing time so after stocking up on food, it was time for the pub equivalent of scoring two injury time goals having done nothing for 90 minutes.....

1004. Green Dragon, Croydon

At least it was a day of getting monkeys off my back, I'd first considered this pub as part of a 2005 trip to Crystal Palace away, and it's still in the flippin' GBG innit?! I was amazed how huge it was, less surprised it was a former bank, but kind of pleased it wasn't Wetherspoons owned. Not that the crowd cared, a terrifying Sunday night bunch. With a vague whiff of puke in the air, it would be easy to dismiss this place as a dirty Sports Bar but it obviously had a passion for ales with hundreds of pump clips and a barmaid very eager for me to accept her "dimpled jug" over a straight glass. I don't normally like handled glasses, but didn't want to upset her hopeful blonde face. I think she was just pleased I was an ale drinker amongst the shots flying off the bar. Everyone was pissed as newts, from the rowdy pool players in the corner, two Eastern European girls on the vodka, and a skinhead sinking so far into his girlfriend's lap, he was horizontal on a leather seat half an hour later! Scariest of the lot though, an old woman with half-mast bondage trousers who looked and walked like Neil from the Young Ones and kept prowling the pub. No eye contact! The toilets were an impossible maze of upstairs rooms, some friendly guys were holed up in a hidden function room, the temperature was a degree too cold, and the TV screen was dirty, distracting from the snooker, still it felt like a fitting place to see a scumbag like Ronnie O'Sullivan to win a major final! Crazy place, glad I experienced it.

Like the Green Dragon, my next pub was closing 10:30pm on a Sunday and it was getting on for ten past, so walking down two alleyways when the address clearly said 'Surrey Street', (the street I was ON) was probably symptomatic of my over-complicated day. ....

But will they let me in?

1005. Dog & Bull, Croydon

And to my relief, a friendly barmaid seemed more than happy to serve me even if table polish was out and a chair was inches from being acrobatically flipped onto a table. This was a much more intimate venue than the Green Dragon, though the tattooed barman started warbling to some strange opera style music, though when I tried to smile in an amused manner, he glared as if to say "I'm an amazing singer okay?" The pub felt like a Youngs pub (because it had their beer on, nothing gets past me) so I took my pint of Special to the adjoining side-room where two chaps were chatting animatedly and their presence felt like a nice 'last-orders' buffer, though I made a mental note to drink quick and not to take the mickey. This was one of those pubs that felt so ancient, that vague attempts to modernise 20th/21st century style hadn't really had an impact - beermats in here were on the bar but not on the tables and I was too scared to pinch one from under the nose of Mr Opera. Take away the wanky dried flowers, wine lists and wall quotes about cheese and you've got an excellent pub. The two blokes got onto my fave topic of Celebrity Deaths but when the younger beard mentioned Brian Matthew of "Sounds of the Sixties" fame, he was told he'd gone too far! Last orders was finally called, just to us three in person, and he sang it you won't be surprised to hear. Then it was weird cos they played "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" very loudly, and all staff appeared from nowhere and sang and danced around!! Was this a thing, do pubs have "Last Orders" tunes? I know a pub in Fulford near York always plays L**ds Utd anthem "Marching on Together" at last orders (utterly awful), wonder how common it is?!

My pint is ready to drink!

The two blokes and my GBG.

An idea of how nice this pub can be internally.

So that was it, back through the freezing night air of Croydon to my Travelodge - determined to do better on my third and final day!

Beermat count : 1 yes, 1 partial, 2 no.

I was up early on Monday, deciding to grab BRAPA by the balls after a disappointing Sunday.

I sacked off the shitty Travelodge breakfast in favour of spending a fortune on Chocolate Croissants, Coffee and Sainsburys snacks to keep me sustained for the day, and was fighting my way past the dead-eyed dullards at Victoria Station before 10am. It occurred to me I could get a pre-11am tick in if all went well, so I tubed it to Charing Cross, skirted around Trafalgar Square, and the Harp was in sight. A lovely tiny old looking building, 10am said WhatPub and the GBG, but PUB CLOSED, never trust a Monday! Too good to be true.

Well that was a good start wasn't it?

Not to be denied, I hot footed it (on the Tube I mean) to Marylebone where I was meeting a friend at noon, but there was an 11am opener in the vicinity, and despite a few smoking scroats on benches outside (you know, the type who think by rolling up Golden Virgina into Rizlas still makes them edgy), I was amazed to see the door spring open......

1006. Carpenters Arms, Marylebone

I was greeted by a friendly (probably Australian, though he did seem to have a decent work ethic) man called Scott and served by an Eastern European girl with the kind of downturned expression of a lass who left her teddy bear in the Balkans. BRAPA international relations! There was something very liberating about being the only customer in a neat little London pub on a foggy Monday morning in January and I was well content. Even if my emergency Watney's beermat was called into further usage. This was very typical of a London city pub, with half horseshoe bar, some lovely old tiles and dark wood, clean with the smell of Brasso - the kind I've been going into and not appreciating on a busy Saturday evening, but in this situation, you can feel the class oozing through. Even if Sky Sports News and some 90's reggae music were playing. And even if Scott decided to do some DIY near the front door - BANG, BANG, BANG, was not the most relaxing of pub sessions for the second half, but still a good first pub to kick off a busy day.

I now walked 10 mins down the road and was at my designated meeting pub at 11:55am, to meet my old work friend Dan, and his new girlfriend Mel, who are now living in Argentina so craving English pub life no doubt. They arrived just after me, it didn't look promising as the blinds were closed and not a light was on. Oh dear. A cat which looked like a pub cat but was actually next door stared moodily at us - and then hey presto, the bells chimed 12 and like clockwork, a man appeared with a Thai Food blackboard and let us in!

Cat bemoans fact it isn't eligible for a BRAPA award.

1007. Thornbury Castle, Marylebone

In all the kerfuffle of greetings and awkward British hugs with Dan, I had forgotten the significance of pub 1007. I had now surpassed the number I'd ticked off in the 2016 GBG before the new GBG (finally) arrived in September and cross-ticking commenced. A bit of a faux-pas by me considering how much BRAPA seemed to capture Mel's imagination. The staff were a bit of a good cop / bad cop duo, a moody man in a horrid Rugby Union shirt worked hard at pulling beers through and getting them on (two seemed to be Stephen Hawking based which was just plain weird), whilst Mrs Thornbury provided the smiling warm welcome and served us. Teamwork, though this is NOT the kind of pub where you should really be saying "Rugby Union is the WRONG code" because the pub was obsessed with it judging by the decor (though I forgot to take my usual internal photos). Another pub, another lack of beermat, this is getting stupid now! Dan and Melly were as shocked as me, things had changed in the three years he'd been away. A very comfy loungey pub though, nicely dark and not what I was expecting, amazed it is it's first time in the Guide but well above average for Central London I'd say. We reminisced on stories from working in the bank like "Moth on the Stairs" and "Si's Harry Potter reading, Primary School Style". Guess you had to be there! Oh and more relevantly to BRAPA, Dan remembered the LLAC (Leeds Lunchtime Ale Challenge) which we did on Friday's in 2007 - you see the BRAPA genes were in me all those years ago!

After saying our farewells, I legged it back to Marylebone Station and caught a train to High Wycombe with internal carriage doors which didn't open, and a man who got told off for disrespecting the fearsome lady train guard. "I thought telling people off had finished for the day when I sent the kids to school!" she later growled at me.

Wycombe seemed quite an atmospheric place in the mist, but no time to admire it, I was hopping on the (delayed) 31 bus where Bucks pub ticking was back on the agenda .....

And the bus terminated on the Penn/Tylers Green border at an ominous place called "The Pond", where presumably witches and people who don't use their Wetherspoons vouchers get drowned.

Catching the bus in High Wycombe

On the Tylers Green / Penn border

"The Pond" mwhahahahaha.

A pub, I airbrushed out the locals (not really).

1008. Red Lion, Penn

Two young men were smoking menacingly outside, comparing greyhounds and labradors, but at least they said hello which wouldn't really be symptomatic of the village. I entered the pub to the low sound of hysterical laughter, a blonde girl at the bar was showing her mate a video where some elderly gent couldn't stop laughing. Me and the dark curly haired bar-boy exchanged glances like "is this actually supposed to be funny?" and I ordered a pint of Chiltern something-or-other as quickly as I could. The pub was a gem, lovely stone flagged floors, a wood burner and of course it's wonderful smell. and I settled into a high backed 'settle' (get it!) facing the wood burner - a candle on my table, the gentle chiming of a clock on the quarter hour, yes this was my "moment of contentment" for the pub holiday. What was slightly annoying was everyone else talking in loud whispers which was more off-putting than normal voices. When I stared at these blonde middle aged women, they hushed even more like they were plotting to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Witches probably. "Show them the pond!" i felt like shouting. Later on, both ladies did the "I insist on paying for lunch" rigmarole and nearly wrestled each other to the floor, most amusing. Meanwhile, an old man broke the silence by declaring "I won't need a pudding after this ale, it's like a dessert wine!" and I thought he was going to be lynched. Brilliant, if slightly weird pub.

It's a great pub, but do I recognise that beermat per chance?

A short walk around "THE POND" (plays dramatic sound effect from BBC archive library), careful not to slip on the ice, and a short walk up the road back into Tylers Green where the next pub was soon within sight ......

Front of the pub.

From the pub, facing back towards Penn.

1009. Horse & Jockey, Tylers Green

The barmaid's confused expression told me something was amiss ... "we close at 3 luv, we always have done!" I looked at the clock, dead on 3pm "But but but, BRAPA ....." I staggered before recovering myself and telling her I'd travelled especially from York to visit her pub, and then explained BRAPA. "Can't I just stay for one quick pint, pleeeasssse?" I pleaded. And she agreed. Top lady. I didn't want to look like I was taking the jimmy riddle so I stood at the bar with my coat on, to drink my Adnams Southwold quite quick. Whenever I have to drink a pint quickly, it seems to be an Adnams. And a bit ironic standing at the bar, as this pub actually had beer mats for the first time today! She went back to reading her paper after a little bit more chat, I told her to ensure this above average wooden old pub stayed in future GBG's so my visit wasn't in vain and she agreed to try! You see, once I get a foot in the door..... Anyway, all this got me thinking about Loudwater, a 30 minute walk from here that I was embarking on next, and to my surprise, both the GBG and WhatPub did confirm it shut at 2:30pm til 5pm. So I hadn't done my homework very well - yet there was no hint that THIS pub shut in the middle of the day on any source. Still, this was a good example of luck evening itself up - had this been yesterday, I'd never have been served!

Gotta drink quickly!

After the barmaid wished me well on my challenge, I decided to take the bus back to High Wycombe as I had little other option now I knew Loudwater was closed. Problem was, on train to Wycombe, I'd wolfed down 2 choc croissants, a coffee, a sandwich, a bag of crisps, and these last two quickish pints, so I was busting for the loo long before we arrived at High Wycombe just before 4pm!

So I raced to 4pm opener Bootlegger, on the railway bridge with a big neon sign outside, and mercifully, open a few mins early ......

1010. Bootlegger, High Wycombe

The bearded ginger bloke in this modern 'beerhouse' was a jovial, nice young chap, and seemed sympathetic to my toilet needs but warned me the gents was closed for a refurb so I'd have to use the ladies. Uh oh, I needed a number 2 aswell - poor ladies, not that I saw one present in my 40 mins here. But in my favour, ladies loos are clean and warm and fragrant (well, for now!) and I spent a good 5 mins sorting myself out. Still feeling guilty, I emerged back to the bar where mine host nodded and winked as if to say "feel better for that do you? hahaha" or maybe I was paranoid. There was a fantastic range of local beers on, it was like Land of Liberty Peace and Plenty needing another 300 years to "bed in" as a pub, but my stout from I think Fisher's brewery was first class and I found a secluded 'snug' (well, side room) and just when it looked nothing was happening at all, I saw that Gorden Kaye (Rene from Allo Allo) had died which saddened me, but then I noticed his face had appeared in my table which was surely a BRAPA sign. So buoyed by this, I downed my pint, ran across the road, and headed back to Marylebone.

Rene's face appears in my table.

My "snug" (with the slightest gap through to the rest of the pub)

Back in London earlier than expected, I worked out that I still had time before the train back to York to do what I originally booked this trip for in the first place - and that was to "tick off" those London pubs that don't open on a Saturday or Sunday. And after the Thornbury earlier, I only had two more to do from what I could see in the GBG ......

I got myself to Bank, and fought my way past the thousands of post-work city drinkers, eventually finding this pub which I somehow managed to walk past (well, it was badly 'pinned' on the GBG App) despite being huge!

1011. Counting House, Gracechurch Street

A bank for 104 years, you could probably tell by the name but in my hazy state, it took me about 10 minutes to make the connection! I thought people just came here to count things. I felt like it was going to be a 'Spoons, but it was a Fullers pub instead with lots of shiny brass pillars, dark oak and smart staff in uniforms. Though with the huge ceiling and after work crowd, it was VERY noisy. I also had just realised I was running perilously low on money, and almost had to copper up for the mousey little barmaid, to get my £4.40 London Pride, just so I could use the phrase "the Pride is drinking well this evening", which it was in fairness. A posh excitable man in a suit appeared from nowhere and out of the corner of his mouth, asked the barmaid if it was true they had something on called "Cornish Pale Ale". "Yes, you mean the St Austell Tribute" she replied, and I've never seen a man looked so crushed. Not sure what he thought he was going to get. I smiled sympathetically but he ignored me so I went back to my posers pillar and stared at the dome ceiling whilst necking my Pride.

Once I remembered the GBG push-pin was in the wrong place on the map, I eventually got my bearings to seek out the final "we don't open on weekends" pub......

Rushed photo as I nearly was trampled by a herd of city workers

1012. Phoenix, Old Broad Street

If Counting House was not my kind of pub but had enough amusement / history to commend it, this place seemed totally bereft of any real charm or spirit. Even in a slightly drunken state, it was evident that one barmaid was doing all the work serving about 10 people, whilst the other girl was being chatted up by the barman til they were interrputed and told to serve me! I laughed in a "I can see what is going on here kinda way", they looked awkward, I tried to relieve the tension by saying the 3.5% Redemption Trinity is a great beer to see when you've been on the ale all day, but the elephant was not only in the room, it was sat on the bar. The place was a heaving rabble of noise and the clientele seemed younger and more irritating than in the previous pub, so I perched on a posing table (all this pub had to offer from what I could see even though it was massive), across from a group of guffawing idiots (mainly girls) and stared them out, partly cos I was drunk but partly cos i wondered if they might realise how annoying they sounded. One girl did and looked nervous, but I felt bad so went for a slash and when I returned (I'd left my bags on the table), I later discovered my Sainsbury's Taste the Difference Mango Chunks had gone missing, had they been pinched? It probably sums up this pub perfectly.

Dimply glass without asking, this place didn't convince

Some people who aren't in their twenties - a rarity here.

I got myself back to Kings Cross via Liverpool Street and was on the 8pm to York after a bit of transport delay had the station in chaos and several cancellations.

It'd been a productive three days, beermat count today:

Yes : 1. No : 6. (worst ever return!)

I'll be back soon to review a couple of North Yorks midweek pubs, reveal the one I'm boycotting (til September), and tomorrow I have another 'gentle' North Yorks day so see you twitterers for some check ins .....

After a bit of recovery time from my Croydon excursions, I was ready to make the most of my week off work with a couple of 'bonus' ticks which didn't look like too much effort from York.

It was a sunny but chilly lunchtime in Scarborough when I arrived, but the new pub I needed to 'tick off' was not far away, on a bit of a hilly side street near a bridge, and had an appropriate name ....

1013. Hole in the Wall, Scarborough

I walked in to find three middle aged blokes having an animated chat about local geography "well if ya know where Snainton is, you must bloody know where Brompton is!" It meant nothing to me but they all said hello and the friendliest, youngest and smartest one promptly hopped behind the bar to serve me a fine Otter Bitter. With a roaring fire, 40's music and sunlight streaming through the window up here, it seemed wrong to go downstairs to one of their 'lower' darker rooms, so I sat along the bench from this young bearded Jesus type who got chatting to the landlord about ales. A very passionate pub man who loved pushing the "our beers are from Yorkshire and when we get Camerons on, Hartlepool is practically Yorkshire anyway so it counts!" card. This next line is going to sound like the start of a joke but 'what happens when two mental health nurses sit next to a theatre performer in a pub?' Do you give up? Answer, 'they play Snap!' So if I thought I had been sat a bit too close to young Jesus (who turned out to be an actor in the theatre), then this crazy couple (mental health nurses, day off, on the piss) squashed between us and though they were strangers, soon were playing cards and buying each other drinks. I plonked my GBG on the table, but no one wanted to talk to poor Simey(!), not that I'd have wanted to play cards because it became a bit competitive, and Jesus having Pontoon explained to him seemed a step too far so a slunk off and wished them all a good game and rest of the day. Don't you love pub life?!

Back into York, back to platform 5, and off on the next train, I felt like I was stuck in a bit of a loop but luckily this was a Grand Central train heading north and stopped at Thirsk, a place I've always assumed was just a railway station, very much like Bedwyn or East Garforth, or Crewe!

The town was a good 25-30 minute trek from the station right alongside the racecourse so I felt like a flippin' horse but I still got to the lovely but stereotypical North North Yorkshire market place (see Northallerton, Stokesley, Bedale for identikit examples) nice and early. The pub wasn't due to open til 4pm so I thought I need a 20 minute walk around the market in the cold, but I decided to seek out the pub anyway to get my bearings and hey presto, it was open!

By the power of BRAPA - take that 'The Harp'

1014. Little 3, Thirsk

I've always thought never to trust a pub with a number in it's name, this pub having renamed itself having been called Three Tuns just like the 'Spoons across the marketplace. I'd have gone with Little Three personally, or even something as awful as 'Thirsk Tap Brewhouse, Kitchen & Brasserie' - just don't put a number in! But I was immediately won over, not just by the new generous opening hours, but the pub was suitably dark, beamed, old, full of nooks and crannies, just the perfect pub style - one room but you wouldn't know it, that kinda thing. The man behind the bar was one of those "got my big overcoat on so not really serving" types who had to be told by the young couple drinking coffee in the corner (presumably the owners) to serve me. AND I had to ask for a top up on my pint - I'm not one of these 'exact full pint measure nazis', but there's difference between having a head on your beer and a quarter of a pint of froth! Still, he later redeemed himself by not once but twice asking if I was "enjoying it". The staff then all decided to move furniture around, not sure why, for exercise perhaps? After a holiday in which beermats were very scarce, this pub had them on the chairs aswell as the tables. The younger chap seemed jolly, but singing along to Jack Johnson didn't endear, neither did doing a perfect impression of the creepy old guy from Family Guy, or thinking the female (a young angelic Wizadora type) had said she had 'fingernails in her foot' when she had pins & needles. Really great pub this, who'd a thought it?

A BRAPA Tale of Woe

Fast forward a day and a bit and it is Thursday night, we are in Hull, and despite a spirited effort from the Tiger lads, it's evident we aren't gonna take this game to extra time so Dad (being the fantastic BRAPA supporter he is) says "it's now or never if you wanna try and get to West Haddlesey!" so we leave a few minutes early - cue evil glance from judgey steward, and we leg it to the car, and start careering towards Selby.

I needn't have worried though, as I check WhatPub and the GBG App, pub closes at midnight, 1am on a Friday or Saturday, and we turn off and see the George & Dragon all lit up, It is 10:20pm. The main light is on, and the kitchen area is lit too as Dad turns into the pub car park and reverses neatly into a space.

We hop out of the car, and then Dad notices "THEY'VE JUST TURNED ALL THE LIGHTS OUT!" What? It was all lit up 30 seconds ago! I went to explore, not a peep, silent as a mouse. Unbelievable!!!

Had I arrived on foot, I'd have been inside no problem. They heard and saw the car, and swiftly closed. 100 minutes earlier than advertised. I understand pubs closing early if lack of trade, but to be open, see someone arrive and then close, is totally back to front.

There's simply no excuse for such shady behaviour. It's all very well people being told they should support the village pub, keep them open, but when village pubs don't want to help themselves, then how much sympathy can you have if they become West Haddlesey's new shiny Tesco Express?

My Mum has demanded that she is present at the final 'Yorkshire tick', what chance it is this one, I'm not in any great hurry to return!

Only 13 North Yorkshire pubs to go after a gentle Saturday of chauffeuring fun on Dad's 70th birthday weekend.

We stopped in pretty market town Stokesley at 11am, just to prove we could find a parking space basically, but it was an opportunity to draw out some extra cash (it's hard to know what they are going to charge you in these fleecy parts).

In drizzly grey rain, we drove through Great Broughton and Dad identified the Wainstones Hotel as a place where all Yorkshire pensioners meet for lunch every March. On a previous visit, Dad had actually driven into the car park of the BRAPA pub in question by mistake, but this time he allowed himself to park the car and get out ......

It's 11:30am, the pub has just opened behind me, let's go in ....

1015. Bay Horse, Great Broughton

If every Marstons pub in the UK was as good as this one, I think the world would be a better place. A warm welcome (and I don't just mean the fire that nearly singed my hood!) from the landlady and her gaggle of young blonde gigglers. With me straight on the Hobgoblin Gold (I had to explain 3 times we weren't here for food, it was such a revelation to them), it was the perfect time for mother hen to train the youngsters up on the art of pulling a pint. "You 'av to learn Jules" (not her real name) "and that one over there...." (points accusing finger at sheepish background brunette) "...is on the bar by herself tomorrow so she'll 'av to learn too!" After a few tentative tugs of the squeaky pump, my pint finally arrived and I offered words of encouragement, for which I was quickly admonished "don't! It'll go to her head!" Oh well, Dad got a coffee with a wanky little mint and some fancy sugar lumps and cream, cost a small fortune (well £7.20 alongside a half, so probably can't complain too much) and as a bit of unobtrusive Carole King warbled around the room (replacing traditional North Yorks fave, Dire Straits) we agreed this was a cosy sizeable old pub that you couldn't dislike.

Dad gets comfy as my jacket catches fire

Not sure on the glass, but a well poured pint by "Jules"

A few miles down the road, was the pub which I learned (in the most boring fact of the day) was the furthest north in the York branch which Cleveland tried to steal off them. But chairman of the time GK Smooth (not his real name) said "no way" and that was that.

Me walking towards pub two as the sun tries to comes through.

1016. Buck Inn, Chop Gate

Another North Yorkshire trip, another Buck Inn! At a place possibly pronounced Chop Yat. They had some lovely stained glass doors signifying "bar" (to the right) and "lounge & restaurant" (to the left). You'd think "bar" all the way, but in this room, no heating or handpumps or staff forced our hand into the typically 'set out for dining' main room, but it was comfy enough. A Twild was present, but upon seeing me being served, immediately screamed "eeeek BRAPA", ran outside, and presumably went to drown himself in the nearest available pond. The pub had decided to retain that rural North Yorkshire "we serve all aspects of village life" vibe, so had Crunchies and Creme Eggs on the bar, but it looked a bit of a forced gesture - you are not the Birch Hall Inn in at Beck Hole so get over it! A nervous thin man who couldn't keep still kept darting from bar to bar, eventually buying 2 bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale and running off Twild style. The music sounded like a compilation Jools Holland had created, all powerful women with powerful voices that he could tinkle his piano along to like the bland magnolia man he is, ughh. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeh, pretty decent pub but preferred Bay Horse when all said and done. Oh, and I drank a beer from Wainstones brewery as a tribute to the pensioners hotel.

Dad decided posing with one of my bedroom light bulbs would make a good photo (it didn't)

Bit of a lame buck

We then drove down to Helmsley, through that lovely little town, past the brewery, down a few crazy country roads past Byland Abbey, and soon we were in a pub I have so nearly done on so many occasions, it was finally nice to get in.

Dad and a letter he must remember to post.

1017. Fauconberg Arms, Coxwold

Like a pair of pubby Olympic relay runners, a £10 note changed hands FIVE times between me and Dad as we stood at the bar waiting. First he went to the loo, then I did, then he went to post his letter, then I gave him the note back when he returned, but then he went to sit down so passed it back to me, I paid and gave him the change! All this was necessary because the Helmsley beer we wanted was off, barrel had to be changed, then a tricky air-lock needed sorting out. No wonder an irritating young bearded man was looking so frustrated, he only wanted to pay for his meal whilst his sickening girlfriend and doting parents looked on. He decided to exact revenge on us in the only way he knew how. He laid a retrospective log in the gents (unflushable), which was named "the poo room", seemingly in a nod towards my High Wycombe ladies incident. As if that wasn't enough, he kept walking in and out of this not very well heated pub and letting the draught come through. Why are men with hipster beards always the most ignorant pub goers, it is a trend I've noticed since BRAPA began. Fluffy Tom Irvin-esque beards, no problem, but the sculpted ones, ignorant dickheads. Just when I was finally relaxing with my pint, I jumped out of my skin as a cuckoo jumped out of a clock behind me, twittered unnecessarily (just like me in most pubs ha ha ha) and went back inside again. This pub seems to be a real "in the GBG one year, out the next, back in year after" and now I've been, that makes perfect sense.

Finally got mi pint

Weird throney chair - the one to the right was nicer but inhabited by goggly eyed woman

Better than being drowned in ponds I suppose

Sinister cuckoo clock

We were done in record time so able to have a nice relaxing session in the Fox (York's finest pub, not in the GBG) and Dad suggested I write a book called the 100 best pubs not in the GBG. If people have any ideas (I only have 4 in mind!), I'd like to hear them. The pub also seemed to think Dick Turpin and Guy Fawkes used to work as a team, which is perfect York villain propaganda. An amazing pub, but am bored of saying it as no one listens!

I'm having the midweek (i.e. tonight) off West Yorkshire BRAPA so I'll si thee all on Saturday for some daaarn saaarf fun, but before then, I'll do my month end review and preview.

BRAPA - More Ales, More Yorkshire Dales

BRAPA - Wortley Men's Club v BrewDog York

BRAPA - Further North, Chapel Allerton

BRAPA - Are you Essex in Disguise?

BRAPA - Abbey Inn, Newlay

BRAPA - A Welcome Return to Lincolnshire

BRAPA - 2016 AWARDS CEREMONY

BRAPA - Worksop / Woodsetts / Retford

BRAPA - December 2016 Review / Preview of 2017

BRAPA - From Tipton to Farsley

BRAPA - Shopping in Ossett

BRAPA - Mystery Lincolnshire Tour

BRAPA - Tuesday in Altofts

BRAPA - Influenza in Mid Berkshire : A Love Story

BRAPA - From Zero to Hero in Saltaire & Shipley

BRAPA - Winter Festival Day One (South London)

BRAPA - Winter Festival Day Two (Bucking Hell, Croydon my saviour)

BRAPA - Winter Festival Day Three (from Marylebone to Wycombe)

BRAPA - Scarborough, Thirsk and a Tale of Woe!

BRAPA - Three More From North Yorkshire!