BRAPA (British Real Ale Pub Adventure)

Good evening fellow ale fans, pub lovers, or people who have clicked on this by mistake,

March was a successful month with 27 new Good Beer Guide pubs visited, breaking the BRAPA record of 25 set in 2015. The March monthly average is also 25, so my new BRAPA stats number crunchers tell me (I keep them locked in the basement away from sunlight).

The surprisingly productive month was mainly thanks to an early month binge of North Cheshire, only my second 'official' visit to the county, though with 24 ticks there, it is still my 12th most visited county as things stand.

That brings me onto another BRAPA record, I visited pubs in EIGHT different counties across the month. One highlight was completing West Yorkshire again, the other one was getting all 5 of my outer Milton Keynes pubs done. The standard of pub was, how shall we say it, "mixed". I generally either loved or hated them. But more love than hate. Here are my three favourites:

1. Lower Angel, Warrington
2. Lamb, Stoke Goldington
3. King's Head, Leicester

Lower Angel, Warrington

I also discovered what a good town Southport is, how happy the folk around Milton Keynes are, and reassuringly, how depressing Leicester still is.

April Preview

Last year, I set a liver-busting record of 45 pubs in the month of April and though I don't expect to reach those heights again, I will be disappointed with anything less than a pub a day. 35 if I'm being really honest.

We kick off on the 1st of the month with my second official BRAPA tour of Buckinghamshire, this time we are going much further south than MK. I better not overdo it as the BRAPA-parents are helping me finish North Yorkshire on Sunday lunchtime.

Tuesday 4th could see the first of my non-Yorkshire Tuesday nighters, but it all depends if work let me out at 4pm. If so, Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire or Greater Manchester are likely locations.

The following Saturday, it is NFFD (Non Football Football Day time). After consultation with the brilliant enigma that is Thos. Irvin, it seems train strikes are a factor so we have devised a devilishly plan so simple, it'll confuse all.

A week later is Easter, and whilst I don't have any immediate Good Friday/Easter Monday BRAPA plans, I won't rule it out. The Saturday has become 'Caturday', for the first time in BRAPA history, Ruby the Cat actually dictates when Dad can get away, and being a loyal son, I said I'd not leave him stranded in a rural York cattery at 12 noon so pubbing starts late.

Ruby looking wretched after putting Stoke in jeopardy

I still haven't worked out where I'm going on 22nd April, the events of the previous week may have a bearing but as you know, I'm as keen to crack on with Cheshire as I am with Buckinghamshire.

It's at this point that BRAPA really hots up. The day after, I'm in Derby for a punk gig and I still have two ticks to do, and I wouldn't mind getting out to a village or two aswell!

And after the Monday to recover, we have our first of three BRAPA holidays of the year - "Ale in Aylesbury". Has anyone been on holiday to Aylesbury before? Who knows, it seemed a bit grim on my last visit, but I'm spending 4 nights there picking off random Central Bucks pubs like meat off a potentially gristly carcass, but beware those midweek opening hours in dodgy little villages!

And I'm straight to Southampton from there to watch those soon to be/already relegated Tigers, by which time my liver will be pickled so I won't care. And if I get chance to pop into Kentish Town on Sunday 30th, I might as there is a 'Neighbours' meet up in some non GBG pub and of course it is the best TV programme ever! Bank Holiday Monday 1st May? Recovering with a cold compress to my head. But hey, you've gotta live haven't you so if York's first micropub opens on that day, I'll drag myself to it in the evening!

I was breathing in Slough air for the first time in my life as I waited for a bus to take me to the village of Hedgerley, despite the GBG claiming it was a busless location in the 'pre-match build up'.

The problem was, Google told me to wait a Stop D (which didn't exist), the sign on the bus stop said Stop A, but the electronic display said Stop C. A bus driver going to Britwell couldn't help, neither could a toothless old man, and after a brush with 3 lager drinking Poles at an unknown numbered stop, I crossed the road and found the bus at Stop F. Obviously(!)

20 minutes later and the grey building site of Slough seemed another world away in the green and flowery village of Hedgerley, with it's woodland footpath to the pub saving me from road-walking.

It was still 10:50am so I sat in the sun praying for prompt 11am opening. A vacuum cleaner nozzle made a brief appearance, hoovering the doormat, which I took as a good sign and although I suspect the pub was technically open, I waited until 11:02am to observe polite pub etiquette though it was a lovely pub to sit outside .....

1069. White Horse, Hedgerley

So nice it was, I almost expected to be disappointed inside but not a bit of it - for once, the left hand bar was the place to be, a proper no frills boozers bar and a jolly man with fair amount of ginger facial hair was the first victim of my new response to the "what type of beer are you after?" question, which is "something which is local and I've never tried before." This'll panic 'em, how can they possibly know what I've had before? As it was, this man looked like a psychic and probably was and I was soon drinking a 'straight from the barrel' foaming nut brown ale from a dimpled jug, things I normally find tacky and forced were actually perfect in a pub like this. He told me the sun had blinded him as he was used to this dark interior, and the whole family appeared one-by-one and a stream of locals arrived - I've never said "Morning" to so many folk in one pub. One of them took the probably imaginary dog "Troops" for a walk, such was it's silence. But there was still enough reason to remind yourself you were in South Bucks as one young female was given a lecture about Vegan Thai Curry next to a huge deli counter serving quiche. Young barmaid Sam asked crazy local Mark (not John as I put on Twitter) why he was indoors in a thick woollen cardigan on such a beautiful summer's day? "Because I am Dracula" was his reply, delivered perfectly deadpan, does Dracula wear a cardigan? Mark was a fan of whatever football team played Kings Lynn yesterday, and he was soon exchanging Peter Stringfellow (who'd been spotted nearby) anecdotes with Mr & Mrs Gold Label, so called cos they kept carrying cans of it around the pub. "Once I saw him in his massive black Jaguar, it was a windy day, his hair was flapping in the wind and went in my mouth!" complained either Mark or Mr GL. A local rang through and made Sam go through all the ales on offer or coming soon, but sounded like he'd had them all! Sam was rightly pulled up on her pronunciation of Deuchers (Deutsch-hers) by Mark who then asked why a great pub like THIS would be getting a beer like THAT! I'd seen enough, a quick cheerio to Mark and Mr and Mrs GL and I was on my way. Magnificent pub.

Mr GL, cans of GL, and Mark.

It wasn't a long walk to Farnham Common, probably a mile and a bit though I did go through a place called Egypt which seemed strange. What would Tom do in this situation, I wondered? Probably raise his arms aloft and chant "Allam Out!" and other songs in accidental mock East Yorkshire tones. I'm more self conscious so just murmured it under my breath. The pub was in sight .....

1070. Stag & Hounds, Farnham Common

I was hit by the full force of Greene King from outside, so imagine my relief to find a quite traditional pub with an interesting range of ales, which I had ages to decide between - because there was not a single person in sight. As I went to the loo, I wondered if I'd have a Saltburn-esque moment and find them all drinking coffee and reading the paper in a side room. It was 12:03 after all, and finally a man with slightly less ginger beard growth than Hedgerley man arrived and served me an IPA from some new random Berkshire brewer, keeping my "local and different" theme going. I felt sorry for the guy as he seemed to be embroiled in a phone argument with a woman (girlfriend?) and I could hear her distorted nagging from across the pub! I decided that if Hedgerley's White Horse was heroin, this pub was probably Methadone. A 'customer' arrived but only to ask if they'd be showing Wasps v Leinster (whoever they are) at 3pm. "It's a massive match it is!" he mumbled as he left to a general ghostly chorus of "youfuckingwhatmate?" from nobody in particular. Union scum. The bain of the south east TV pub. Before I could blink, the pub had filled up with a series of 'rugged' pub men watching the Merseyside derby, the most entertaining of which ate the tiniest gourmet burger ever (which didn't suit him) and seemed wholly unimpressed with anything scouse or football related. The obligatory minute's silence, colourful boots, topless Everton fans, huge banners - they all got the "treatment" so I nodded politely as he juggled a pepper pot like it was on fire. Time to move on but I did quite enjoy this one.

Wrong glass, no beermat (again), but still a decent pub.

Another short walk took me to the outskirts of Farnham Royal off the main road in a peaceful picturesque area .....

1071. Emporer, Farnham Royal

However, I wasn't quite so impressed with this one. Full of people looking confused about how to order food at a bar, and young fathers with babies attached to them trying to force brown baby much down their throats with a plastic spoon, or women wondering whether the pub was too traditional to 'get em out' and start breastfeeding. It was a bit of a quandry, this place, £4 a pint now and Ringwood the most exciting brewery of the three on show, perhaps fitting that this is the first place I should receive my first new pound coin! Which I later squandered on the bus out of here. There was a fire in but looking at the surroundings, an outside pint on the nice grassy front area seemed a good idea, even if it had clouded over. The toilets were a gaudy purple, even by my standards, and the soap sounded more like a modern fangled 'craft' thing than an actual soap! It was a nice location to have an outdoor drink, I just was aware I wasn't really living the Emporer dream in terms of 'pub observation'! At least a traumatised young lad on a bike appeared, rang his friend to say he was at the Emporer and generally seeming more and more distressed. If this was the 1850's, I'd have sat the poor lad down with a lemonade til he recovered but you can't do that sort of thing without getting arrested nowadays, so I waited til his friend rescued him and then I ran for my bus, as I'd got too comfy imagining myself body-boarding off the mossy old pub roof for some BRAPA video special!

Pint of the no 77 Savon Liquide De Marseille

Nice little fire, but I'm off out.

Pint in the almost sun.

I hopped on the obviously delayed X74 bus towards High Wycombe, jumping out at Loudwater which I almost went to back in Jan if it hadn't been for mid afternoon midweek closure. I crossed a park with a spongy play area, passed a shed which was probably the inspiration for a Fast Show sketch, and the pub was peering out from behind the trees.

"This week, I've been mostly drinking London Pride".

East Yorkshire CAMRA man, Ellerton Boot n Shoe denier, and all round nice chap Mark Bainton once told me that a good BRAPA strategy idea would be to focus on the pubs that are in the GBG year on year, and be a bit more skeptical of those new entrants. It is good thinking, not so easy to achieve in practice, but this pub, 27 years in the GBG, must surely be a "valuable" tick.

1072. The General Havelock, Loudwater

Fullers pubs, like Greene King pubs, aren't always my favourite though there are at least some good examples, but this was up there with the very best. From the moment I entered, the locals turned round to greet me, reassuringly oddball-ish and when the barman found out I'd travelled from York, he proclaimed that this pub is "halfway to France!" Not quite sure about the geography, or what the context was (if there was any), but I nodded sagely. A curious chap with hearing aid who'd seemingly pinned himself to the bar so he could remain there in perpetuity started chatting to me about the weather, but couldn't hear me, so I took my pint to a table quite faraway. As I drank my pint of Heathcliff and tried to get Kate Bush out of my head, some strange 1970's French Cinema style music started playing. But what I'll really remember about this place was how gleaming, polished and shiny all the wooden surfaces were, like someone with terrible OCD works here - it's hard not be impressed by this place.

First sighting of a beermat today, well done Loudwater!

I jumped back on one of the thousands of buses that went to High Wycombe, not a town I know at all well so where I was dropped off I had no idea but once I'd got my bearings, I still had a mile walk down the backstreets to the next pub.

1073. Belle Vue, High Wycombe

There's something delightful about a proper backstreet boozer and this was as perfect an example as you could hope for. There aren't enough crazy Asian ladies working in pubs, and there should be more like this one, mad as a box of frogs, in a good way. I couldn't tell whether she was putting on a show, or whether it was her personality - all my beers so far had been approx 4.9% and my powers of observation were waning all ready though I had smuggled a sausage roll in the last pub! She was telling some punter, if he was coming back later in the day, she'd start a tab for him and keep it open. Trusting! He vaguely agreed, as he was off to do some painting. Perhaps he was confused between pub and DIY Q&A session, for he then asked her "will my roller I've wrapped in cling-film be dry yet?" It all sounded a bit innuendo laden to me, not to mention very random, but the pub tried to assist like a good community local would. Barmaid poured him a shot and put it on the never ending tab, and the conundrum seemed to be solved. The general mood though was so laid back, it was glorious. Soft blues music played. Locals in combat shorts and sandals snoozed or read books. Dogs dozed under tables, someone brought one in, there was a minor skirmish, but both dogs yawned and went back to sleeping. West Haddlesey would not have understood such a scene. Classy in the most understated way imaginable. I left as I was feeling my eyes shutting.

Me freaking out the locals in the so called C*cktail Bar.

Hardly a beermat all day then three come along at once.

A mood shot of life in the Belle Vue.

I was back in Marylebone before I could blink, and onto Kings Cross via Paddington though I did go to Warwick Avenue for no apparent reason, but am sure it is a lovely place. Popped into Scottish Stores for first time in ages, and unlike many people I know, found a great range of well kept ales, I think it is a lucky pub for me and virtually empty in my favourite corner to sup some red ale from Mad Squirrel. I did get told off by a stern member of staff for leaving my bag and jacket (and phone!) unattended whilst I went to pay a call, but I trust those cheeky central Londoners implicitly. Perhaps. And I was home for MOTD, bit unsure how come I'd not seen ONE Sunderland fan on the way back from Watford when the train is usually teeming with them.

I'll be back tomorrow / Tuesday to write up my Yorkshire solution. Goodnight!

I might live in North Yorkshire but I still think it's been the hardest county to complete so far, and I'm really hoping none of the others are quite so traumatic, because a large percentage of the more rural pubs have been achieved with the help of Chauffeur Dad. Really, self driving cars cannot come soon enough for me! Cumbria and Devon aren't too far off in the alpha-brap.

And after last Saturday's Melsonby disaster "we're a pub that only opens in the daytime for two hours a week!", it was back off the naughty step on Sunday 2nd April and time to try again. With us this time was BRAPA glory supporter, Mummy Everitt, almost fully recovered from ankle woes sustained last summer, and although it was tempting to chant "where've you been since Llansillin?", she showed no sign of nerves as we got out of the car in Melsonby and hobbled up the road ....

"You're nervous aren't you?" she correctly observed, having known me for almost 38 years. This was Anchor Anchor levels of "you'd better be bloody open" pub anxiety. Mum strode confidently up the steps, crashed through the doors like Oliver Reed on a stag do, and we were in after the obligatory photo opportunity.

1074. Black Bull, Melsonby

Phew, my round I think under the circs! Though I sadly remembered I couldn't show off my new £1 coin I'd squandered yesterday which would surely have been massive news in a Darlington postcoded outpost like Melsonby. It's a bit of a cliche to say "it's like walking into someone's front room" in the world of pubs, but this actually was, and so front room-esque, it lacked a bit of pubbiness (bench seating, a log fire, and some pointless beams would've been nice though bold leather seats, daffodils and a turntable had to do. It was a real "grower" this place though, the foundations laid by superb jolly friendly staff and a good job as a local man came in muttering something about his mate being beaten up at football in Blackpool, or something. But there was no time for sympathy in his direction, as his wife was delayed on account of holding a watery funeral for her dead goldfish. Sympathetic eyes abound when she arrived, though the landlord kind of killed the mood by asking if she'd flushed it down the toilet. My subsequent "Finding Nemo" joke was met with blank stares. Oh dear. I'd checked the ales three times to ensure the Ward's Best Bitter was real and not a mirage from circa 1998, Mum was on her customary pub lemonade, and Dad decided to be a little angel and have J20 which surprised all. "Absolutely any flavour will do Sime!" he told me, before adding from the corner of his mouth "anything with orange in it", Errrm, so the orange flavoured J20 then Dad! So awkward some people. As we sat and admired the old Vaux mugs and Mum wondered if I'd find anything to write about(!), landlord brought us some complimentary snacks - cheese on sticks, pieces of sausage, Yorkshire pudding and pickled onions in a little white boat thing. You know when a pub wins you over, and you worry you've been easily 'bought'? This was me in here! I had a 50/50 decision to make as to where the bogs were, so obviously I went the wrong way and had to be retrieved from a smokers area, but this was a fine pub experience to finish NY in.

Mrs Goldfish contemplates her loss.

Pub Archiving and a Bonus Tick

So, as I probably mentioned before, I'm currently spending evenings going back through every football match, holiday, gig, trip out since 2002 to try and retrace my pubby footsteps - rebuying every GBG from those years and trying to reassess my thought processes.

I've so far documented 502 pubs I've visited not currently in the GBG but of course, there's many more I'm unable to identify for definite. And I'm only up to 2008 so 5 for more years to look at! But one has come up trumps which is actually in the current GBG!!

1075. Griffin Inn, Dale

On the first of three British holidays circa 2008-2010, that the parents invited me on, we were staying at St Bride's in West Wales and had many amazing walks along the Pembrokeshire coastal path. It was already my "trademark" to research a few nearby GBG pubs and as it was pre-BRAPA and there wasn't that sense of a "target", I had to just gently persuade them to pop into the odd one. I'd put a probable date on this of 24th Sept 2008. I remember the drive into Dale, seeing how watery it was with the pub clearly visible right by the water's edge. We walked in and a view bedraggled old scroats stood at the bar (all long grey beards and trackie bottoms) with that kind of "we're resigned to the fact that we get tourists in so we just accept it but it doesn't mean we like you". I drank something Welsh, brown and quite boring like Rev James or Buckley's but no idea really, and we sat at a small table on the right of the pub never really feeling at home, or that this was going to be a memorable experience, which it nearly wasn't! The GBG from the day says there's table skittles, though I cannot recall it. We may have done another pub that holiday, St David's, Roch or Solva? But I really can't remember and I wrote a dreadful poem called Walking in Wales where I rhymed "Dale" with "Ale" - revolutionary. But at least it was the clincher I definitely came here.

So there we have it, I'll carry on with this "bookwork" and who knows, I may have another pub revelation to report but I won't bank on it.

Si

What with the rail strike and the prospect of defeat at Man City not particularly enticing, it was always going to be a case of "keep it as simple as possible today", and with Yorkshire of course complete, it doesn't get any simpler than Darlington (that's not a reflection on it's inhabitants). 7 minute walk to York station from my front door, 30 mins on the train, bing bong, we've arrived!

Myself and Father Bernard (not a priest, more on that later) were joined not only by Tom, but by his Mum (Bernie) and Dad (Chris) for this adventure, still 4 pubs to do despite the fact I've been visiting pubs in Darlo on and off since 1997.

Tom never smiles in photos but his expression said it all as we noticed the door well and truly padlocked on the Snooker Club, and nothing doing around the cobwebby back door where a very dishevelled Christmas tree was receiving it's last rites. Everything pointed to an 11am opener, it was 11:30am and nothing doing.

This was where Chris Irvin came to the fore and thought that a trip to the steam railway museum could tide us over til after 12, and it was a good move under the circumstances, a quite interesting place, most interesting to me the two model pubs on the model railway:

Leaving my feedback (guess which is mine)

Unable to shrink myself down to visit these two pubs, we returned to where we'd come from and I noticed two lights about the main door were now on. Closer inspection revealed, yes, it was now open gone 12 noon and we climbed the stairs ......

1076. Darlington Snooker Club, Darlington

We said hi to a few jolly drinkers raving about some ale from Morpeth, and although I told Chris I wouldn't ask about their opening time, it was about the first thing I did. Still, the licensee was a Mr Everett so he was almost a BRAPA honorary member and he bit his lip in a guilty manner and kind of admitted that he should have been open at 11am but a lack of customers at that time, plus something about a fortnightly "man in a van" which I didn't understand, meant it was 12 noon. Anyway, all was forgiven due to the wonderful cheap ales ("We've not put the prices up in ten years"), his obvious pride in being an independent place, and told us about their beer festivals which sounded more enticing than most. The huge room had 10 full sized snooker tables, though everyone was more concerned with drinking, and we went to this delightfully snug side room where a serious version of Allo Allo was being screened on 'Drama'. There was a side bar in this room which Mr Everett had bought off eBay, Dad reminisced on his love of Jan Francis (whoever she was) and Tom's "I got confused between gin and the grand national" was an unlikely contender for quote of the day. As two Lincoln City fans arrived (a depressingly common recent theme in BRAPA) and Chris flaunted BRAPA rules by ordering a second pint, no wonder Dad made his usual declaration "I could settle here all day!" For once, I was in agreement but the other pubs were calling.

Dad and Billy 2 (the tiger) look content

The additional bar.

Just a few minutes walk down the road but on the same side of the ring road was pub two ....

I'm ready for pub 1077

A hazy Dad, Tom, Chris and some weird army chap

1077. Half Moon, Darlington

Another jewel in the crown of Darlo's wonderful ale scene, you knew this was a proper old fashioned boozer from the second you walked in, and the expectant landlord listened patiently to my new pound coin woe story from Farnham Royal last week, and then offered to sell me a bag of twenty of them for £30, which I nearly took him up on before the others advised me it made no business sense, well apart from Tom who was trying to convince me he was actually less trustworthy than anyone else. We then spotted a Bass pump acting more as pub decor than serving a practical use, and we wondered how cruel it would be to take a photo and send it to Martin Taylor, with the caption "this is the best place for it!" But I wouldn't be so awful. Of course the pub had outdoor gents, always the sign of a quality place, though the "P" sign confused me greatly. The pub played some of the most horrific music I'd ever heard, Age UK Radio possibly, and by the time someone called Lynne Anderson had merged into Englebert Humperdink, my ears were practically bleeding and I've never before realised how much the advent of Punk was needed. And that summed it up.

"If you need to Park??" What??

We crossed the ring road into the sunny town centre where market stalls were up, locals bustled about blocking you from getting to the next pub, and at a tropical 15 degrees, most men were shirtless. Dad looked with horror when he realised our next place was not the pub he could see, but the modern cafe style bar next to it. It was as close to Chorlton cum Hardy as Darlo gets .....I told Dad not to judge it before we'd gone in so he produced the most sarcastic BRAPA expression ever.

He's not happy, though you'd never know it.

1078. Old Yard Tapas Bar, Darlington

But I think we all knew in our heart of hearts that this was unlikely to be our favourite place of the day, yet cracking quality ale and friendly staff - especially the Spanish-Darlo hybrid lad who asked if Bernie's half was "for a lady". "Well, it's for my wife!" said Chris, and hey presto, beer was served in this tiny stemmed monstrosity. Me and Bernie had to explain to Dad that Tapas isn't a food type like a meat or a cheese, more a way of serving it. Back on a beery note, great to see Rivet Catcher back after Jarrow went bust, shame we had to drink at a posing table but it was probably inevitable, in a room with an additional bar which just sold John Smith's and London Pride. I went upstairs to the impossible to find Gents and unsure if I'd walk in the right door, I saw 4 identical bearded young men with ankle socks and skinny jeans. One burped garlic on me, the other chorizo. I took a deep breath, and a piss, then left. Funny place.

Good grief.

The "other" bar.

Out in the street, I realised my phone was definitely broken and although nearby, we were unsure where pub four was. So we asked the most Darlington-esque local we could find .....

And as you can see, he pointed us in the right direction and after negotiating another mini-subway thing and walking up a ramp, we were in .....

1079. Brittania, Darlington

Another one of those where the second you step through the door, you know it's a classic. Hard to put into words but it won't stop me trying, obviously, the bar was lined with happy "hen" style women, but probably locals, you know, all shoulder tattoos and strappy tops, whilst old men in thick grey raincoats preside over a pint of something fizzy, altering their caps so the world can't see their faces. The barmaid/landlady was immediately impressive, imagine Yazz if she'd been around in 1977, the white top & pink bra combo is one that York's barmaid's just haven't caught onto yet. Chris had spied some actual Draught Bass and commented "you don't see it much these days". Well this led to an impassioned response, to the point where I thought she was going to grab him by the throat and pour the pint down his neck, free of charge. It made me feel stupid for having ordered anything else (something decent from Wessex) As it was, she brought our pints to the table, now that is service. The loo was in a thin corrdior behind the bar, titled Total Washroom Services. No Pistols and Dolls here! The pub smelt like it hadn't had any fresh air pumped into it since 1st July 2007, it was quite an achievement and left the rare but nostalgic smell you get in pubs like Warrington's Lower Angel and absolutely anything in Leigh or Atherton. Absolute classic. On the way out, our barmaid/landlady friend was outside speaking of good ale and proper pubs, barmaid of the year? You should visit here if you've not already done so.

I had enough time before the train to show the gang the Old Vic, a pub which made a lasting impression on me last year and although just time for a half, the landlady's crazy hound was on top barking form, I just can never remember his name cos I've always been drinking! Anyway, the others loved it too and it has to be said, those Darlington publicans who care about their ale are as passionate as anyone out there it seems, okay so the town might have it's fair share of scroats but it's friendly, cheap and has a certain class about it which you just don't find too often.

On the train journey back, Dad upset a priest for talking too loudly so went to sit with him in his unoccupied bay of four, just to intimidate him. Classic.

We were due back for tea, so I'm not saying we made a spur of the moment decision to pop into the Golden Ball. But if we had have done, I'd probably have had to ask York's wonderful pub and premier comminity rip-off merchants to top up my ale on the 80p worth of froth they'd given me, before we'd sit outside and a weird couple would describe in minute detail the perfect omelette they had on a foreign holiday. Possibly the most boring thing I've ever heard.

But what a great day it was, Dad said it had restored his faith in the GBG producing quality places after Leicester a few weeks ago., and you can't say any fairer than that!

Tom Irvin in BRAPA pub number 1082

Catastrophe struck somewhere between Manchester Piccadilly and Stoke-on-Trent when my phone inexplicable broke down ("it is like losing a limb") , leaving me in a state of turmoil. Working theory : let's blame Stockport (I had my Good Beer Guide App open, it realised how much I still had to do there, and it simply couldn't cope with the prospect).

Stoke was reassuringly Stoke, grey leaden skies with a biting wind and lots of fat Mum's with multiple buggies & twilds joining us on the bus to Hanley, confusingly Stoke's bus station, which kind of makes Hanley the official Stoke, and Stoke-on-Trent just some random suburb with a railway station and some pubs. The bus driver sneered at Dad for trying to buy a 'return', a teenager ate a greasy sausage roll in two bites, and everyone else looked thoroughly depressed.

With no way of locating the pubs, I was delighted to spy the first one opposite the bus station on the inappropriately named "Adventure Place", and when Dad said "let's check opening hours", even more amazed to see it open 9:55am!! Did we dare see if they were serving ale?

Victoria Lounge Bar a.k.a. the Reardon

1081. Victoria Lounge Bar, Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent

Of course we did! And of course they were, this is no Glasgow Wetherspoons forbidding alcohol pre 11am, this is rugged Stoke, and it felt like luck had evened itself out a bit. The landlady was an excellent chatty soul, interested what brought us here at this time and told us about how she'd fought and fought to rename this place from The Reardon, as people just thought it was a Snooker Club, but as we know from Darlington last week, there's nothing wrong with that! The place had a main (superior) lounge bar, and lining the walls, thin restauranty areas, with a snooker table or two hidden behind a 'members only door', it was a cracking place. And with a perfect pint of Salopian Oracle, I could almost forget about my broken phone, well not quite as me and Dad spent the next hour trying to be phone technicians - shame circumstances weren't different as I couldn't relax! I saw it all as a sign that I shouldn't attempt an outlandish BRAPA day and stick to the simple Stoke v Hull City option, after all I had a feeling in my bones we were going to play well and win. And then Tom appeared with Ben Andrew, who fixed my phone immediately! It just needed a reset. Oops. Ben has gone from 2014 BRAPA Crapper of the Year to 2017 N.E. Lincolnshire Spring Regional BRAPA award winner. Well done Ben. After a few more pints and some of Tom's "hilarious quizzing" (including "what did the pretty girl on the train say to me?" which we are still guessing I think, the answer wasn't "put it away Tom"), it was time to move on ......

Dad looks like he's at the most relaxed business meeting ever

A glimpse of the green baize and a pint of Oracle

Victoria Lounge being impressive

And just when you think all is well with the world, BRAPA kicks you in the knackers again. Typical. This time, Hanley's other GBG pub (opens 4pm weekdays but 12 noon weekends so the previous landlady confirmed), looked VERY shut at 12:30pm.

The sign suggested to me that Martin Taylor has taken over the pub, and had kept it shut to force me back to Hanley in the future because he's a sadist, but that is mere speculation on my part.

As it was, a short bus ride back into "Stoke" allowed another smug bus driver chance to tell me "no, we're not going into town, we're going to the railway station" which I bloody knew, idiot.

We popped into The Glebe, which I discovered on my last visit here was an excellent Joule's pub (I fell asleep in one in Chester once) so I had the pale ale which wasn't very pale, but very nice, as Stoke Blokes lined every wall with expressions ranging from mild apprehension to suicidal. Very much the norm. It put paid to the theory that this was an 'away fans pub' too ....

I'm the first person to smile in this pub since 1973.

Seriously though, a lovely pub and good staff and it got even better on the way back from the loo as, leaning on the same counter as us, just behind me, was Twitter legend Matthew "See the Lizards" Lawrenson, with trademark Paisley shirt and facial hair, with a nonchalant air of a chap who was propping up every pub between Newcastle-under-Lyme and Preston, effortlessly.

I see this sign and then a different Twitter legend appears!

We had a good chat and then headed to my former Stoke fave White Star, with it's typically unnecessary doormen and "no away fans policy", we reflected that Stoke is an impossible accent to do, and it's hard to look like a Stoke fan, though I could have squinted and brought prosthetic fingers to stick on each hand. Anyway, Plum Porter has to be done in Stoke, as did Iceberg, and we walked to the ground to burn off the ale.

Less said about the next couple of hours the better, and back on the train, I was encouraged (not that I needed it) to get some extra ticks in as one in the day was pretty pathetic. So Stockport seemed the logical solution! Tom joined me for moral support but the others went home.

The evening sun was finally out (probably not in Stoke) and the pub I seemed to walking towards was the Armoury.

1082. Armoury, Stockport

We walked into the left hand side called 'the Vault' cos I imagined something from a horror film, plus we all know in 2017 the left hand side is always the better room unless you are in Dukinfield. Immediately you could feel that delicious no-frills atmosphere of a multi-roomed Robinson's pub - if I'd been kidnapped and brought here, it'd have been obvious I was in Stockport. An enthusiastic young bar-babe served me this new 'Game of Thrones' style ale and I wish more young females were more excited by Robinsons Guest Ales. Though my "it's all boobs and dragons" comment fell on deaf ears. We settled in the Hatters room but not before Tom had deducted the pub a point for winning a Lancashire darts league rather than a Cheshire one. Still, he'd lost his voice from too many Marco Silva chants, making him sound very much like a huskier Elly Conway, the alcoholic teacher in Neighbours. This allowed me chance to listen to the local chatter from the main bar, they seemed to be trying to out-do each other in a 'I've had a rougher upbringing' contest. Lots of "I was brought up on a council estate" though middle-class oozed out of them, however many pints of Unicorn they might drink out of their flat caps. The barmaid settled it by commenting "I have a Grandma who lives in the Edgeley" which caused a respectful silence to descend upon the pub, which I didn't understand. Cracking street corner local.

Me about to settle down in the Hatters room in the evening sun

Table decor and glad I was wearing my Stockport County shoes

Very much Tom Irvin after 90 minutes of football chanting

We passed two Chunky Chickens on opposite sides of the road which seemed like overkill, then we went down York Street which led to Tom re-flexing his vocal chords with a rendition of "Are You Boston in Disguise?" before we saw our 'bonus' pub. It didn't look very open but the good news is it was, you just had to turn the handle!

Getting ready for the final pub of the day.

1083. Ye Olde Vic, Stockport

You know when you walk into a pub and 'Cuddly Toy' by Rochford is playing that it is going to be a good experience, something any #PubMan has learnt over the years. Another good sign is a chatty Scottish interloper leaning on the bar. Me having gently reminded Tom that it was his round, I then moaned that I had far too much change weighing me down, so the whole pub ganged up on me and suggested I should perhaps buy the round then - charming! This was an amazing pub though, only Stockport could produce something even better than Armoury so soon after, it was like a bric-a-brac nick-nack curiousity shop with a pubby smell, so photogenic I didn't know where to point my camera next. Well, I did, when Stockport's answer to the Easter Bunny appeared bearing carrier bags of chocolate gifts. Seconds later, Stockport Twitter CAMRA legend John Clarke appeared for a chat and what a jolly nice chap. I can't repeat some conversations even in THIS blog but it was amusing so trust me, plus I'd drunk a ridiculous amount of ale by this stage but he insisted on buying me a pint, as Tom left to catch a train back to his Lincolnshire slum. I was hardly gonna say no to a pint with ale of this quality, and spookily, just like when I met Martin Taylor and Quosh, that Squawk beer was on - it should be the official Twitter meeter and greeter ale. Oh yes, Tom had earlier spotted one negative - the pub had it's Christmas decorations in a box. "It is halfway to having them up!" he huskily growled a la Miss Conway. I jogged up a hill and caught a train back to York via Manc at the end of an epic day.

Stockport's Easter Bunny in action.

It has been a steady (i.e. unproductive) month so far in BRAPA but from next Saturday, that will all change with a week of extreme pubbing, mainly in central Buckinghamshire, but also with a bit of Derbyshire, Cheshire and Hampshire thrown in for good measure.

For now, I need a break from the ale so will continue with the bookwork to try and identify EVERY GBG pub from previous editions I've spent 27.5 minutes in and drank probably almost certainly a pint.

Welcome to my most pointless post of the year, only read if you are very bored.

18th April, and this is the first time "on this day" since BRAPA records began that I haven't been pub ticking. In fact, a year ago this very minute, I was being terrified in Wokingham, probably in the Crispin wondering if I'd ever feel clean again.

Tonight's substitute is finally having finished 'ticking off' all pubs in previous guides since 2002 which I know I've been to, in the name of real ale. It comes to a modest 1,640 - and though some memories are hazy and I cannot pinpoint certain pubs (a nice one on the outskirts of Leicester with funny Muslims, a Wetherspoons in Wrexham with idiot Charity Collecting babes, a jolly backstreet local in Walsall with local youths with funny accents, something in a field in rural Kent near a bull behind a wood, a couple of drunken Barbican-esque ones in Plymouth etc etc, I've had a decent go at it!)

As it is, I've managed to identify one more that actually is in the current GBG to give my numbers a boost before our "BRAPA Spring Festival" starting Saturday which I'll unleash on you all in due course, betcha can't wait.

But let me take you back, way back, to Tuesday 13th March 2012. I arrived in Cardiff about lunchtime, it was sunny, and I immediately walked quickly towards whatever the new Ninian Park is called because Hull City ticket office had ballsed-up sending me my match ticket and I had to collect it from some shady man in a booth in a woolly coat at the ground. Oh dear!

That task over, I was totally on the wrong side of town for checking into my Travelodge so with that BRAPA-brain whirring 2 years early, I tried to mop up some GBG pubs on the way back. First was a very peculiar thing called Chapter Arts Centre which I've earlier reviewed. But I'd only just got my new iPhone and to show off to Sunderland's finest John Watson, I tried to send him a photo of the bar area which failed and started draining my battery.

Never mind, I edged back east of town where I noticed a few GBG pubs listed under an area of town called Pontcanna. It seemed nice enough. I went to one called Half Way and one called New Conway (the latter currently still in the GBG). I remember being disappointed one had only Brains on, the other lots of Greene King, there was a man decorating outside whistling with a ladder, local radio played, they were a bit foody and the locals were of that "mid afternoon Welsh drinkers" vibe. Think I found both quite boring and merged them together in my mind.

Final pub before check in was due to be the Mochyn Du, which means "annoying Welsh pig" or something similar but before I could reach it, my phone died and not realising it was the battery (very much like Saturday just gone), I just thought life had ended!

I popped into first pub I saw, a rough big imposing thing on a main road crossroads, my plan was to ask for a paperclip or pin to open the SIM Card cover, see if that helped. Well, the staff were very cagey as I sat down with a pint of Guinness and I went to the loo to realise this pub had serious drug user problems. They thought I was an addict! So I went to explain I was from York so I was posher than their regular scum, so they forgave me and gave me a pushpin off the notice board!

It didn't help though, and neither did plugging my phone into the pub wall on the sly. I then walked for an hour (in totally the wrong direction), and trauamtised, eventually got a bus back to the Millenium Stadium where I'd not been far from! The bus driver made me pay in exact change into this bucket, and the whole bus was mad with me for delaying them as it was rush hour, and I was almost in tears!! Waaaah.

I found the Travelodge to check in, but it wasn't mine! I was staying in the Queen St one, and the directions the girl gave me were awful. So I got lost again walking up and down Queen St for ages, before I realised it was hidden down a side street. It was 7:20pm. I phoned home to tell everyone I wasn't dead, but no-one had missed me, I went to loo, plugged my phone in just in case, dumped my bag, jumped in nearest taxi to ground, got in just as ref blew whistle for kick off.

Amazing atmosphere stood with the Gooligans, we won 3-0 against the odds, I somehow found my way back, phone was working again, went for last orders at Goat Major, and drank 3 very quick pints of Brains washed down with a couple of Amoxycillin for an infected leg I'd probably picked up in Blackpool 2 weeks earlier cos where better place to get an infected leg?

Si

Saturday was one of those up and down days where, for every positive, there seemed to be a negative just around the corner, followed by a positive again. I wouldn't call it an emotional rollercoaster, but a very pubby rollercoaster, on this, day one of my "Spring Festival" week.

Spot the deliberate mistake!

I got myself to Sandbach on the train, well not quite, as the station was actually located 1.5 miles away in another town called Elgood or Ellways or ElWestBrom or something Ellish. Poor research on my part, but the good news was that I was nearer Middlewich, and therefore had 5 minutes extra to get myself to a bus stop and wait for it. Confused? You will be!

Middlewich felt very "Cheshire", the men all smelt of success and smug satisfaction with tans and wavy hair, but a proportion of the women folk looked like something from a Victorian based Hammer Horror production, silently wailing and wondering where their teeth had gone.

Another good slice of fortune followed as I realised my bus was travelling straight past my first pub of the day, along a pretty canal location, where a man was opening a canal lock (71) with his arse (like they do). "Open all day, every day!" screamed the pub sign in keeping with the GBG and WhatPub 11am official opening time. So did it open at 11am? Did it chuff!

11:08am so I strode across town to the other GBG pub, which was open.

1084. White Bear, Middlewich

Being open on time was sadly, as good as it got for this pub in my experience. I was served by a stodgy young Mark Robins of similar charisma, and looking helplessly around me for a 'pubby' seat / area of pub, I realised posing tables with horrid metallic chairs in the main bar was as good as it was going to get. Much of the pub given up to dining, or those impossible low flung leather settees. A moody looking tattooed Strongbow drinker had the right idea, so I sat near him and didn't make eye contact. My ale was warm and a bit limp, suffering from "first pulled of the day" syndrome, all pubs should be made to put such pints in their steak & ale pies like the Fox Hole in Piercebridge, in my opinion. With wicker baskets of random logs situated at my feet serving no purpose, I thought it's all very well housing your pub in a building from 1625 and boasting about it, but what's the point if you're going to be lame? Needless to say, my emergency beermat was out already. A smiley old man lightened the mood, and got a run through of the ales from a friendlier barman, "non Mark Robins". Sadly, he didn't like stouts, porters, or beers that were at all hoppy so his good mood didn't last! At least he got plenty of free tasters. And then I did my obligatory "walk wrong way to toilet" but I found a secret cosy upstairs room, before NMR saved me!

I sauntered back to the canal, and what a beautiful sunny day it was. I sat on the canal and waited for the pub to open, which it still wasn't, until 12 noon when the doors flung open - I gave it 2 extra mins for etiquette reasons, then walked in.

1085. King's Lock, Middlewich

I was greeted by a very cheery cute barmaid with flowers in her hair, looking like she'd just walked out of the 1960's. The pub doors had flowers on too, and it seemed only a matter of time before Dougal from Magic Roundabout walked in with Zebedee. She made the mistake of asking why I was here, so after boring her with BRAPA for a bit, she spoke passionately on local ale and the Middlewich ale scene, which surprisingly took as long as 3 minutes to complete! Just as I was about to quiz her on the 11am opening time fiasco, a bunch of canal-people came in. It started with cider-lady, then a man who was mortified not to see a brand lager he recognised before asking for the most 'standard' one they had! She gave him a Czech pilsner which he supped very tentatively, I tongue in cheek told him "he was very brave!" He didn't get the irony. Then some spirited local lads arrived, spoke about 'real' cider. Turns out our flowery heroine knew one of them (Giles from Knutsford) but he gave zero shits about this revelation. Then a stern man from Somerset demanded to know whereabouts in his home county Orchards brewery were based. She found out for him, but he'd not heard of it and his wife consoled him by stroking his arm. Classic pub this one, recommended.

Mrs Cider knocks back something cidery.

Better pint here, but corked display bottles were a turn off.

Spirited local lads featuring the enigma, Giles, from Knutsford

I walked down the canal, avoided getting my arm broken by a huge swan, but the bus stop had red tape up and 10 mins later with no bus in sight, I'd convinced myself it wasn't stopping here when I saw it on the horizon. Hooray. A few mins later, I was in Sandbach 'proper' though a road was closed so the bus driver told everyone he had to stop outside town on a roundabout.

A 10 minute walk later, the pub appeared and there was no mistaking it .....

1086. Old Hall, Sandbach

The pub may well have screamed Brunning & Price from the outside, but I think I'd entered through the correct door as I found myself at a basic quiet back bar, which felt anything but, and was greeted by a fantastic Asian barmaid who chatted to me about the weather (obviously) and such a gaggle of barmaids (if that's the right collective noun), who all seemed happy and genuinely enjoying working there, which sadly seems rare in such pubs. Pint of the day was had here too, Merlins Gold or something. I sat down facing the bar, and listened to the staff chatter, classics ranged from "I've told my boyfriend Kieran I'm not kissing him anymore unless he gives up smoking", to "I went to London and didn't understand how Underground ticket machines operated and I was like, soooo embarrassed!" The scintillating chat was cut short by unfolding drama in the sky, a police helicopter had been circling for ages and the blonde barmaid (who looked more cutthroat and ruthless than the others) peered out of the window to inform us all there'd been an "incident". An exceedingly jolly friendly couple, blonde and tanned like an 80's "after they were famous" pop duo, explained a man had been run over and the locals were filming it on their mobiles rather than helping! Meanwhile, an old bugger who was possibly a Mason drank tea out of this elaborate china tea set, just to remind us all this was a Brunning & Price after all. But my favourite one yet.

Masonic tea set man.

I thought there's no way I'll get a bus back to Sandbach railway station due to all this transport road closure chaos, so was up for the 30 minute walk, when a bus appeared out of nowhere, scooped me up, I asked are you going to THAT railway station, he said "the errrm errrm Sandbach one?" just to prove no-one had heard of this place, and a few mins later, I ate my lunch in the sun on the platform.

Changing at Crewe (no pubs there today, I've got other plans for that town), I found myself FINALLY in Alsager as I've been promising to visit this pub for about a year now,

1087. The Lodge, Alsager

I don't think I've been in a BRAPA pub yet where the first line I hear is "don't worry mate, she's just gone to change the Becks". Becks Vier that is. I think the man (one of three customers including me) just wanted an excuse to talk to someone. Problem is, this pub was so deliciously basic, it was pure genius and almost impossible to write about. Just three people, sat in a room, drinking and reading with background sexy jazz music. The third customer, an elderly gent with an air of the Italian plumber about him, was like a kid in a sweetshop - "oooh oooh, I'm loving this VPA, give me another, oooh oohh and a bag of those other mini cheddars while you are there! Aaah haha lovely" Had he escaped his wife or something? Anyway, the 'other' mini cheddars were crinkle cut cheese & onion if you care. Becks man pulled his blue cap down over his eyes and went outside to smoke, three Chinese youths came in, wanted some real cider (theme of the day?) and I decided that nothing of note was going to happen, so I headed off.

8 ales were on 4 pumps!

The wood in wicker basket didn't annoy me in here!

I'd given myself plenty of time for the train, and wasn't even concerned when a doddery old lady stopped me to tell me I was walking on the wrong side of the pavement! Apparently, she should be on the outside because she could see what was coming towards her. I humoured the old cow, but just then, I noticed the level crossings coming down and I needed to be on the other side, and there was no railway bridge - a Euston train had been delayed! Arrrghh. So all I could do was stand and watch as my train then arrived and left again, barriers still down, so frustrating!

But then I realised I only had half an hour wait, and Hull City scored two goals with ten men, and all was well with the world again. And how good was this weather anyway?

Back in Crewe, Leyton Orient fans were on their way back from Port Vale doing what they do best, acting weirdly. And after some teenagers got in trouble for stopping the train departing on time by holding the doors open for their mate, I was relieved when I was finally in Holmes Chapel on the way back up to Manc.

Accidentally quite a good photo

1088. Old Red Lion, Holmes Chapel

But less relieved when I saw the Ember Inns sign sticking out a mile! Firstly a Brunning & Price, now an Ember, jeez, I was treating myself today(!) But if the B&P was very strong, this was one of the most Embery Embers I've ever been in. The barman was of the sycophantic variety, presumably he'd been injected through the skull with the Ember drug just minutes before. He excitedly remembered a humourless bald bloke next to me. "You were at my easter quiz weren't you?" Baldie reluctantly admitted the charge, and gingerly told him "We couldn't use our usual team name of 'the Bald Eagles' because we had ladies in our group'. Delivered so dead-pan, I stifled a chuckle. I wasn't chuckling soon as, having been proud to remember the CAMRA discount, I was still charged £3.80 for a pint of Proper Job, nowhere near the quality of same drink I had in Seven Red Roses, Lower Early. The pub had a vague whiff of vinegar, mixed with cheap perfume from the kitchen staff. I sat on a comfy(ish) stool but with the amount of wall partitions, a low hanging lampshade, and a swathe of Magnolia walls, I've never felt so stifled and claustrophobic in such a quiet area of a pub in BRAPA history. It was soul sapping. Baldie had relaxed by now and tried a joke based on his hatred of music rounds in pub quizzes "if you tested me on music on my own iPod, I'd get them all wrong!" It went down like a lead balloon. Then I got cramp in my leg due to the weird chair/table juxtaposition, and all that remained was to play my Ember bingo game to stop my crying!!

(Oh, and if anyone else mentions the effin' Sam Smiths pub in Holmes Chapel being better, that's a spot fine of £3.80!)

A very Ember range, but who nicked the Doom Bar clip?

Thoroughly claustrophobic

Only scored 5 on the Ember Bingo though!

The next train to Piccadilly didn't stop at Chelford, which was kind of on my list, so I took that as a sign to be disciplined, have an early night, as I had a big day in Derby on the horizon. More on that later.

Derby's revolutionary new cider dispense method

If you think about life from an alphabetical BRAPA point of view, Derbyshire is coming into focus (well, to the same degree of focus my eyes had at 11pm last night). Cambridgeshire will become the new Buckinghamshire in early 2018, Cheshire is going steadily well, Cornwall will be a once a year 'treat' (unless I move!) and Cumbria is well, just too terrifying to consider sober.

So we turn to the Sunday before last, and an evening gig & overnight stop in Derby was just too good an opportunity not to get a few 'ticks' in. After rubbing shoulders with a few members of the purple rinse brigade and zimmerframers on the "V3 Villager", I walked from one lovely village, Repton, to another, Milton. I wish all roads had paths set back off the road for pedestrians, my life never felt endangered once!

Great weather again, and there was some village hall event going on, full of cyclists blocking the road and middle aged poshos walking around with homemade flapjacks and mead, and twilds attached to balloons. The pub was a refuge.

1089. Swan Inn, Milton

"...YOU LITTLE SHIT!" were the first words that greeted me on arrival, a standard BRAPA greeting I suppose, though I'm not sure the bloke was really talking to me, still I'd identified the pub "character" within seconds. "There's only one Welsh band when all said and done!" he then declared. I'll let you guess who this was, but let's just say his behaviour was quite manic. "AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON BIKERS!" he growled to his terrified three 'friends', though this latter comment proved particularly popular with every single local who entered and said the same thing. "I'M GOING HOME NOW SO THIS PUB WILL BE QUIETER!" he squawked to much relief from all. This was a cracking little local, everything a village pub should be with piano, normal decor, and no sign of food. I got chatting with the barman, a quiet but friendly chap, quite a deep earnest St George's Day chat, I mean I'd only told him I was enjoying the Leatherbritches ale so he would ask me about BRAPA, so I could bore him for a few minutes! You know that embarrassing moment when family walk in and you can't work out which is mother and which is daughter? They weren't a very popular family in any case due to their tell-tale lycra cyclist scum give-away. Turns out they were both daughters, I know this because 'Dad' downed half a Carling at the bar and asked for a top up on the sly. "You've just done that so Mum won't know!" admonished the daughters. More locals came in, one angry lady observed "all cyclists are fascists!", jeez, change the record guys, I think this pub needs a group outing to Cambridge if they wanna feel full on cyclist rage!! Cracking pub.

After a gentle stroll back to Repton (buses were every two hours so I had ages), it was time for pub two which apparently had descended into Fawlty Towers standards before the most recent takeover, according to the folk of Milton, with one overnight visitor forced to sleep in his car cos he got locked out!

1090. Boot Inn, Repton

On the face of it, this should have been one to get the BRAPA blood boiling. Let's consider the evidence. Gently perfumed pub air, lit candles on every table despite the bright sunny day, middle of the road piped music, no beermats. Yet, whilst it was all rather twee, you could feel the quality too. An onsite brewery offered good interesting ales, barstaff were courteous if a bit overly groomed, and there was fun to be had in the loos too, even a sense of danger as the 'toilet flushing chain' (always satisfying) had a meat hook on the end to draw blood. If that wasn't enough, the first hand dryer I've ever seen with a countdown on it. From 10-zero, yet when it gets to zero, it carries on anyway, just flashing menacingly at you, much like the men-folk in the York Arms (allegedly). What's the point?
A group of young ladies arrived for some posh cocktails, and you know how middle-of-the-road a pub is when the Corrs come on, and the whole pub stops talking to have a gentle sing-a-long. Good heavens! But the hero of the hour was a Scotsman, who defied conventions and seemed to be on a Tinder date with a local lady. He talked horse shit (literally), farming in Ballater(?) and going to the chemist, which he made sound like a pub, and probably was when he declared "I don't take drink to feel better, I take drink to numb the pain". Fair to say, there won't be a second date. In fact, when a tanned white toothed sweater man came in with black Labrador called Brocket, Brocket ran over to Mrs Tinder and got lots more attention. Scotsman, defeated, had a chat with me at the bar instead! Nice guy, and Mrs Tinder looked at me like "you can have him if you want!" Hmmmm, I had a bus to catch.

Bus back into Derby, checked into the Premier Inn, and straight back out cos although the gig starting time had been amended from 7pm to 6pm, which was odd, I needed to squeeze at least one of my two remaining pubs in. My original plan had been to go to the Rowditch (annoying opening hours of 7pm-11pm) so my plan now was to fit that in before last orders and do the New Zealand Arms now. Would it work? Luckily, the venue (called "The Venue" in typical East Midlands imagination) was on the right side of town for both pubs!

1091. New Zealand Arms, Derby

Ah, it was that traditional Derby pub welcome of slightly reserved, wary look in the eyes of barstaff, whilst the old locals close ranks around the bar. To be fair though, there regular clientele probably don't come in with spiky hair, tie-dyed red and black jeans with ripped knees, a teenage genocide top and fake leather jacket from Hong Kong! But I do. And that ladies and gentlemen, is why I didn't get anywhere near the Dancing Duck ales and had to make do with the three in the 'Cider Bar', but a lovely non Cidery pint it was, best of the day. It was a typically Sunday evening hubbub, so relaxed I was almost horizontal on my bench seating. A Dad and Daughter combo appeared and made quite an odd duo. He was of the nervy Uni Professor ilk, she was a student way-too-cool for-school. I'd been getting myself more and more wound up by the old duffers blocking off the Dancing Duck Ales, and there's only so many Canadian support acts you can watch, so I thought (accidentally out loud combined with a yawn) "RIGHT, I'm staying for another one!" The Prof jumped out of his skin but his daughter continued to Snapchat her Bae (or whatever students do these days). The locals didn't let me near the guest ones, but I muscled in for a standard pale. So another Derby pub that was almost a classic, but just fell short mainly on account of strange stand-offish attitude. Furnace meets Exeter Arms meets Peacock etc etc etc.

Finally, the pint I wanted!

Blocking off the bar

The Prof, and daughter (obscured)

A little bit too relaxed!

So, then to the gig, a Venue living in the dark ages beerwise with keg Speckled Hen or soily Guinness the main choices, but the Menzingers were amazing, and the Flatliners deserved a lot more than a disinterested crowd (apart from me and one hairy dude who kept hugging me). I once almost got in trouble for describing the Menzies (circa 2013) as "like watching your disabled son at school sports day" but since their amazing new album 'After the Party', they are more like Pistorious on Acid, minus the toilet-door murdering, obviously. Stunning, Hit after hit.

Even with the encore taken into account, the gig finished dead on 10:15pm so I raced 10 minutes down the road to the Rowditch in a last 'ditch' attempt to finish Derby, and get this one done.

1092. Rowditch Inn, Derby

First step, lights were on and door was open - good! Next, had they rung for last orders? No chance, a band was in full swing and the place was heaving in a merry jovial way, this was the perfect tonic to many community pubs. They even had their own ales so must have a brewery onsite ala Repton. Cheap too, sure I paid about £2.50 a pint, and though any band would be a come down after the gig I'd been to, these guys were properly impressive - okay so it was the kind of pub covers you'd expect but feel the passion and power, had my gig-face on so had a bit of a boogie, got talking to this middle aged couple (or was it one woman, my memory is hazy!) about BRAPA (what else?) and she was really championing this pub for it's community feel, and she was right, shame I wasn't sober enough to remember more distinct details but I can tell you it must be one of Derby's finest.

Cracking pint of homebrew!

When are the crowd gonna start moshing? This century?

So all in all, a fantastic trip out, decent sleep though a bit dehydrated, but Monday a much needed recovery day before I cracked on with Bucks on Tuesday afternoon. Review of that coming soon!

I started my four day tour of Central Bucks in Wendover, mainly because my train from London Marylebone stopped there and it seemed a "quick win" (to use an annoying work term) before checking in at my glorious Travelodge.

However, it was an early reminder of just how unreliable pub times are, and Martin Taylor's comment "good luck with midweek pub opening times in Bucks!" really hit home as it was closed. Luckily for me, and unusually for the GBG these days, the write-up had recommend another pub down the road called the White Swan - Fullers unity!

White Swan, Wendover

So much to do this week, and I inadvertently start in a non-GBG pub, you couldn't make it up! Perhaps that added to my gloomy feel in here as a nice but thoroughly miserable looking bloke served me half an ESB. I was one of two customers, the other looked like he belonged on a South Coast sailing boat with Wham in 1985, there was something 'rugged Howards Way' about him. My ulterior motive for coming here though was obvious as I asked the barman if he knew when/if the Pack Horse was opening? "2pm they've just changed their hours!" he replied. It was 2:04pm when I asked, it had been 1:55pm when I'd tried to get in! I downed my premium Fullers ale, good quality and a proper pub, but when sailing bloke left, I soon followed and headed back down the road away from town.

Half an ESB in White Swan

Pub in distance, along from the pretty thatched Anne Boleyn cottages

1093. Pack Horse, Wendover

And true enough, the pub was now open and I was the first customer and was greeted by the friendly barmaid, who'd taken it on from her Mum, with her daughter also working in the pub and it had that warm homely feel of a place that was 'loved' - I felt a bit like a Derek Acorah of pubs telling her all this, like I was listening to the history in the walls! Nevetheless, she was quite gloomy about the future of both this and the White Swan "in the current pub climate" - had considered doing food as her son's a bit of a chef but I discouraged her and tried to get a scotch egg/ sausage roll/ bar snacks compromise going! She seemed taken by BRAPA, and a visitor from York, she admitted her husband was a Lancastrian and I just started saying how nice Lancs folk were when she told me she much preferred Yorkshire! No one ever says that! I thought the older front part of the pub seemed the best place to sit, but she warned me this was the "old man's" area and I'd be called a "muppet" if I sat here long enough. I took my chances as she went to answer the phone, still being the only customer. Daughter, celebrating her 40th birthday, arrived but was more concerned with getting her Mum to put the kettle on. And then spoke with great excitement about a weekend of celebrating in Skegness. So I wished her many happy returns ("I'm still 39!" she told me), drank up, and left.

So that was a good solid start to the first day of pub ticking, though I scarcely believed it'd end up being my "pub of the day" (but it certainly was) as I travelled on to Aylesbury to check in, it was schoolkids chucking out time, so the train also had a fair smattering of local oddballs (paedos?) who all looked like Jim from Friday Night Dinner.

Everyone on the train to Aylesbury

My Travelodge was in a surprisingly picturesque part of a not very picturesque town.

One minute, it was bright sunshine, the next grey and hail showers but I just made it to pub two before the heaven's opened.....

1094. Old Millwrights Arms, Aylesbury

The OMA, as it seems to be known locally (maybe the folk of Aylesbury are similar to those of Chorlton and can't handle too many syllables), seemed to be screaming Greene King in my face from the moment I entered, and I ordered a pretty desultory Vale ale served by a barman who looked like he could do something to irritate you, though at the time I just put it down to his blazer / t-shirt combination. As I sat on a somehow comfortable huge wooden chair with telephone cushion (whyyyy?), I noticed the pub had committed one of my "pub pet hates" by leaving the door open despite the inclement weather - even on a hot day I'd not be impressed! The only other customer seemed to be a haggard Noel Edmonds type, that was until two Eastern European ladies of the night appeared, adjusted their skirts, and left even quicker. Music from the 'Lion King' seemed to playing on the speakers, I left my scarf on, frowned, and couldn't even be arsed to get out my emergency beermat - though to be fair, I later found a load hidden in a pizza menu. The barman decided to try irritating me, as per my earlier comment. First he asked why I hadn't chosen a better beer(!), Tim Taylor Landlord was his recommendation - "a revelation to the locals" apparently, I told him I had it all the time in York. That got us onto BRAPA "ohhh, we get pub tickers 2 or 3 times a week in here! And they always come in at THIS time of day!" He knew I was annoyed so tagged "it's a cool thing to do though!" on the end, and then muttered something about being a "scrabbler" (I think though may have misheard), I said it sounded interesting, to try and get more out of him, but he said it was boring! At least he made an effort at all. Then Aylesbury's answer to Francis Rossi came in and talked loudly about packing his tools away in such a strange manner, it sounded like a euphemism.

Dull ale

Dull cushion

O.M.A.

I decided there was still time to try something semi-adventurous so hopped on this strange little old fashioned train to a place called Little Kimble, a ten minute walk along a busy road near some manurey fields ......

1095. Swan, Great Kimble

Nice to get a rural one ticked off, but at what cost? After work drinks being enjoyed by farmers in suits (probably), and plenty of them. Time for another "pub pet hate", people who don't move from the bar even when you are polite and say excuse me please. Ignorant. Even a black labrador decided to be a Twog / Twabrador (Twat Dog / Labrador) as I tried to skirt around it to get to the bogs. The barman was right on me too, demanding to know what ale I wanted immediately when I'd barely seen them, though he seemed a gentlemanly Rene from 'Allo 'Allo type, minus the French accent. I had no choice to sit on the cusp of the huge (and totally empty) "restaurant" area to the left. The fact the suited farmers would rather clutter the bar spoke volumes for how much people just want an authentic drinking experience more often than not in a pub, and it made me think of my earlier chat with the lady in Wendover. Maybe I'd been too harsh on my arrival. (Surely not!) Mrs Twog became the only person to smile at me, but I'd identified my favourite pub people so far - a father n son combo sat at the bar. Son was a 12 year old manual labourer in hi-vis, Dad had the air of a failed Mancunian drummer from the early nineties. "Oooh Mum'll be impressed you're sunburnt!" said Dad, and they later sat behind me to enjoy two massive burgers, the only people eating in this totally lopsided pub!

Mine host presides over 'Dad'

Father & Son contemplate burgers

Farmers n Suits.

All was not yet lost, I figured as the rain started pissing down just as I hopped on a more boring standard train back to the home of the ducks. Surely a top pub was around the corner, I thought, as I headed to an out of town Aylesbury pub.

1096. Hop Pole, Aylesbury

Let's face it, we all know somebody who think a pub is a good pub if it sells a big range of ales. But the longer I do BRAPA, the less likely I think this is to be true. Here was obviously Vale Brewery's flagship pub so I had to have one, fancied a porter (think it was the wet weather!) but it was poor, and by the dregs was seriously vinegar. Shame really cos I wanted to love this place after the last two, the staff were as bohemian as Aylesbury gets, one giggly girl even had a headscarf on and they were a friendly, young, lively bunch and there was much mirth as everyone around me ordered this Moretti lager shite, which kept frothing up cos the pumps were possessed by the devil or something. At least I'd found a fantastic red leather armchair to observe the pub in. Shame I wasn't wearing my red leather jacket, I'd have totally camouflaged. I described this pub as being like High Wycombe's Bootlegger "but with more balls" at the time, I'd probably stick with that! Two men at the bar seemed to be speaking in code at one point. "Lucy is in Rotherham" said one pointedly. "Yes, Lucy IS in Rotherham" said the other. What did it all mean? But then it go awkward as the friendly old Asian dude who knew the whole pub stopped at my seat, looked shocked, wandered around for a bit, then asked if he could sit next to me! I was obviously in HIS seat, and he didn't like it. All I could do was stare at a garish yellow mirror surround. But I hate awkward silences so asked him if he was local, enjoying his ale etc. He was shocked I'd travelled from York to come to Aylesbury, but told me what a friendly place Aylesbury was (about ten times!) When I came back from the loo, he'd left! He took a BRAPA card so "hello!" if you are reading this now!

Just stare at the yellow and all will be okay!

All that remained was to go back to my room (via MaccyD's and Waitrose, you've gotta live!) get an early night, and hope that Wednesday would bring an upturn in pub & beer quality!!

Si

Day 4 of my BRAPA Spring Festival (two Wednesdays ago) dawned with the traumatic sight of two Welsh men in hi-vis drinking cans of Boddingtons in my Travelodge during the 9am breakfast rush. It was made more amusing by the barman pretending to go down to the cellar to change the barrel, then ducking under the counter and coughing as he pulled the ring pull and the widget exploded into life - probably. It all felt very 1996 in any case.

Aylesbury Bus Station surpassed the Doncaster, Barnsley and Rotherham equivalents by managing to be the most depressing place on earth, more like god's waiting room although it was nice to see the 12 year old manual labourer from Little Kimble powering through at one point. I almost missed my bus as it went from the wrong stop, but was soon in the village of Quainton, as quaint as you might expect.

1097. George & Dragon, Quainton

I headed to the left side of the pub as per BRAPA 2017 protocol (you know I'm not joking) where I was greeted by a cheerful buxom young barmaid, presiding over an equally buxom range of real ales. I ordered something very 'local' looking called 'Rob's Bitter' without a proper pump clip, but she wasn't sure where the pump was, so a ruddy faced local told her "if it's at the top, it's at the bottom!" as if this would clarify things. It kind of did. But you had to be there. This local turned out to be Colin, a friendly chap, the sort who seems to be single-handedly keeping the village pub alive whilst also knowing the inner workings of the pub better than the staff! He was on the gin at 12 noon, but still wanted to tell me how some of these 5% plus real ciders blow your socks off and I should avoid! I had to hover awkwardly around the bar as a group of lunching old duffers came in and couldn't work out which of the thousand empty tables they wished to reserve! A female equally as vocal and friendly as Colin joined us, this was Gaynor. Her modus operandi was to slag off Rugby Union, love Chelsea F.C., and say "I'm just off outside for a gasper" at 5 minute intervals. Colin got the fire lit, which was really welcome but shouldn't be necessary late April. A third local came in, he sat with his back to me and apologised for it but we had some nice chat without looking at each other! My Rob's Bitter had caused much intrigue to all, so I offered it round for a taste. Our friendly hostess looked scandalised, and then confidentially whispered "4th day!" in my ear. I was just about to say "yes that's correct, are you a BRAPA follower then?" when she explained it was only her 4th day of working, I told her she was doing a great job, Colin called me a "crawler". It was time to leave, but i finally felt I'd found a great Bucks pub and the holiday could properly begin after yesterday's disappointments.

"If it's at the top (pump clip), it's at the bottom (bar)" Confusing!

Waiting for Colin to get the fire going

I wasn't prepared for what came next. The most traumatic walk of 2017 pub ticking so far. The road to Oving (pronounced Ooooh-ving so the locals in Quainton told me), was longer than expected. One minute, I was being peppered with huge hailstones, next it was warm and sunny. The roads were winding, thin, busy, full of fast cars. Not pedestrian friendly. I walked 48.6 miles during my 4 days in Bucks, and most of them were done today!

And then I had the added stress of my third pub, in North Marston, closing at 3pm, another mile from Oving, so I couldn't even relax when I got to pub two. But what a relief when I finally arrived in the pretty little village of Oooooh-ving!

1098. Black Boy, Oving

I was exhausted when I arrived, and when the young bruntette barmaid (who I later learned was Abby/Abigail and this was her last week at the pub before going to study or something) innocently commented to me "cold out there innit?", the last hour of walking overcame me and I replied "NOT WHEN YOU'VE BEEN WALKING ALL THE WAY FROM QUAINTON ON BUSY ROADS, HAILSTONES ONE MINUTE, SUNSHINE THE NEXT, SWEATING BUCKETS, CARS WHIZZING PAST AT A THOUSAND MILES AN HOUR". Then I realised the whole pub was looking curiously at this weird interloper and I apologised and said, "sorry, I mean I'll have a pint of the XT Amber please!" It's funny looking back. I went to the loo, and sure enough, I was a blotchy sunburnt windswept mess. I sat on a table for one in the middle of pub, staff and clientele kept glancing at me, half scared of the red blotchy northerner, half sympathetic. It was a cracking pub too, even more trad village local than Quainton, yet I couldn't stay long enough to appreciate it was the North Marston time issue was on my mind. I was aware of a quiet young blonde lad called Ben doing his first shift "don't bully him, he's a North Marston!" said two proper local pubmen at the bar. I also learnt "Helen's knee is really swollen after driving back from France". It sounded important, but not sure why. I left with a sheepish 'thanks', just as the two pubmen were hopping into a car. I wonder if they are off to North Marston, they could give me a lift!" I half-heartedly thought,

I worked out that if North Marston was to say, ring last orders at 2:40pm, I had 20 minutes exactly to make the 1.1M walk to the pub. So delighted was I that the road was a rural, traffic free affair, and that it was downhill, I jogged down it singing the theme tune to Black Beauty. I think perhaps I'd lost my mind slightly. It was 2:39pm, and the pub still looked open. They WERE going to serve me, whatever!

1099. Pilgrim, North Marston

Not that there was any question I wouldn't be served as I ordered my Chiltern Beechwood ale (a real Bucks staple beer) off a jolly landlady, but when I realised two of the three guys at the bar were saying 'hello' to me, I realised it was the Oving guys! I told them I wished I'd asked for a lift, mentioned that I'd remembered their "don't bully him, he's a North Marston" comment, and was praised for pronouncing Oving properly! They seemed quite taken with the BRAPA concept, especially the traumatic walking aspect of my day and my plans to go 3.2 miles further north to Winslow. The third Aussie bloke seemed more concerned about the fact that this village had never been a Midsomer Murders setting like so many others. But he then complained that the programme wasn't very realistic(!) and the landlady tried to appease him by saying at least Rosemary & Thyme had been filmed here, but that was no consolation to anyone. As the hailstones came down heavier than ever, one of the pubmen went to catch his bus and I wondered whether this 3pm closure was actually going to happen, everyone seemed so relaxed, and it was another proper no-frills village pub the way village pubs should be. At least that was some reward for the exertions of the day as I set off walking again, for a final time today!

Barmaid, two pubmen and the Aussie, enjoying life!

So another hour on foot came and went, I was immune to traffic and my legs were almost numb now. I didn't feel like I'd drunk one pint, never mind three. Initial panic when I reached Winslow as the door seemed locked, noooo, but I was approaching it from the side by mistake and it had quite a pretty facade.

1100. George, Winslow

Occasionally in BRAPA, you go into a pub and it actually feels like the people within are putting on a kind of amateur dramatic play for you, just to make the blog write up even easier - Victoria in Paddington was a prime example, and this was another. There was a weirdness about this town/village and the inhabitants which I couldn't quite put my finger on, a tiny bit like when I went to Tregaron in Wales, some places are just bizarre. Almost like you aren't there, from the outside looking in. A friendly little dog (not quite a Twog) greeted me on arrival, "You a dog person?" asked the pub landlady with a glint in her eyes which seemed to say "I know you are Cat Scum!" even though I tried to blag it. "He's called Geoffrey, and he's very friendly!" she told me. And repeated the "friendly" bit so many times during the next half hour, I started to suspect this dog was a hired assassin. A student aged couple came in and perched on a barrel shaped table, this was quite a photogenic pub in truth, though lacked something of the charm of our earlier pubs. A middle aged man with grey hair who seemed to know the pub inside out appeared. Student girl seemed to flirt with him - "I liked you with your beard, but you still look nice without it" she shouted across to him. He seemed chuffed, her boyfriend wished he could grow one. A little girl appeared with her Dad, she'd just finished school and was too entertaining to be given "Twild" status. "Where's Jessica?" she said referring to a dog too old to come to the pub anymore. But she was adaptable enough to embrace Geoffrey, but not fully believing the "he's friendly" story anymore than me! Though did later feed him a bag of pork scratchings, She interrogated anyone who knew Geoffrey, including our now beardless middle aged friend. Then an old man came in, Geoffrey rushes over, "hello Johnny!" says the old man. "HE'S NOT CALLED JOHNNY, HE'S CALLED GEOFFREY!" admonishes the little girl. "STOP CALLING HIM JOHNNY" And just when it couldn't get any more confusing, a dog called "Jessie" appears, and a friendly under the table Twog scuffle breaks out. And just as I'm leaving, a man walks in and both dogs start barking and growling madly. "I'm from Stoke-on-Trent" he explains at the bar, which perhaps explains everything.

Barmaid serves a customer who has recently had his beard removed

Little girl fails to fully trust Geoffrey

Boyfriend wishes he could grow beard after gf comment,

Probably no surprise then that on the bus back to Aylesbury, a girl behind me was trying to explain away her friend's violent conduct towards a college tutor, "he was being wound up, he tried to ignore, but he just snapped, and he's only just been released so we're worried what'll happen now". I was worried too and relieved to be back in Aylesbury, as no one has ever said, ever!

After a quick trip to Waitrose for some snacks, and a quick clean up, I noticed the sun was out so headed the short walk along Aylesbury's poor excuse for a High Street to my final "town tick". Martin Taylor's not so favourable review (to put it politely!) was running through my head, so I was a bit skeptical on arrival.

1101. Bricklayers Arms, Aylesbury

It didn't look very open at all, but once I'd figured out that occasionally in pub-land, you have to actually turn a door handle, I was in to find a bustling after work crowd. Think I'd been lucky to enter at the lower bar, which seemed a lot more pubby (though I wasn't brave enough to wander up and look for the loo!), the young bar boy had a sickly sycophantic expression of someone who'd had a dosage of that 'Ember Inn drug' injected to his skull (not that this was an Ember Inn or anything so upsetting), but how else do you explain him being perfectly happy that I paid for my over-priced pint of London Pride exclusively in twenty pence coins?! He was loving it. As I sat in the creaky low roofed beamed old bar under the TV drinking perhaps the best pint of Pride I'd ever had, I suspected I'd had a much luckier experience than Martin. But you can only judge these things on face value. A father/son combo were sat at the bar, the Dad was a bit of an oddball I thought and in a move reminiscent of Winslow, he started slagging off another young barman - "have you started shaving yet?" and "you are never 18!". Weird as he was with his teenage tracksuited pepsi drinking son, and this barman had dark panda eyes which made him look like either a boxer, an insomniac, or a drug addict. But not a underager! Dad then asked for the Spanish football to be put on the TV, which to me is the sign of someone who is a bit wrong. And to top it off, when Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn" played over the speakers, they actually did a kind of impromptu duet, the highlight/lowlight being when Dad sang the line "cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor". To his son! In a high pitched voice! After everything that'd gone before. I'm not kidding. I stuck my face in my Pride, drank up, and left.

Pride is drinking well!

Father/Son, pre-duet and Spanish football.

So that was day two, a bit of a classic BRAPA day out and though I needed an early night and a lot of rest, it had me in the mood for some top Chilterns ticking on day 5, which I will review shortly.

Si

Let me take you back, all the way back to Thursday 27th April (well, two weeks ago) where I was raring to go for "Day 5" of the BRAPA Spring Festival. I say 'raring', but after the walking trauma of day 4, I'd happily have spent all day with my feet in a Radox bath, but that would surely be breaking some BRAPA 'code of conduct' ruling. New pubs were flashing, let's play BRAPbusters!

What I really didn't need was a long walk to start things off, but I underestimated the walk from Princes Risborough station to my first pub at a place called Parslows Hillock, the 'Hillock' surely a local in-joke as the climb was knackering and steep.

I didn't get a great feel about Princes Risborough, the locals walked around with their noses in the air in a very York/Bath "we live in such a nice town, we don't have to try any harder" kinda way. You don't get that in Morecambe.

With my back just as sweaty as yesterday and a red kite circling menacingly above (waiting for my carcass) as I took the obligatory photos, I heard a cackling of female voices from within, I turned the old fashioned pub latch tentatively, and was inside .....

1102. Pink & Lily, Lacey Green

But as soon as I walked towards the bar, the cackling of the two barmaids (well, they looked more like Barristas from a chain coffee shop) stopped and they went very stoic and serious. Having said that, when all the local coffin dodgers ambled in for lunch, they got a warm welcome. It was a typical "we don't like you unless you are dining with us" pub attitude and quite aloof. 90% of the pub was a unashamed dining mess, the saving grace was a small side bar to the front left which was a proper old fashioned pub room. Later, when a couple of friendly old ladies came for a 'pub tour', I told them I reckoned I had the best seat in the house, but one told me that this was the room where the pub bungs walkers with muddy boots and people with dogs. And probably twilds too. Maybe I should count myself lucky. Anyway, cut off from the horrid reality, I enjoyed my little room with it's books and pub games, and realised it was a homage to local First World War poet, Rupert Brooke. I read some of his works, and quite frankly, it was as bland as 90% of this pub. Utterly uninspiring, so I rewrote his poem about this pub. "When I set off, the air was chilly. But then the roads got steep and hilly. And now I need to drain my willy, Once I've reached the Pink & Lily". To my surprise, as I went to the gents (labelled 'Jokers', how droll), I noticed a side room full of old Space Invaders gaming tables and fussball machines, like a mini museum. Bizarre, and even more bizarre, I got a friendly goodbye on the way out.

My own private room!

Rupert Brooke (probably) as a twild

Might've been funny in a better pub

Random games room!

The walk carried on, down increasingly winding rural roads though much more pleasant and traffic free than the Quainton to Oving fiasco of yesterday! The next pub wasn't long in coming, the sun was out now lighting up an incredibly picturesque village where the pub didn't look much like a pub from a distance .....

Is this the pub?

Definitely the pub!

1103. Hampden Arms, Great Hampden

I walked in to this creaking old tiny pub to see the now familiar sight of old duffers with their faces in the nosebag. Still, at least this lot smiled and the pub had a proper cosy feel from the off, regardless of dining. I'd read it was owned by some Lord or Baron or something, so when I saw the pub had it's own branded snacks, I was immediately reminded of "posh Sam Smiths". And you don't say that very often in life. Two young Fosters drinking dudes were kept waiting as the barmaid had gone to change the barrel on the Rebellion, which seemed to take a life time but appreciated her diligence and it was a great quality ale. Under the circs (lack of space, foody), I thought I'd enjoy the sun in the pretty front beer garden, but the rain started immediately and I was forced back indoors in the raised dining area near the loo. At least I could observe as one old gent discussed a trip out to see a record collection in Northampton - "a dreadful place!" chimed all the oldies in unison. I must go back. Regarding the specials on offer, the barmaid told the oldies that they were selling a new type of meat "but if we tell everyone what it is, no-one will eat it!" No one ordered it. Cat I assumed. The conversation continued to be mundane, when out of the blue, one of the young Fosters dudes suddenly announced during an unfortunate lull in chat "Some of the things my ex-girlfriend did were unreal!" After much choking on food and embarrassed faces, the oldies took this as their cue to leave, one old lady stopping to observe a painting of the pub by the door and asking "is this the pub that we are in?" Well no shit, Granny Sherlock! I left soon after, 'amusing without meaning to be' is the best description I could offer.

Pub's own snacks, quality!

Lunchtime for me!

My view towards dining duffers and bar

I saw this bloke later on (landlord?), and he had more hair (no, not like THAT!)

I walked towards Lacey Green through this crazy little place called Speen where all these houses had horse stables and were behind large gates, bearing Arabic names like Omar Towers.

I had a slight sense of urgency because although the GBG and WhatPub said my next pub opened all day on a Thursday, it closed mid afternoon Mon-Wed and I wanted to make absolutely sure so I did the long trek and quite a pace, finally arriving and the board outside did make me wonder.....

"Open all day Fri, Sat, Sun and Bank Hols!"

1104. Black Horse, Lacey Green

First off , relieved to see it open (pubs really shouldn't let me get a foot in the door!) and the barmaids ever-so slightly cagey manner did lead me to ask "do you open all day Thursday?" and the answer was no, so I showed her GBG and the online edition to prove I wasn't some mentalist visitor. She took it seriously and went to tell 'main lady' as we'll call her, to investigate. It was chucking out time for the lunchers, and I was just in time to see a whining Twild ask Posh Mum what type of dog she'd like if he was allowed to have one? "A hairless one" was a pretty classic off the cuff reply, and I already knew this pub had a cheeky humour about it by the signs up in the pub like "Piss off, I'm busy", "you're barred if you come from Donny" and "are you Doctor Allam in disguise?" (I may've made two of these up). Then a bunch of young women went to the bar to pay for their lunch and they split the bill about five ways, and I wasn't the only one rolling my eyes!! And at 2:42pm, an old bloke called Dave with a zimmerframe (who was sat near the door) got up to leave to ensure he was outside by 3pm. Slowest man ever in a pub since a 1999 Irish pub in Hayes. Pub had a very homely feel and I'd been perched at the bar to see if there was anymore comeback on the Thursday mid arvo closure issue, and 'main lady' appeared and I had best chat of the week with her. Like all good pubs, they blamed the local CAMRA for the 'admin' error, she took my blog email address (I'd left my cards in my hotel room!), she had exactly same opinions on Pink & Lily as me, and even went so far as to say I should run/own a pub cos I'd know what people want! Can you imagine? It'd be "no dogs, no twilds, no jam jars, no food, etc etc, I'll do a separate blog on that! Anyway, in good spirits, I left for next pub which had been highly recommended by all.

After a very short walk (by the standards of this trip), I saw the next pub peeping out from behind the trees just as the schoolkids were all being chucked out of the local school.

1105. Whip Inn, Lacey Green

I walked in to what at first seemed to be an incredibly calm mid afternoon lounge-like pub environment, until an enthusiastic short-haired tattoo lady popped up from nowhere, with all the gusto of a Kids TV presenter on crack who used to be in a punk band, If you can imagine such a thing. Anyway, I took my pint of Village Idiot (best pint of my Bucks holiday?) to a table facing the bar and tried to be fairly conspicuous, plus I was exhausted again from another 10 miles of walking over the last few hours! The pub telephone kept ringing, and I got the distinct impression it was staff phoning in sick, though someone called 'Kate' (possibly a false name) eventually rang to book a meal which seemed to be a relief to our jolly hostess. An old chap with a bad cough who looked like he belonged in the bible and seemed to be known as 'Bod' got into a debate about with our barmaid about whether Surfin' USA was ripping off Sweet Little Sixteen. It was. Barmaid was right. Bod was stunned into silence, apart from the coughing. A few old couples appeared after that, I think they were quite friendly (I forgot to make any notes though remember chuckling with an old woman about something weird her husband had done) and the toilets had a huge chart about the key to happiness in life, which actually read like the BRAPA code of conduct. It was time for a bus back to Prinny Rizz.

Bible Bod has lost his music quiz, but not his cough

It was gloomy, grey and raining again when I stepped off the bus, packed with teenagers, at Princes Risborough, in search of a pub that someone had described earlier in my holiday as "unvisitable 3 months ago, but might be better now, if you're lucky!" so I could hardly wait.....

1106. Bird in Hand, Princes Risborough

I walked into this dead feeling Greene King pub where a young Fergal O'Brien had escaped the Crucible to serve me an ale called "Bring Me Sunshine", and quite rightly did not appreciate my attempt at a "need a beer like that on a day like this!" joke which was crap and lazy, though a polite smile might not've been beyond him! To be fair, he was watching a re-run of "Coast" - probably one of those ten minute snippet features, for he seemed eager to get back to it. He later turned over to The Chase where Rick from Stockport was floundering like you'd imagine of someone called Rick from Stockport over 100 miles from his nearest pint of Robinsons. Apart from a peculiar selection of Greene King memorabilia locked in a green cage, like artefacts from a museum, the only thing curious about this pub was the other 'customer', though I think he might've been an auditor here to close the pub down. He sat at a table on his own, not just with his laptop out, but with a huge elaborate printer which he kept using to print noisy elaborate documents. He had a clip on (probably) tie he kept adjusting. Occasionally, he'd whip out a calculator or a notepad and ask an increasingly nervous Fergal some awkward questions like how well a particular drink was selling. I honestly felt like I was witnessing a pub in it's death throes! The Chase finished, and it wasn't only Rick from Stockport who looked upset, as I decided it was time to find a train back to Aylesbury.

The Greene King museum

Let's get another document printed before The Chase finishes!

So that was a depressing / amusing end to pub ticking, another trip to Waitrose and early night for me before the final Bucks push on Friday! I'll try to write that one up very soon, and apologies for how far behind I've been with my pub blogging. Birthday week is always a tricky one.

See you soon, Si

My final day in Bucks, and my penultimate day of my BRAPA Spring Festival saw my feet and liver so knackered, I wanted an easier day before the final Southampton push tomorrow. To be honest, I was running out of easy pub options from my Aylesbury base, so I wiped the sausage crumbs from my mouth and hopped on a train to High Wycombe.

High Wycombe is a funny place, everyone seems to be internally sobbing, and you don't really feel that you are "in it", a bit like Crewe without the old men and Old Tom. A bit like Watford without errrm, whatever Watford has to commend it.

After a January disaster saw me failing to understand the Little Missenden wasn't accessible from Great Missenden, I'd gone back to BRAPA HQ in York and formulated a plan which could fail. Bus to a pub called the Bat & Ball in Holmer Green, and a two and a bit mile walk. Easy. And by 11:30am, I turned the final country lane and the village was there, an almost emotional moment!

1107. Crown, Little Missenden

I nearly missed the pub as it was right through the village, past the inferior (so I was told) Red Lion. The pub was already serving it's function as the hub of local gossip and intrigue, there was a HUGE PILE UP (i.e. two cars had a bump) causing TEN MILE TAIL BACKS (slight traffic jam) on the main road just outside the village, and the locals were lapping it up in a way not seen since the Old Hall in Sandbach barmaids speculated on how squashed that poor pedestrian actually was. So less than a week ago then! The landlord was a proper archetypal village landlord, green of jumper, steely of gaze, firm of handshake. When I ordered an Otter Bitter and he boomed "FOUR POUND PLEASE!" there was going to be no complaining from a stingy northern monkey like me. That was left to an old chap who came in and got teased for having not been in for over a month. "I've been in Wetherspoons instead!" he bravely joked "you can get two pints in there for the price of one of yours!". The landlord nearly smacked him, but the locals who now included a Scot and a Welshman were interested to see me whip out the GBG and we were soon chatting BRAPA and Buckinghamshire's finest hostelries. I then made the mistake of mentioning Hull City and was quite rightly castigated, this was a Swansea pub (of course) and I chuckled as they suggested we'd stay up instead of them. After a few more handshakes and chuckles, I wandered back to Holmer Green.

The locals get ready to circle their prey (i.e. me)

Apart from accidentally walking into some posh families back garden, the walk went surprisingly quickly and I hopped on a bus pretty sharpish and made my way back to High Wycombe bus station, where I had a stale cheese and pickle sandwich next to a lady with no teeth, and then hopped on a bus to this weird place called Downley that looked like a housing estate extension of Wycombe.

I crossed this very nice common, went through some woods, and found myself in a place called Naphill which was a main road where everyone was cleaning their Land Rovers and wearing dark glasses. The pub sign promised a break from real life, Wheel Life!

1108. The Wheel, Naphill

Another cracking village local, and if the "wheel life" sign wasn't amusing enough (which it obviously wasn't), there were plenty more jokey signs about walkers, beer festivals and the yellow pub Twabrador making unreasonable food demands of gullible visitors. I didn't see it, it was probably aware of my Twog invention. The blonde barmaid (Gillian) had a jovial farmhousey air of a lady who was constantly working out the next joke in her head, but before I could get too comfy with my pint of something Locale, I peered beyond the bar to see "The Grumpy Old Man's Club". Yes, these signs can also be quite generic in pubs but these old men, wow, this was full blooded Yorkshire grumpiness - I noticed them all sat in the dark, silent, staring menacingly at me through the murk. They hate walkers, they hate pub visitors, and this back room belongs to them. I knew my place, in the airy front bar! Do you want to know a fun fact about them? They were ALL called Terry. I know this because in a three minute gap, I heard "Pint of IPA Terry?", "Goodbye Terry", "Is Terry coming in, Terry?" and eventually, "What's he doing wandering around the carpark, is he lost? Who is it? It's Terry!" I was loving the pub, but wondered how I could piss off the Terry gang even more so I asked Gillian LOUDLY what the WiFi password was. Sure-fire winner. (It was in big letters on the blackboard anyway, I didn't need to know!) And just when it couldn't get any better, a parcel courier played by the ghost of Ugo Ehiogu arrived and dropped off a package with a real sense of urgency uninkeeping with the pub. Great place.

I wandered back through the woodland, got a bit lost, climbed over some barbed wire fence for no reason, and arrived at a pub I'd passed along the way that just so happened to be in the GBG. I'd heard raucous laughter and chatter of lunchers, cyclists and the like before so was glad to hear it had calmed down.

1109. Le De Spencers Arms, Downley

And suddenly it all made sense, a pub that locals all holiday had been calling the "Lady Spencer Arms" - well they must've been meaning this one! Silly Bucks pubbers. Or just my hearing. Anyway, as I ordered my "no surprise"£4.10 pint of something unashamedly Fullers, I did the #pubman thing and asked if wanted the 10p as I'd given her a tenner. Her reaction was as though I'd said the most helpful thing ever witnessed in this probable tourist hellhole ever before! No, to be fair, this looked like a half decent pub but what with a few whining twogs, and some toffee nosed Mum's with student daughters cluttering the front bar, I decided it was nice enough weather to sit in the expansive beer garden. Slightly concerned that one man had an orange shirt so bright even by my standards, he twitched nervously and looked like a Guantanamo escapee. So I hid behind a tree. A bit disappointed the tables next to me still had empty food plates and Corona bottles, so I tucked into my own snacks and right on cue, barmaid came out to clear the table and I felt obliged to half hide my cheese n onion roll.

Ever get the feeling you are being stalked?

There's a guantanamo escapee behind this tree

The closest to an indoor pub photo I managed!

Bus back to Wycombe where I got talking to some lasses with terrible attitudes towards their Dads, who I later realised were schoolgirls and was worried I'd get arrested. But back in High Wycombe station, more problems as all the trains were cancelled for nearly two hours, at rush hour! It was chaos, putting an end to my vague "Long Crendon" and "Haddenham" hopes, meaning I'll probably be back in Aylesbury sometime before the end of 2017. Waaaah.

With hindsight, I should've gone to the Belle Vue but instead spent rush hour on a Friday evening in the dull beyond words Bootlegger across the road. I asked the young barmaid if the chocolate milkshake ale tasted like chocolate milkshake, but she looked at me like I had three heads, so I took up a posing table next to 5 student girls, with an air of smug satisfaction that one can only have when they have had a poo in the ladies toilets on their last visit here. Which of course, I have. The refurbished gents was sadly in order today, and despite the comic strip decor, a massive anti climax!

Revisit time.

Oh girls, if only you knew about the poo!

So that was that, my usual routine of Waitrose for tea, a bit of TV, I'd have dismantled a Corby Trouser Press if I could've, and then packed my bags and got an early night for my trip to Southampton early tomorrow. More on that in my next blog.

Stay tuned buddies, Si

When Eldin Jakupovic saved a last minute penalty for Hull City at Southampton just over a fortnight ago, one thing seemed clear as we celebrated wildly amongst the miserable southerners, we were staying up! But that was just one of many weird brain defying illusions that you'd expect to encounter on a BRAPA day out.

After my crazy week of Aylesbury based pub ticking, I was on a train just after 7am to Marylebone, where I met Dad at Waterloo, and then Tom at Southampton and dumped our stuff at the Premier Inn before a ridiculously long march to the first pub which I certainly didn't need after the week I'd had.

However, as we left the comfort-blanket which is the centre of town for the edgier garage-lands of Portswood, a girl Twild of no more than 4 years old brandished a screwdriver and proceeded to chase Tom and Dad with it (I got off relatively lightly). It was the fastest either of them moved all day and will be an abiding memory of a terrible football season, as she aimed for shins, kneepads, perhaps even arse and crotch.

Solace could have come at supposed 10am opener the Dolphin, a kind of half way stop on our way to our "official" pre-match pubs, but it had rubbed off the '10am' opening times quite deliberately, and it looked shit anyway, later confirmed by another Hull City pubber in the ground.

"It won't be in the guide next year anyway" I was promised in St Mary's.

Onwards and north-eastwards through a park and over a river, and FINALLY, we found a pub open and almost ready for business in the Swaythling/Bitterne area of town.

Ready to "hop inn", Tom's backwards pose is deliberate.

1110. Hop Inn, Southampton

I made no notes for the first two pubs, I was all BRAPA'd out, so apologies for sketchy memories. We wandered in and it was one of those "we have opened at 11am and as it is before 12 noon, we aren't really ready for customers" as two female barstaff dillied and dallied. Perhaps their focus was all on a 70th birthday bash, as a huge table and tonnes of balloons were set up, though with one man perched at the end, you had to really hope for his sake that it wasn't his own private do. Food menus only exist simply from a BRAPA point of view for Tom to pour scorn on, but I think even he found the prices semi-acceptable (he normally waits until Asda are flogging 10 doughnuts for £1 at closing time before he considers food as value for money) and Dad was wavering about buying something, but without wanting to say so, I felt we might have a "mystery BRAPA guest" waiting in the wings so had to speed things on, as the pub busied up with the odd twog and twild, so testament to it's carpetted proper pubby layout that I was feeling more and more at home here before we left, as my Hull City top was starting to get some bewildered glances from the locals who probably don't know Southampton has a 'soccer' team.

Man hopefully not at his own birthday do

Nice view of t'bar

We walked through the Swaythling back streets into Freemantle, where the mystery guest was already settled with an ale as we found this micro-pub blending neatly in to a row of shops, which seemed to include an actual butchers strangely......

Tom decides to be a bit more forthcoming in this pose

1111. Butcher's Hook, Southampton

And there he was, pub ticking legend Martin "I only appear in BRAPA in late April" Taylor sat in exactly the seat I would've sat in had I come in here alone. But one thing was troubling me, where was the bar? Well, there wasn't one, it was one of those places where bearded skinny barstaff hover over some barrels of beer, poised to be helpful yet still looking as languid as only 20-something blokes from Southampton can. I experienced this in the Cock in Broom (Bedfordshire) and whilst the big difference there is that "landlord is a twat" (my taxi driver's words back on Broom day, not mine) this place worked in an easy friendly style, though I do like that 'behind the bar' separation of staff and customer better. A girl by the window even decided to try and play Etch-a-Sketch with an air of nonchalance, utterly ridiculous as no-one in the world has never enjoyed it or been good at it. The beers were ace, great chat with Martin as I quizzed him on places as diverse as Chatteris and Abington Piggots and the place had such nice tiling and decor, it was almost Wath-upon-Dearne standard of "best micropub I've ever been in". I ordered a taxi on the sly to get us to the ground cos Tom would have stopped me, though Dad did contemplate the wisdom of attending the match, then Martin left, then we did at the end of a very nice session cos taxi was actually on time!

Dad contemplates becoming a full time hipster

Toilet decor

Loo of the year, Southampton branch 2016-7 winner.

Then, the game which was boring central, apart from the penalty save, back to the Premier Inn, and then me and Dad went to "hit the town" (well, the Freemantle area of Southampton) which Martin had quite worryingly described as being like 'East Hull'.

As we got into the heart of Freemantle, you could feel the 'edge' in the atmosphere, and imagine being abused for crossing any given road (as I once read happened to someone), but it still didn't feel as intimidating as East Hull, though had we entered the 'Freemantle' bar instead of the 'Freemantle Arms' I may not be alive to write this up.

The correct pub!

1112. Freemantle Arms, Southampton

Backstreet pubs are rarely lacking in character and this one managed to straddle an episode of Phoenix Nights with a nice warm bath, as we entered to a bustling Saturday evening crowd of surprisingly smiley locals. A landlord with the most gravelly voice of BRAPA 2017 gave us a warm welcome and a pint of something which looked very local and dubious, with a cartoon cat on the pump, but was really top quality. We managed to muscle into a departing girls seat once we realised she'd left about half a pint of her Guinness (I didn't neck it, for fear of breaking BRAPA rules) and sat in terror thinking a sniper was training his rifle on us, as red dots appeared above everyone's heads one-by-one, until we realised the DJ (who we had the misfortune/fortune to be sat near) simply had his lasers on. He was incredibly passionate about his trade, sadly the rest of the pub turned his back on him (apart from one man who did a little dance, and a twild who asked his grandparents to twirl around with him), part of the problem was he loved mellow soul music of the 1970's era, think Stylistics, and Dad told me an amusing story about my Uncle Rod loving such rubbish which surprised me not at all. I've never more understood why punk was so necessary. Not even when Stuart Maconie is a talking head on BBC4(!) Hilarious great place, but was time to go,

The "dancefloor" looks very empty

The DJ trying to get the party started

Dad drinks up as man shimmies and Twild beckons grandparents to dance.

It was dusk now, yet Freemantle was looking slightly less menacing. As I had the inaugural photo taken outside our next pub, an oldish dude shuffled up, not wanting to be in the shot, I told him this was a one-off visit to the pub, and he commented something about "this is the last time I'll be doing this" which made me wonder if he was the chap who the crazy indoor atmosphere was all about......

1113. Wellington Arms, Southampton

Yes, little did we know what greeted us within as you could hardly move to get to the bar! There was obviously some kind of do on as everyone was hugging, saying hi, dressed up, tears in their eyes, food buffet everywhere, oh dear, all I could do was push myself arse first to the bar, using my bag as a weapon(!), elbowing two emotional crones out of the way, and got two pints of the first ale I could see even though Dad (who'd gone to find us "somewhere to stand"), had specifically requested "just a half" but I deliberately didn't listen. As I took our pints of aptly named Expedition IPA (delicious) in a Dad-wards direction, barging into all the locals, I realised they were scowling at me in a "he only decides to do BRAPA when there's free food on" way, so I made a point of grimacing at a plate of vol-au-vents on the way out, and told Dad we'd be best off outside, where I had my own snacks in my bag thank you very much! It was a bit windy outside, nothing to do with the party food, and Dad was soon using his gardening knowledge to educate some locals on a very unique looking plant/tree thing outside. One lady seemed almost totally convinced by Dad's green fingered brain, but still went to check the name and came back calling it a 'snowball tree'. Dad responded, "I think you'll find it is a Viburnum Opulus, I only know plants by the Latin names", before effortlessly shimmying out of a secret back gate before they could respond. It was perhaps the greatest pub exit of all time.

Dad ready to educate the locals on the Viburnum Opulus

It was dark now as we made our way to our final pub, Dad's scary pose really not doing anything for my nerves in an area such as Freemantle.....

1114. Waterloo Arms, Southampton

After a fair few pints this week, and several miles walking (70 in the last 8 days), I was probably looking a bit peaky and dishevelled but how else do you explain the friendly landlord and landlady combo trying to sell me two vegan beers on arrival. Did I really look like "ONE OF THEM?" (My sister is one but she'll never read this). It was a fine welcome anyway, landlord from Blackburn and when Dad quizzed him on how much truth there was in the old North/South divide debate, he said that it's all about you're own attitude and how you approach other people and behave towards them, and no matter how much I'd drunk, that comment really stayed with me! What a top man. Still, bet a session in here is easier than Blackburn's Adelphi by the station, one of most legendary (scary) pubs I've ever drank in. Landlady seemed concerned I wouldn't like my tropical fruit Tiny Rebel ale. She was right, but I didn't wanna admit defeat so pretended it was 'yummy'. Dad found us a seat next to this lady with two friendly dogs, the sleeping well behaved Daphne and the unnamed crazy one who was all over us like a rash. Am not a dog fan but this was a sure-fire candidate for BRAPA pub pet of the year. Dad told the owner that dogs normally hate me, he's right, they know I'm a cat-man, and you have to go back to the 'dog afterbirth incident' at Peterborough's Hand & Heart to find something like this. Once all this had subsided, we remembered we were in Freemantle with it's craziness (by Southampton standards) and soon identified the pub 'character' and tried not to make eye contact though he liked stopping anyone who passed his table to give his opinions on them! Firstly, he encountered a chap from Worcester which led him to put on this fake farmers accent, which entailed saying "ooo arrr" a lot and singing about combine harvesters. But his best quote came on a poor unsuspecting timid student - "...seriously now, are you gonna tell me, are you queer .... or are you gay?" We didn't hear the reply but everyone shook hands, I went back for a pint of Crop Circle to quell the tropical fruit, and then it was time to retrace our steps back to the Premier Inn.

Dad and dog and owner.

Some Southampton players when they were good

View towards crazy man's table

Last photo of the BRAPA Spring Festival.

So now we know, Freemantle is proper Southampton. Time to rest my liver up and have a steadier May I thought, but bonus pub ticking was around the corner in Glasgow .... I'll write that one up next.

*Piss off, I've been busy.

Apologies for the 16 day delay. But what a month April was for pub ticking (well, at least the last week of it) with 44 new pub ticks in total.

That is one less than the BRAPA all-time record of 45 set in April last year, but now I have no Yorkshire 'ticks' to act as a safety net, it felt like an even greater achievement.

At an average of 32.5, April is the most productive pub ticking month of the year.

Of course, my Buckinghamshire holiday was the main source of my productivity, though really great days in Southampton, Derby, Cheshire and Darlington meant I don't think the standard of pub has ever been so high. Top three pub experiences:

White Horse, Hedgerley
Olde Vic, Stockport
Waterloo Inn, Southampton

The first pub of the month was a classic

But so so many that on another month would've "walked into the reckoning", like the Swan at Milton, Brittainia & the Snooker Club in Darlo, Hanley's Victorian Lounge Bar, King's Lock at Middlewich, Lodge at Alsager, Crown at Little Missenden, Armoury at Stockport, George & Dragon, Quainton and Black Horse at Lacey Green, and even that only tells half the story!

I've only been to a very small number of duffers - I can only think of 4 or 5 out of 44 with the rest being "above average" so I think that is an excellent return. I won't name them but you can speculate.

May is traditionally a much quieter month for BRAPA (average 23) and it'll be even quieter this time with things like birthdays and Hull City trying to lead my down disappointing publess pathways. But gives my liver a chance to recover, not to mention catching up and all the blogs I've still to write......

By the time you read this, we are already more than halfway through the month and I've had an impromptu trip to Glasgow, a pre-emptive in Hull and a handful of Surrey/South London ticks I'll be reviewing shortly.

The 20th sees me back in Bucks as I head to the east of the county and may be able to get a cheeky late London tick too, probably one of those limp Fullers tourist holes.

And the 27th is a Cheshire or Derbyshire based day as Dad starts his campaign to prove he is still a useful close season chauffeur now that Yorkshire has been completed.

Right, I'm off to write nice things about the men-folk of Glasgow.

Bye, Si

p.s. and you know your blog is doing well when your Mum tells you off for spelling "scrote" incorrectly as "scroat". Thanks Mum.

Daisy contemplates the 4 or 5 poor pubs I visited in April.

It might sound unbelievable but BRAPA had barely crossed my mind as me and three work colleagues journeyed north in First Class comfort, 11am on Thursday 4th May.

Just to give you a bit of boring background, my new team "Static Data" (whom I went to Australia for) were up for the "Team of the Year" award at the Clydesdale/Yorkshire Bank annual awards ceremony. Everything about my bank is Clydesdale-centric, and we were the only YB nominees.

I travelled with fellow worker Karl (a walker who's either talking non stop, eating beige food, or asleep), my boss Carole (a Burnley fan), and somebody elses boss, Vicki, who was up for some individual award.

It was only when we passed Motherwell, a town so intriguing to me, I nearly jumped off the train to see if it was as beautiful as I imagine, that I suddenly thought seriously about pub ticking. After all, we were there for 2pm and the event didn't start 'til 6:30pm. We checked in to the Radisson Blu, directly across the road from my one remaining Wetherspoons tick. Ever get the feeling the BRAPA gods are smiling on you?

I must have a "BRAPA look" cos in the lift, Carole said "you're going to be in a new pub in half an hour aren't you?" She read my mind, the others slept and watched daytime TV but I was straight off with my GBG app guiding me over this bridge, through a tunnel full of pigeon shit to an unpromising location, to a pub people always bang on about.

1115. Laurieston Bar, Glasgow

So I wander in and it has such a quiet feel, like being in a library, as a few miserable old gents line the typically Scottish island bar. The barman seemed quite friendly, and the ales were all Fyne which is one of my favourite breweries so can't knock it. I'd instructed my Dad to come here a few months ago, and report back to me. He was hardly blown away but admitted it was good, and it really did feel like being in a time-warp. He said 1950's but it felt more 1970's to me, in a deep red way. My favourite feature was the curved customer tables with drip mats instead of beer mats, more pubs should do this. The walls were full of newspaper clippings, the pub seemed to hate cannabis and love obituaries, but not necessarily in that order. Still, this was BRAPA so it couldn't stay serene for long, not in a pub like this. A crazed skinny bald man came in (he loved shaking hands with everyone), set his sights on a purple faced big nosed serious looking Glasgow drinker, and said he was convinced he knew him. This was how he he figured it out:
SKINNY : "You are a Rangers fan aren't ya?"
PURPLE : "No!"
SKINNY : "Celtic?"
PURPLE : "Yes!"
SKINNY : "I knew I knew ya! I've seen ya in the pubs in Govan."
PURPLE : (reluctantly) "Aye, I did go to a pub in Govan once, couple of weeks back."
SKINNY "I KNEW IT! THAT PUB ON THE CORNER!"
PURPLE : "errrm, probably".
It was classic deduction, and good for me cos up until this point, I'd struggled to hear any conversation unless it involved a football reference, managing to make out odd words and phrases like "St Johnstone, aye", "Hamilton Accies" and most amusingly "I'd like to fucking shut that Roy Keane up if I saw him!" which of course, came from the mouth of skinny (I'd like to see him try) who had asked if he could plug his many electrical devices into the pubs mains so wires cascaded around the bar. I was laying low, but he came over the shake hands and tell me "you look kinda lost mate, are you okay?" I was feeling a bit lost, but only due to him. The barman smiled over at me like "don't worry, he's the local nutter" and as Dire Straits started playing (always the sign of a good pub, and I'm barely even joking), it was time to move on, after a farewell handshake with Skinny.

A good 15 minute fast walk took me towards the Merchant City area where I'd visited the Blackfriars (v.good) and Babbity Bowster (blah) pubs before Queens Park v Stranraer a few years ago. Now I had a new one to visit.

Tandleman, a proper blogger who'd been here very recently, did the very same walk as me and described it as relaxing, but not for me as, on the High Street, falling masonry just in front of me off the frontage of an old building forced me, three chavs, a student and a local alcoholic out into the road!

It was a sign of impending BRAPA doom surely, as I turned the corner but the pub was nowhere to be seen, surely it was supposed to be opposite Babbity Bowster? I double checked Google Maps and eventually saw the one remaining sign of it, the GBG 2017 window sticker - nothing sadder on an an empty building, and I looked closer and saw a notice saying the pub had just closed down!

Squint and you may be able to read it!

It explained a lot about poor beer quality and bad service witnessed on Tandleman's visit, perhaps I'd dodged a bullet, It was called MacGregors Pie & Ale Howff which sounds annoying anyway, unless you are desperate for a pie which I wasn't, what with deep friend haggis pakoras waiting for me at the bank event!

I had a back up plan though and another ten minutes further east, it was time to try out one of Dad's favourite Glasgow haunts when he's up here on pension business......

1116. Drygate, Glasgow

Really and truly, I'd have to say I found this place irritating right from the get-go. Pretty much a cross-breed of BrewYork's premises in my own city, combined with a bit of Newbury-Newbury, with a dash of Sheffield Tap if I'm being kind. I walked in to this cavernous brew place, immediately accosted by a pristine white shirted blonde waitress who stood at a cash till brandishing a leather bound menu at me, in that weapon-like way they do in Moggerhanger and North Rigton. I could quite clearly see the bar in the background, but still felt obliged to tell her that that was all I was looking for was a drink. Most of the ales were keg, but I saw two of theirs on handpull, went for the light 3.8% and have to say, it was really really good. I was served by another identikit blonde, but a young gang of her mates had just wandered in to distract her from her job! I sat down but the tables weren't shaped for human legs to get under, all weird modern cube shapes. You could see the brewery through the glass. There were lots of "inspirational" quotes like "Open Doors, Open Minds" and "Brewed Fearlessly" aimed at the BrewDog generation, enough to give them hipster hard-ons and make their trendy beards bristle in delight, but unlikely to work on an increasingly old feeling curmudgeon like me! It was time to get into the spirit of things so I joined the small crowd of skinny jean wearers on the breezy but warm and sunny upstairs balcony, a weird concept cos I climbed loads of steps, seemed to be on a roof, but in some ways, was at ground level too! Very disconcerting. A man with sunglasses on should've been looking at his bae, a sexy brunette from Bristol (probably), but he kept glancing at me instead - well it takes all sorts. I stopped on the stairwell to let a couple come up, he had a Batfink t-shirt on, she had a Shaun the Sheep bag, Neither so much as smiled, never mind a thanks. I took my glass back to the bar on way out, no thanks, no goodbye. Dad is a regular here and is friends with a barmaid from L**ds - I could've done with an experience like that!

I had an hour plus in my room to shower, change into my suit and relax before the evening do. We met up in reception, and went to this secret place called the "Supper Club" in Royal Exchange Square. After quizzing a barman, I managed to get a couple of bottles of Deuchars IPA which I considered a good win.

Unsurprisingly, despite a jolly little awards ceremony, we lost out to Glasgow favourites the Cash ISA team (booooo!) who everyone loved, so I tucked into the food and chatted to the man next to me who liked the BRAPA idea and won the "lifetime achievement award!"

Oh dear!

Blurry Deuchars

My free COO pen, and half eaten haggis pakora

In a crazy twist no one predicted, the girl I went to Australia with, Alanna, won the Employee of the Year award but she was in Florida wrestling Micky Mouse so I text her with the news. Luckily, I left the 'Spoons opposite the hotel til last so I dragged Carole, Karl and Vicki along. It was just gone 10pm.

1117. Sir John Moore, Glasgow

Now I'm not saying I was drunk, but perhaps a bit tipsier than I thought as we walked in and grabbed a posing table near the door. It was definitely my round, I took Karl with me to carry the drinks, and I cursed myself for not remembering to bring any Mudgie Vouchers, as they are now officially known in the BRAPA glossary. I don't need to describe the pub, it was very 'Spoons, little bit more intimate than the Edward Wylie, and a bit less fraught with emotion than the Hengler's Circus. The toilets were typically a ridiculous maze to get to. I told Vicki she'd have to make notes as I was too drunk, she managed to spot a man asleep on his table, who quickly woke up and started ranting about failed relationships very loudly. At the bar, I saw Green Devil IPA, a beer I only see when I'm drunk but had to get a pint of it anyway. The barmaid charged me £10.30 (not just for the Green Devil!) which was reasonable I think, I gave her a tenner, and then got very confused when she told me I'd not given her enough. Jeez, I was worse than I thought. I told the barmaid I was a bit tipsy and she played along with it brutally indicating I was a total embarrassment - hopefully, for comedy effect. At the same time, a blonde student in tartan skirt, equally drunk, sidled up and made comments about our overly smart attire for a Wetherspoons at 10pm. I realised I still had my SI EVERITT name badge pinned to me, and in a sudden fit of self awareness, tried to remove it whilst holding drinks, but couldn't, so folded my arms in a mad, uncomfy way. Student says to barmaid "why do I always meet geeks?" CHARMING, but then she kept talking at me, and Karl, a man who knows all about not knowing when to stop talking, said he didn't know where she was going to stop. She sat in a booth near us, with her drunks mates for an epic selfie session whilst the 4 of us reflected on failing to win an award! I even had time to get a pint of something from Alloa. Interesting times, and a lesson to all men, it's a good idea to go to a Glasgow 'Spoons on a Thursday night in a suit.

I didn't take any indoor photos, so fast forward two days and I was in Hull on my birthday to see us presumably thrash Sunderland at home and secure another season of Premier League "bliss". We'd brought Sunderland legend John Watson along to 'enjoy' the day with us.

After a pint and a half in the wonderful but slightly rough Burlington Tavern (a pub that really should be in the GBG if it really was simply based on beer quality, plus it is £2 a pint and is NEVER closed), Dad had heard a whisper about a new 'real ale bar' so we decided to check it out.

Chilli Devil's, Hull

Micro pub and chilli was the concept, a brave one for Hull which despite the Scale Lane area and of course, the majestic Whalebone and much improved George, it still doesn't feel like a City that has properly taken real ale to it's heart. "A Paaarnt of laaaager for one naaarnty naaarn" is more what you are likely to hear in Hull. We weren't expecting much due to name and red glassy frontage, but from the interesting range of 4 local ales and the warm welcome we got, it was a real grower. The owner wore a bandana and seemed like a cross between a WWF wrestler and a hairy biker. He was a Doncaster Rovers fan, so I nodded politely at that bit, and we sat down where sadly, there was a chilly draught from outdoors, shame cos had this been cosy, may have been tempted to stay for another. The ale was top quality, the single toilet was warmer, and two men came in, asked for a chilli menu, then left. Poor etiquette. Stay for a half at least! I bet the chilli is super hot, though smelt tempting. They then played some classic 90's/early 00's punk rock, so obscure even I couldn't remember which bands they were. A promising start and a shoo-in for GBG inclusion if it can keep doing this for the next year or so.

We then went to the George for the rest of pre-match. Then Hull City tried to ruin the day, and all the focus was on the following Saturday's trip to South London/Surrey which I was giving Tom far too much control over! I'll review that soon.

Reading Hull City's obituaries, Pub 1121, Lamb, Surbiton

Saturday 13th May and Hull City's game at Crystal Palace had thankfully been moved to the Sunday for TV, but of course we had already purchased our train tickets months ago to get the best prices, so all that remained was for us to honour our tickets in the best way possible, pub ticking!

After a speedy trip down to Waterloo, me and Dad found ourselves on the Basingstoke express, arriving at Weybridge about 10:45am and with no sign of Tom Irvin, we hopped in a taxi like naughty schoolchildren to ensure we were at our first pub for 11 opening.

Without realising, we'd slipped into Surrey very much like a Glaswegian man would slip into a diabetic coma.

Birds eye view of pub garden on bank of the Thames

"No pushy, no getty inny"

1118. Old Crown, Weybridge

The pub didn't look too open as we arrived after 11am, so we had an explore of beer garden as you can see above, which probably puts the beer prices up as we shall see shortly. However, as I said to Dad, it's always worth turning a pub door handle, you never know what might happen, and sure enough, we were inside. I've been told my one of the more experienced pub tickers not too expect too much from Surrey as a pub ticking county, so was delighted at the well-kept, traditional, clean, roof light, great quality beer experience in here. You could forgive one quirk I noticed, all the staff wore very tight denim shorts, regardless of age or sex. Paying £8.65 for two pints was quite a culture shock for someone who feels £3 a pint is still a bit steep! A lot of the decor revolved around oars and river boats to show the location, the pub being like a more real version of the Watermans Arms in Eton. Tom finally arrived (by boat from Shepperton, we shouldn't really be surprised),and was delayed due to rescuing two old ladies who got stuck in their boat! Pub amusement levels started to go up as we watched Tom try and get a pint of blackcurrant squash, tap water, no ice. Never have I seen a pub fail in so many ways to grasp the order. They were determined to substitute tap water for lemonade, hellbent on putting ice in it. Dad and I had been playing "guess how much Tom's drink will be?" We were pleasantly surprised to learn he'd only been charged 90p, until he revealed he'd just been given a half! Ignore the prices, and you've got a great pub here.

Dad says cheers, first pint of the day!

Tom shows the offending article

A shortcut didn't work but we still hiked back to the station in well under 25 minutes, where we waited for the next train back up the line. On the way, my spies in Euston found some of the most depressing graffiti ever witnessed in a pub:

On the train, I made a late decision to forgo the 'Spoons at Walton-on-Thames due to another mile plus walk from the station. Instead, we hopped off at Esher and this was a similar length walk anyway, with the rain pouring down as we trudged along the edge of Sandown Park.

When we got into Esher, we were immediately hit by the obstacle of a pop-up food stall blocking the pedestrian walkway. Cue one of Dad's favourite quotes "THIS IS THE QUEEN'S HIGHWAY!" It felt a bit of a twee and plastic place, but at least it kept my 100% record going of every time I come pub-ticking in Surrey, I go to a place beginning with E (Egham, East Molesey, Englefield Green).

The Blackboard didn't inspire me

1119. Wheatsheaf (on the Green), Esher

My thorough dislike of this place wasn't shared by Dad, though the quality of beer was far worse, that annoying brand of poor quality where it isn't vinegar or cloudy, just incredibly limp, warm and flat. We were served by one of those pristine, white shirted young men with a superiority complex, man-bun and sculpted beard. The female staff were blonde, vapid with no arses. A bit like if Hitler had taken over Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" backing dancers. A black car outside got a parking ticket. The owners presumably chortled in an evil way, they can afford it. The pub layout was a disaster too, with this flashpoint where corner of bar meets kitchen meets stairs to the toilets. All presided over by one of the fem-bots stood at a electronic cash register beckoning people into the even more insipid dining area. I wonder how many collisions there have been over the years. The clientele comprised cyclists, twogs and twilds. Was this pub going for a record number of BRAPA grievances? We'd initially tried to sit outside but the rain started and we were very fortunate to find a comfy low-flung leather settee, where a rare highpoint occurred when Tom presented me with my belated Birthday prezzie, a "head light" for those winter walks on dark country lanes. Thanks Tom! I couldn't get out of here quick enough, as we did so, an American lady was so amazed to be able to jump into our sofa, she said "oh my gosh!" with far too much emotion in her voice.

The blackboard didn't fill me with hope

Concentrate on Mr Owl, he makes everything seem better

Dad enjoying himself at Wheatsheaf as much as one can.

After a 25 minute trek back to Esher station, we hopped on a branch line train to a place called Claygate, but Dad kept calling it Clapgate which sounded like some political STI scandal from the 1970's.

The pub was due to open at 3pm but that time came and went and the tiny 'pub' looked very firmly shut. It gave us time to walk down the main street where Tom nearly had to pop into the local pharmacy for valium after noticing a cauliflower in the local greengrocers cost £1.99. Even the sign for Claygate looked like an Inn sign, and just when we were giving up hope and about to get the half past train to Surbiton, things sprung into life .....

Confusingly, this isn't a pub! Just a sign.

Dad and a local dude look to see if anything is happening....

Me and Tom, before anything happened ....

1120. Platform 3, Claygate

Yes, just as we were giving up hope sat in the warm sun on a bench just to the right of the tiny micropub, the friendly owner lady appeared out of nowhere and apologised profusely for the delay in opening, especially as I played the "we've come from York" and "do you wanna hear about BRAPA?" cards! She was a very personable lady, and gave us a potted history of Claygate whilst the stoic presence of Alex got to work 'opening' the pub, which consisted bleaching the floor, and erecting a giant gazebo and getting a few chairs and tables out, such is the lack of space - which really is just standing room at the bar, and even then, you might have to queue outside. A group of locals had just started to mill around before they opened, so Dad, keen and impatient as impatient mustard ensured we remained in pole position to be served first. However, our plans were shattered when a crazy London girl arrived and seeing I was the kinder one of the three (obviously!), told me her train was due in 2 mins so could she push ahead of us and get a bottle carry-out? I got international clearance from Dad to allow it. A slight downside was the local council insisting on having to drink out of plastic glasses, though despite this, my Surrey Hills Golden thing and many samples of local Brightwater ales were the best drinks of the day. Someone on Twitter asked me to find out if they still had the billiards table, but this was a joke! And a Twild version of Petr Cech was amongst those in the gazebo. I went "indoors" and chatted to Mrs Claygate about things like 'opening all through the winter apart from Jan', 'Guinness World Records charging people a fortune for just trying to contest an award' and how they once fit 19 people inside here, including a man in wheelchair which just goes to show what you can do if you put your mind to it. Memorable and unique friendly place.

The queue to get served commences.

We said our goodbyes hastily and ran across the railway bridge for the train to Surbiton. I thought up until about 2015 that it was called Suburbiton, and although we were technically back in London, Surbiton had a really nice feel.

And it started as we struggled to get out of the ticket barriers, Tom simply barking "CODE 125!" at one of the station staff, who promptly doffed his imaginary cap, opened the gates with a "welcome to Surbiton young master Irvin", or so it felt at the time! Dad enjoyed the art-deco station, which looked more like a 'Spoons to me but never mind.

A short walk through the centre took us to what was almost certainly pub of the day. I chanted "A lamb (Allam) out", the sun and ale was taking it's toll.

1121. Lamb, Surbiton

Well, this was a bit of a classic right from the off. It reminded us of a slightly sanitised, rock n roll, gay version of Hull's Whalebone and Bolton's Alma blended together. A glittery disco ball shot weird daytime lights around the ceiling, by David Bowie as a cherub, whilst the friendly camp barman with amazing orange hair served Summer Lightning and other joys, peering over the staunch barflies who sat at the bar in a mostly curmudgeonly manner, but were secretly loving life. It might have been the 'Whalebone' factor, but we were soon having an incredibly animated chat about Hull City's failings, and Tom was rightly admonished for pretending to give at least one shit about the prospect of a Hull City v Swansea City 39th doom-off relegation decider. Not something we had to worry about as it transpired. Whatever, the table next to us (grandparents + teenage granddaugher) were laughing at our loud northern ways - perhaps. I went outside to get some signal for a Swansea City update and not sure if it was a mirage, but a jolly imaginary man was flipping hot dogs and juggling sauces from a van near a tent. A lady walked past in a crazy costume and with an orange on her head, and then a pub cat ambled past with an "air of the what if it", telling me it wasn't really interested in being BRAPA pub pet of the year. This pub was like a hallucinogenic dream. But just a bit brilliant.

The ceiling becomes a disco frenzy

A glimpse into the strange decor of the Lamb

"She's got an orange on her head", (not quite Jason Lee is she?)

We continued our walk around Surbiton and there was a huge beer festival on, which might have explained some of the strange sights we saw in the Lamb but not all. Time for one last pub.

Arriving at the Antelope

Dad's reaction to "totally oblivious photobomber" was hilarious

1122. Antelope, Surbiton

My first thought on arrival at the Antelope was verbalised by Tom seconds later, a worrying sign for me surely. This was "it feels like we have walked into London". Hard to explain in tangible terms what that actually means/feels like, but it was certainly true. Dad probably came closest, noticing more men hugging each other than has ever been witnessed in a pub in BRAPA history. "Man hugs are the de rigueur in this pub" he observed, and whatever that meant, he was correct. The same type of men, who all looked like disgraced Business Studies lecturers, insisted on taking more photos of the pub than even BRAPA would condone, but they were soon forced out by their own guilt. Both Tom and myself had mini-crisis at the loos, which of the five hand soaps to use? #FirstWorldProblems were high on the agenda here. Tom declared his hatred for candles, we decided this would be the perfect place to remake the Good Life, not sure why, and I thoroughly enjoyed my deliberately cloudy beer from their own Big Smoke brewery which sounded very London in itself. It'd be easy to slag off this pub, but I thought there was something quite excellent about it if you can sift through the small percentage of London-centric twattishness. And let's face it, even that can add colour to your pub experience.

Beer stuff

Pub stuff

Back at Kings Cross, it was time to go to the "is it really as good as I first thought?"Scottish Stores to meet our old friend Ben, who'd been at Ascot looking at horses and was staying over to watch Hull City, bless his cotton socks. Dad didn't come with me and Tom to SS, he was all pubbed out so had a pastry with some Hull City widows instead at the station. SS was on decent form .....

Watneys making a comeback!

This is why I like the pub

Tom went to that amazing noodle shop opposite, I got some crazy duck noodles, and we had a nice peaceful train journey home, mainly because Tom fell asleep post-noodles.....

Got milk? Tom has a nap.

A fantastic day out, five more pubs done and am very close at this stage to completing ONE QUARTER of the GBG, which I can do the following week in East Buckinghamshire. I'll write that one up shortly.

Thanks, Si

Last Saturday (20th May), I was back in Buckinghamshire for the first time since my crazy April 4 day session, and this was one of the days I'd been planning on doing. However, I soon found out you could only get to Cheddington by train from Euston and not Aylesbury (who knew?), so I postponed it until this day.

The train was a sea of Claret and Amber, as the Teesside branch of Bradford City fans were heading down to London for Play Off Final fun/misery, and with my Claret and Amber BRAPA "third choice shirt", I looked like an honorary fan. I sat next to a nice teacher man, who had even brought kids spelling tests to mark, 100 words on each page. Now that is dedication. He wished he was doing BRAPA instead. So I told him I had a feeling in my bones that they'd win.

In London, I somehow stepped into some weird time vortex outside Kings Cross and managed to make the Euston train and hour earlier than planned. Which was perfect considering I had some fairly serious walking ahead of me.

I was overjoyed to find paths and pavements all the way from Cheddington to my first pub of the day in Ivinghoe (take that Oving and Quainton you life endangering scumbags!), and was there at 11:55am, hidden down an unassuming narrow lane. I tried the door, the outer one opened but the landlord shouted through that he'd be open bang on 12 noon. Can't blame me for trying.

Not the pub, but the village church

Approaching the pub

Five minutes til opening time.....

1123. Rose & Crown, Ivinghoe

So I got inside and felt it only right to apologise for being a bit too eager before, but the landlord was a jolly soul, and had only been under new owners for the past three weeks or something, and you could see they were keen to impress. It was time to put a BRAPA hoodoo to bed, and order a pint of Tring's quite famous "Side Pocket for a Toad". Problem was, only time I ever had it in 2007 at the Sportsman in Croxley Green, it was vinegar. But it was superb here. Funny how time and circumstances can so influence how much you enjoy a pub. An hour later, I'd have walked into a mass of walkers and cyclists lunching, the small pub heaving, and I'd have lurked in a corner cursing things like the gin blackboard and modern dining feel. But as first customer, I got a cracking welcome, so friendly, they loved BRAPA, They even took a photo of me for their Facebook! Someone rang up wanting to book a table for twenty! The barman rolled his eyes, they'd obviously not googled the pub's dimensions like a true pub goer. One of the local 'characters' arrived - you can tell cos he greeted the pub with the words "I'm knackered". Turned out he was the local pub sign man, they were getting a new sign as the old one was faded and mentioned Adnams for no apparent reason! I was asked for my input, I liked the faded old one (first thing that struck me as I approached the pub) and chose the design closest to it. They nodded politely, so expect to see a Rose & Crown encrusted in a Beef Rib Wellington coated in Raspberry Jus if you visit here in the future! The first silent brunette barmaid (possibly a mute) had been replaced by a bubbly live-wire one, who told me I should visit Tring as they have a zoological museum with dressed up fleas. Now that's the kind of local knowledge I like. As I drank up and chatted to the (deaf) pub sign man, the walkers and cyclists started descending like a zombie plague, I'd timed my visit perfectly.

A very Bucks/Herts beer range, great quality.

Helping to pick the pub sign

Gin of the Week? You don't get that in Barnsley.

It was therefore with a spring in my step that I walked onwards to Marsworth where I had two pubs to tick off. Which was nice! What wasn't nice was that the rain had started, and the pavement gave up somewhere west of Pitstone and I had a fairly fraught roadwalk in the wet.

To add to the damp feeling, the next pub was badly plotted on my GBG App, but just over a river, just past a dodgy looking pub called the White Lion and some poncy looking tearooms.

A pub sign on each side of the road - needed a sign going over the road like Olde Starre Inne in York!

The pub looking fairly non-committal

1124. Anglers Retreat, Marsworth

I wandered in to a bustling atmosphere of barking dogs (twogs) with yelps that echoed through an extended conservatory, to a load of hunched over old men blocking the bar, as I squinted to see what ales were on offer. No apologies, just extended hunching! As this is one of my pub pet hates, I could only deal with it by telling myself they were all local anglers, retreating from the inclement weather - but don't anglers like fishing in the rain? No, I had to convince myself otherwise. Luckily, the young barmaids were friendly and attentive, up there with the best. I found a side room, empty apart from a female parrot in a cage. As soon as I approached, it pretended to be asleep. I tried talking to it but it wasn't having it, in fact it didn't even take food from the blonde or brunette barmaid, but as soon as the ginger one approached, it was well up for a bit of scran. The pub had a deep red colour scheme, and that combined with our feathered friend put me in mind of a well maintained version of Pickering's Royal Oak, a pub which was a total shithole on my last visit but things may be different now. As soon as I got up to look for the loo, the main barmaid (we'll call her Kelly Richardson as she looked like one) looked concerned, and that's because it was a tiny little building outside - so I crossed the carpark in the rain, but outdoor toilet = classic pub in my eyes, so wouldn't complain. Back inside and one of the locals, Ray, was being naughty. "I work in a care home, so I'm very patient .... but don't push me!" warned one of the barmaids, possibly our Kelly, we can only guess what Ray had said.

Baby Twog comes for a cuddle with the bar blockers

Boring parrot

View towards kitchen, parrot may have escaped.

Classic outdoor gents.

It was milestone time, and I don't mean the boring midlands brewery. No, I was on the verge of a landmark but just to prove I'm still inexperienced, I photographed the pub sign then totally forgot to see it on the other side of the road!

Instead, I crossed a bridge and noticed a canal - working out I could later walk along here to Cheddington instead of that horrid main road. I may have had a wisdom tooth removed in the week, but am I really a quarter less wise?

Well, kind of once I realised i'd lost the pub, but I was finally in!

The pub sign on the WRONG side of the road

A few minutes later, back where I'd come from.

1125. Red Lion, Marsworth

ONE QUARTER OF THE GOOD BEER GUIDE, COMPLETED!! But where were the party poppers, streamers and balloons on arrival? If I was more like the Red Lioness lady, I'd have probably got a free buffet, free prosecco and local radio interview laid on, but alas, we'll wait til pub 2.500 for that. As 2017 BRAPA tradition dictates, I entered through the left hand side and found myself in a tiny snug front bar, only customer, so think I'd done well. Just as a barmaid appeared, I heard a cheery "hello!" but behind me, I was confused, was this the best example of "voice throwing" ever? Well no, a posh idiot lady was up some steps and explained to a fellow posho on the phone "I THINK I'M IN THE WRONG PUB?" "How can she have managed that?" I whispered to our pink haired hostess, rolling my eyes, but she lacked the human touch of our previous two pub's staff, and wasn't about to join in my slagging off session. Shame. She'd not read the BRAPA script. Instead, posh idiot lady ordered fish and chips and waited patiently for her 'friend'. Problem was, every time someone entered the pub, she bounded down the stairs like a faithful dog waiting for it's owner to return home from work, only to be disappointed having to constantly apologise "sorry, I thought you were my fwend, Claire!" It was embarrassing. The whole pub (and most of the action was in the larger right hand room) looked at her like "fuck off you lost posho loser back to your canal boat". It was kind of painful to observe, but brilliant too. At one point, she just randomly shouted "Claire, Claire, where are you???" and a local from the far side shouted "HERE!" and the whole pub laughed. It was getting brutal, and Claire seemed to be an imaginary friend. I'd been in the front bar alone for so long, I'd become possessive of it and practically growled at anyone who entered. Especially the angry husband who ordered "a pint of bitter ... oh I don't know, JUST ANY" and said "ugh, not new pound coins, ugh, don't give me them!" I realised I too was waiting for Claire, but I couldn't waste time and it was time to move on. Weird but good pub.

Beers! I had the Malt Starry Nights.

A typical BRAPA table scene

Quarter of the GBG celebration selfie!

So I did my canal walk in the beautiful sunshine, and all was well with the world as I headed back towards Cheddington. It was my favourite BRAPA canal walk since me and Tom walked to Crooke near Wigan to go to that overrated Christmas restaurant menu place with amazing ale.

Eventually, I was back on the main road, and the cute but quite large thatched pub was in sight.....

Canal walk

Hmmm, the font screams 'modernised village pub'.

1126. Old Swan, Cheddington

I must confess now I was gearing myself up for the "pub beer festival problem" which occasionally hits BRAPA. You see, I'd seen signs up throughout the village advertising a "Coastal Beer Fest at the Old Swan" just like in Leighton Buzzard's Black Lion (Sept 2015) when I embarrassed myself by falling asleep and needing to be brought around with a pint of water. So I walked in expecting to have to say... "No, I just want a pint of normal beer in a normal glass, and to pay normal money as I'm just a visitor staying for one drink!" So imagine my surprise when I entered a near deserted pub. I was greeted by a friendly auburn haired barmaid, though I must confess my initial thought on meeting her was whether she was ginger enough to be accepted by the parrot in the Anglers Retreat. As she ran me through the ales, I was sure she'd tell me about the festival, as I could hear a bit of a commotion outside, but despite trying to use mind control, nothing doing, think I just looked weird and starey. I went to explore and realised, after all that, it was next weekend instead. Bank Holiday obviously! Duh. The outside commotion was a man talking to some cattle over a fence, from what I could gather. I sat down in the near empty cool indoors, with it's low beams, metrosexual youths, and old loners who looked like cross between taxi drivers and porn stars. Two young posh men called Giles and Henry (probably) with posh snorting laughs sat behind me, most of the chat was too inane even for the BRAPA pen, I couldn't sully my blog with it, though the lines "the people I'm going to Glastonbury with are REAL festival specialists" and "Guns n Roses, ya, at the O2, I've heard of them, ya" were particularly stand out. I'd had enough.

Onwards to Euston then, but I'd done well for time and as May's going to be a real disappointment in terms of 'number of pubs visited' I had time for one more stop. Hemel Hempstead? Berkhamstead? I looked at which pub looked closest to it's station, and went with the latter.

The rain was teeming down by now, at another pub based on the river .....

1127. Rising Sun, Berkhamstead

A few folk huddled in the doorway helpfully pushed the door for me with the warning "brace yourself, take a deep breath!" as the place was absolutely rammed due to some party event thing that had been going on. And the weather meant that spilling out onto the river at the front of the pub wasn't really an option. I edged my way to the bar, which had a big slice of Tring on offer, I chose a guest one and it actually turned out to be my pint of the day. I reversed out into the porch, which I shared with a typical selection of Hertfordshire vapers, all loud and thinking they are comedians with their amusing southern accents - or so it seems when you are practically in their faces. The pub had left a bucket inconveniently placed in the doorway, just to minimise the room further! Though the increasingly heavy rain dominated the conversation, the men were well impressed with BRAPA though the same could be not be said for the lady folk, and when I was left alone with the blonde one and dog walker, an awkward silence ensued. The blokes had gone in to retrieve a lost female indoors who'd become too sociable and got trapped! We did get some brief respite which allowed me to take some photos from the front of the pub, but 5 mins later it returned quicker than ever and I was back, alone this time, in my trusty doorway.

Worst photo of day, but my arm was being jolted by the crowds

One of my doorway buddies.

When the rain briefly eased.

The walk back to Berkhamstead station saw me get about as drenched as is possible and everyone was chuckling when they saw the state of me at the station. I think you have to go back to Doncaster, July 2014, for the time I was this drenched on a BRAPA day. Luckily, my train companions were so dead-eyed, no one really judged me til I arrived back at Euston.

Scottish Stores, Kings Cross (classic revisit)

I was still making good time so time for a return to my new "go-to" place, Scottish Stores. It's been a bit up and down of late, but was on great form today reminding me what a wonder it is. I was soon at "my" corner table, and offered to take a photo of two sexy Spaniards who were struggling with the "selfie" concept, much to their credit. Opposite me, a desolate Bradford City couple received 'bad luck' messages from up North, the bloke clutching his Wembley ticket and staring at it in disgust for the duration. At the bar, they were teased sporadically by four Millwall/London blokes, the loudest and most obnoxious looked like a young Chris Moyles, like so many people tend to do. He then spied the Spaniards and tried to chat them up, in very limited Spanish. Cringe. He then asked me "are you Spanish too, or are you just a bloke in the corner having a quiet drink?" I assured him I was latter. The Spanish girls made a hasty retreat, I implored them not to leave me with the Millwall scum, and they laughed sympathetically. I went to the loo and on the way back up, I bumped into young Moyles on the stairs. "HERE HE IS!" he growled with a manic look in his eye. Yes, there I was. I ran upstairs, downed my drink, and ran all the way back to Kings Cross.

Bradford couple with shattered dreams, note "match ticket clutching".

On departure, we had an announcement which basically said "Can any Bradford scum get off the train and get on the football special because your loser vibes are ruining it for normal passengers". So they did. And after a fidgety man from Stevenage with too many wires got off, I had a spacious and easy ride back to York.

Another step in the Bucks puzzle completed, I'll be back there second Saturday in June.

Behind the bar in Bunbury (see pub 1129)

When I completed North Yorkshire a couple of months ago with the help of esteemed BRAPA Chauffeur B.G. Everitt, I thought perhaps chauffeur days were coming to an end.

After fake "crisis talks", I realised South Durham and North Derbyshire might not be beyond the realms of possibility which was great, but when he suggested he might be able to stretch to some of Cheshire's more remote outposts, I thought this was "above and beyond", but was never going to turn down an offer of that magnitude.

What most of the "no bus, no train" pubs in Cheshire had in common was their closeness to something called the Sandstone trail, a walking route from Whitchurch in Shropshire to Frodsham where I once visited in the rain and my phone died.

So after an early start and long drive on a sunny, warm and breezy Saturday morning (SatNav man had, during the week, had his 'verbosity' settings altered - am not even kidding) we eventually found ourselves at the remote village of Burwardsley, but we had to fight to get in as a combination of vintage wedding bus, horses and hidden car park make for a difficult entry. Eventually, we got settled and admired the views, and I strangled a poor sandstone pheasant......

Nice views from up here.....

Someone's gotta stranglehold on me (says pheasant in UK Subs tribute act)

Vintage wedding bus pisses off to local church, good news for BRAPA.

1128. Pheasant Inn, Higher Burdwardsley

It was a peculiar set up, in that it felt like walking into a complex rather than a pub with all these guest rooms, laundry room etc slightly annexed from the pub itself. We wandered in just as the wedding gang had buggered off, and a large collective of pristine white shirted immaculate staff were busy presumably preparing for the post-wedding lunch, the clamour of knives and forks and busy-bee behaviour all in evidence. What set them aside though and made this a positive experience was the friendly welcome we got. In so many situations like this, I've had noses turned up at me, an 11am drinker when the pub is in a state of pre-lunch disorganisation. Not a bit of it here. Our barman was a lovely chap, complaining he thought he'd been given the Bank Holiday off only to be roped in at the last minute as he served us some fairly standard Cheshire ales. A talkative chap without his own access to the cash till, I did wonder if he may be straight out of Borstal, but Dad told me "just because he's got a scouse twang, you can't assume such a thing". I was just about to argue otherwise, but before I could get in trouble, our attention was drawn to some of the most horrendous piped pub music ever. "Worse than Ed Sheeran" was one damning critique, piped pub music rarely throws up nice surprises like George Formby, Rancid, Gimp Fist or Chas n Dave, so curiosity got the better of me so I downloaded the "Shazam" App to find out what it was. Result came back - "Boyce Avenue", never heard of them, but did lead us to do some 'Boycie Only Fools' impressions which perhaps scared the barmaid who'd tentatively put some forks on our table, with an apology "we are preparing for later". Although she returned with knives for every other table, she didn't put them on ours, perhaps noting our suicidal expressions. And yes, our table was marked 'reserved' like every other. We left to more nice staff interactions, proof that pubs really are 'all about the people'.

"MARLENE" says Dad (probably)

Dining style pub, yet didn't annoy!

Some ales and the barman's shirt.

We drove on, noticing the wedding party at a church nearby, to our furthest point at Broxton, where there was a 12 noon opener imaginatively called the Sandstone. A dickhead local postman tried to kill us (twice) but the pub looked VERY shut and I saw a hastily handwritten sign declaring the pub was closed until further notice. It all looked a bit ominous. But just glad I hadn't walked 10 miles along the Sandstone trail to get here!

Onwards to our next pub, just off the trail a tiny bit east in a place called Bunbury. It was open, all I ask at this stage, though a bit confused by a 'Horse & Groom' pub sign so it must've had a name change ......

Me and some various heads of nags.

1129. Nags Head, Bunbury

Ah, this was the tonic to the first pub if we needed one - probably benefiting from not being on the Sandstone trail, it was a proper no nonsense drinkers type of pub, deliciously dimly lit, with football scarves and pool to the left, and some classic bench seating and comfort to the right. Again, we got a warm welcome from the blonde barmaid of Bunbury (which sounds like the forgotten Chaucer tale if ever I heard one) and the slim landlord, with his green shirt, phantom pint of Carling (which kept appearing at various locations within the pub like a sentient being) and dry wit, correcting anything which wasn't quite right under his breath like when the barmaid said 'good morning' and he kinda breathed 'grrrr it's actually afternoon now gnnnggg'. Dad appeared from the loo and thought the Carling was his, but I wouldn't be so cruel. On taking a "pub tourist" style photo of the scarves, I felt the need to justify myself with a BRAPA explanation, and the pub LOVED it. Even more than Ivinghoe last week. Soon, another jolly barman appeared and we were behind the bar for photos, all over Facebook, and even got our money back from the drinks. How lovely is that? We were both a bit emosh, as the kids say. Utter superstars. 1129 is my new lucky number. And the barmaid's pushing of the Facebook envelope did make me wonder if she was Mark Zuckerberg in a mask but who knows, just an utterly fantastic pub experience. And the ale was first class too.

Some of Europe's top clubs, and Everton.

The most characterful pint of Carling you'll meet

The staff being amazing.

Well, that was all about as heart-warming as BRAPA can get, but no time to relax as we carried on north to our next pub, described in less than glowing terms by both pub ticking legend Martin Taylor, and the Blonde Barmaid of Bunbury, though both obviously far too professional to give it the kind of slagging off that I probably would. But let's be open-minded .....

The pub (maybe).

1130. Egerton Arms, Little Budworth

It must be said, despite following the GBG pushpin to the exact location, we do not have sure-fire 100% proof that we were actually in the Egerton Arms, for there was no pub sign we could see. And when we drove into the gravelled car park and saw a bunch of people outdoors next to a marquee called "Kev Fest" which looked the remnants of some beer festival, we half wondered if we'd walked onto someone's private property. But a pub-esque stained glass door which Dad loved, promised better things and we walked in to find a pub with exciting ales, some on taps at the back of the bar, and quite an old creaky quirky feel, as the BBB had indicated. We were the only customers indoors, but when me and Dad tried to be jovial about the difficulties from selecting from so many great sounding ales, the barmaid remained stony faced, eventually snapping at poor Dad to make a decision, as though she had a long line of people to serve. Dad commented that she had all the people skills of Adolf Hitler, but this seemed harsh on the big German. It made us wonder if the Kev Fest marquee was a gas chamber, and almost as an act of defiance, Dad retrieved our sandwiches from the car to eat at an outside bench. I tried to compare the setting to Criggion's Lord Rodney on the Welsh border, but just then the Oulton motorbikes started up in earnest, and with a stiff breeze blowing across the carpark, it kind of put you in a bad mood. Nothing like! The barmaid came out to clear some tables and do some top scowling, despite me smiling sweetly at her, but all was not yet lost as Dad discovered a beautifully hidden cricket pitch alongside the beer garden. First delivery I witnessed, clean bowled him! I think that sums up this pub. Should've been lovely, but failed. Oh, and if you want a laugh, read the first line in the 2017 GBG description about this place.

With Broxton being closed earlier, we needed a bonus Cheshire tick in the direction of home. Lower Stretton doesn't open til a ridiculous time on a Saturday, Davenham looked potentially unreliable plus I was cricketed out, and I didn't want to go anywhere with a railway train station I could do easily on my own like Winsford or Hartford, so we rested on Moulton. Or Moulton-le-Fylde, as Dad kept calling it - which to be fair, wasn't even funny the first time.

1131. The Lion Hotel, Moulton

If it hadn't been for the hospitality at Bunbury, this would've been pub of the day for it had quality oozing from it's every pore from the word go. We got a proper welcome from the green shirted, grey bearded host, who was so on-the-ball with his service, that later on when I crept back to the bar to remember what beer I was drinking (Engine Vein), he leapt out of a dark back area two minutes later like a hospitable Peter Sutcliffe to ask if I needed him for anything. Before you could say "is that a hammer in the back of my skull?", Dad had sat us in the "grumpy old men's club", (not to be taken as literally as the Wheel Inn's Grumpy Old Man Corner in Naphill) and was quizzing me on whether I'd read the 'Beer' magazine he'd picked up. Without wishing to offend any twitter followers who write for it and slightly rhyme with Croak and Snaily, I told him I wasn't a huge fan of said publication. "Oooh hello female beer somellier, let's pair a blue cheese with a Belgian Tripel". No thanks. Even the toilets were great here with European maps on the walls, tried to get a piccie but there was always a map-reader lurking close by. Just a shame we didn't get to witness the "Saturday Video Jukebox" which sounds a delight. Really top pub this, would recommend it to anyone.

Barman being incredible despite guantanamo escapee wandering in.

Dad trying to look grumpy

After a 5 second conflab, we'd decided we'd done so well for time that we could squeeze in a Greater Manchester area pub on the way back over t'hills to sunny Yorkshire. Same rules applied, nothing too easy to do by train/Metro etc. but we came up with a solution and were soon in the very Mancunian feeling town of Denton. The pub was also classic GMR.

1132. Lowes Arms, Denton

In keeping with BRAPA 2017 rules (outside Dukinfield which has it's own laws, and was not too far away from here), the right hand room which sounds usually like the more no nonsense side of the pub with that delightful Manc term "the Vault", was a sea of pink decoration and old biddies celebrating someone's 70th though they all looked about 110 to me, perhaps Denton offers a hard existence. The left hand bar was loungey old fashioned Mancunian bliss, with swathes of grey carpet - perfect for twilds to skid across the floor at regular intervals which they did, whenever their Prosecco Mum's took a swig and were temporarily distracted. The service was friendly and efficient, and despite the challenges, enough room to swing a non literal cat and find some comfy bench seating at the near end of the room. I can't tell you much more than that, I'd had 5 pints and listening and observing so I was not as focussed as earlier but never mind, it just had the hum of a solid old pub.

Loungey

Twildy

Hidden biddies.

So that was a very satisfying day, a great one to write up. I had a bonus day in Tyne & Wear yesterday which I will write up when time allows, plus I'll have the month end review to do before we get cracking on June.

Si

Where Twilds go to get lost (see pub 1133)

May hadn't been a vintage month for pub ticking in the mystical world of BRAPA, but with a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday on the agenda, I thought I could at least end the month on a high with a bonus trip somewhere not too far/expensive from my York HQ.

So a day after my rural Cheshire exploits, I dusted down the old liver and despite the horrible new ticket machines at York station, I found myself on a train to Newcastle, from where I caught the Metro to West Monkseaton right at the top of the county on the doorstep of Whitley Bay.

Last time I took the Metro, I was fined £40 at South Shields for getting the wrong ticket, and had my eye and hair colour taken down, so I was a bit nervous, but thankfully they've made getting tickets ultra simple - they had to, it'll be mainly used by Geordies. (Sorry, but three years an honorary Mackem means I have to get the odd gratuitous dig in at their neighbours expense).

What should have been an easy day was fraught with difficulties from the start when I began the supposedly straightforward 1.1 mile walk from West Monkseaton to Earsdon. My BRAPA "man-bag" strap snapped clean off - luckily I had a battered Sainsbury's carrier to transfer the 'BRAPA bag" contents for the day. Mindful of the heightened 'terror threat' in the UK at present, I didn't feel I could dump my old bag anywhere so found a rural bin to put it in. I wonder if the bomb squad were called? The last 0.6 miles was on a narrow country lane with no pavement, but after dodging a few irritable cars, I arrived at the pub, hoping for a calming first experience. Fat chance!

1133. Beehive, Earsdon

It would be a bit disingenuous of me to wander into a rural pub on a bank holiday Sunday lunchtime and complain about diners, so I'll just have to comment that it was a very small, low ceilinged place not really equipped for a spacious dining experience, more cheek to jowl - and there were plenty of cheeks and jowls munching unspecified delicacies. Pre-punched horse meat I assume. The bar area was little more than a hatch in the kitchen area, perhaps quaint on a wintry Tuesday night in November, but bloody inconvenient when you have a heavy Sainsbo's orange carrier bag swinging by your side. I could only see one ale on, "are you drinking in or out?" was the surprise question - errr outside obviously, so I was presented with a plastic glass - perhaps understandable at Claygate's Platform 3 but in the countryside with huge beer garden? Well, I found it a tad disappointing. I did a perimeter tour of the pub outside, finding a secret garden which Twilds were loving, some phantom goats, a few horses, plenty of cars making a meal of trying to park, and eventually a nice garden area where I got glared at by lots of snobby couples in shades. Signs like "do not feed the horses" and "do not consume your own food & drink on our premises" didn't help my mood in this place, I think this pub wishes it was in Northumberland and is sulking it's in the Tyne & Wear bracket. A Twild called Samuel wasn't heeding Mummy and Daddy's warning to "stay on the grass" and kept wandering into the busy carpark, so I gave him the odd nod of encouragement. Mummy said to him "Before you think of doing anything silly Samuel, don't!" Twarent of the year quote? I left my unopened bottle of Lilt on the table to lessen the weight of my carrier bag. But as BRAPA gestures go, it oddly felt like an armistice. Time to smile and move on.

At the bar

Plaggy glass and background horses (no not her, don't be awful).

The walk back to West Monkseaton was like walking back to proper Tyneside, I even passed a friendly topless man in tracksuit bottoms with a whippet talking to a jolly chav skinhead about their marras, all things being canny, and probably the fact Kevin Keegan is God. They may as well have been talking in Swahili for all I could understand. I was alive again.

The next pub, looming large on the main road also had a welcome looking beer garden, and as I crossed the grass, I had that conflicting "can I properly review a pub if I spend all my time sat outside?" worry that I get in summer BRAPA trips. It'd prove to be a futile thought......

Can you tell what it is yet?

1134. Beacon Hotel, West Monkseaton

I'm not even kidding you, as soon as I crossed the threshold, it twigged - EMBER INN, NOOOOO! I'd not read it before, I hadn't got to the bar and seen Ember Pale was on, there wasn't even the huge "Ember" sign outside the pub which you can see for miles around. To think I wasn't even aware of this chain three years ago. Wow. But the colour scheme, unused logs, mismatched furniture, smug oldies, and smell of stewed veg, well, it had to be. So much for feeling alive again. So much for being worried I wouldn't do the pub justice if I sat outside. Fuck all of that. I was off out with my pint of Durham White Gold and no one could stop me! But not so fast Si, I heard the battleaxe barmaid say .... I'd recovered myself enough to ask for the 20p CAMRA discount that those kindly Ember overlords offer. Now normally, just SAYING you're a CAMRA member is enough as you half-heartedly grasp at your wallet. Quite often, you'll find your card and generally wave it front of their eyes for a split second. But this lady? "WELL, CAN I SEE IT PROPERLY THEN?!" and she scans every detail on card, glancing at me, like I'm at passport control. Was it the Sainsbury's bag making me look shifty? Presumably, they get a lot of people pulling the CAMRA discount trick in West Monkseaton. No, not convincing is it? Especially as everyone appeared to be on Carling or Prosecco apart from me. This isn't ale drinker country! Outside in the sun, my mood improved. I was sat across from a group of young Mum's with buggies, I'd been watching this depressing BBC student drama called Clique the night before and they reminded me of the girls from that "in ten years time". Especially as the brunette kept flashing her knickers, not that I was looking, but it probably was the best thing that's ever happened in an Ember Inn.

The Clique, the Twilds, the wrong angle.

Fizzy Summer Lightning - £10 a bottle (probably not)

Upsetting glass, and view towards the main road.

I hopped on the Metro back towards the Toon, always interesting and a young boy dressed as Batman trashed his new toys much to his Grandma's disgust. A teenage Ant McPartlin, if he worked in McDonalds, sat opposite me dead-eyed, as far as South Gosforth which was the only stop I'd identified with pubs to do.

I got a bit lost trying to take a shortcut through a park, but found my bearings and the next pub on the corner of a busy road.

Approaching the pub from the back, never the best view!

1135. Brandling Villa, South Gosforth

And what a peculiar cavernous mish-mash of pub styles this was. Probably the ultimate in "trying to please every walk of life". I could see a hint of York's Pivni, a dose of a Greene King local hero pub, with perhaps a touch of Aylesbury's Hop Pole or even Blackpool's Gillespies. All pub life was here. A barman called me "dude" as he bopped to piped reggae, whilst wearing his Motorhead shirt and stroking his sweaty beard. Huge ale range of well kept, trendy stuff like Magic Rock, Arbor and Bad Seed were on, I'd never have guessed this was a Sonnet 43 pub if my Sunderland mate hadn't said after the event. A student attention-seeker came in "oh don't talk to me about Old Rosie!" (no-one had), "it's a killer, I was on it all of yesterday!" "So, do you want a pint?" asked the confused barman. "Better not, I'm working in 2 hours!" he replied, and I never did find out the purpose of his visit. Although the pub had a very studenty feel, it also had three different dogs roaming around, an unhealthy selection of twilds, some dining families, a few old duffers with no teeth, it really was an odd crowd. Despite the crowdedness, I found a raised seating area totally deserted, and sat on a low leather red sofa, Back to the Future 2 was being screened on a giant screen right behind me. But no-one was watching it. The three dogs all came over independently to prove they were nice / see if I had food in my Sainsbo's pikey carrier. There was huge grey bloodhoundy thing, a Beagley Bugger and a little Puggy Bastard. The Beagle won. It was time to walk down the road for pub 4.

Pint of Stout

Huge hound and owner 'Trendy Voldemort' invade my space

The other South Gosforth pub was just a couple of minutes down the main road .....

1136. Millstone, South Gosforth

Well this was all about to get a bit bizarre. Everything seemed a bit bland on the surface here, one of those fairly characterless modern carpetted pubs with the kind of furniture / seating arrangement where you know you won't be able to get comfy no matter how few people are in, At least walking around to the rear was a bit more pleasant, and I found a local ale drinker enjoying the Bass which the pub is apparently famous for, so I ordered something local and was punished by the hideous hoppiness, which no doubt Martin Taylor would say serves me right! I was served by a young balding chap, looked kindly enough, every inch the archetypal barman. It was £3.10 a pint, so I gave him the extra 10p with a fiver so I could get £2 back. He seemed appreciative. But then he disappeared, not only did my pint need a massive top up (like half a pints worth!) but where was my £2. A switched on dark beardie barman called me "dude" again (must be a South Gosforth thing) and said it looked like my pint needed a top up. I was like "yeh, and the other guy hasn't brought me my £2 change!" So dark beardie grabs him and says in slightly accusatory tones to him "did you serve this dude? What did you NOT do?" so he slams £2 into my hand without even looking at me, We glowered at each other for rest of my visit, from the safety of my posing table - I reckon he was trying it on, he had the air of John Higgins with his hand caught in an Arabic till and when it came to food orders, he had all the bottle of Jordan Rhodes in a penalty shootout. The tension was palpable, so imagine my surprise when three priests walked in to calm the mood! A BRAPA first. Recovered, a man behind me enquired at the bar "Do you do a larger portion of cheese n bacon ..... it's errrm .... for my mate!" But when I looked, HE DIDN'T HAVE A MATE! And then, as an encore, an elderly Robin Asquith arrived and ordered the latest roast beef lunch ever, it must've been 4pm by now!

The good barman hard at work, note priest 1 in background at the bar

Priest 3 contemplates a BRAPA exorcism.

Back in the relative safety of Newcastle (well, not really), I hopped off at Haymarket or Manors or something vaguely city-ish and loaded up my GBG App to see what was nearest of my remaining six central pubs ..... this was the answer.

1137. Tyneside Cinema Bar Cafe, Newcastle

Having visited York's equivalent "City Screen Bar" only three days before and witnessed the warmest pint of real ale in my life (yes. even including Tap on the Line in Kew), it was a timely reminder that cinema bars can be good quality. I walked in to an almost Melbournian-Sycophantic welcome from the barstaff, and ordered a dark ale with "owl" in the name cos you know I love owls by now. And guess what? DUDE HATTRICK!! I sat at the far end near a giant screen (like in Brandling Villa) which was advertising events and menus but strangely not showing any film snippets or anything. I went to the loo, but it was bad timing for when I came back, the young Asian mailorder bride, with young Geordie hubbie, was being remonstrated with by a barman - who ended up being a bit terrified of her and giving it up, but no idea what it was about. When he left, her accent changed from broken English to fluent South Wales, her fave phrase being "it's massive innit?" but soon she got very agitated, rang her sister/Mum and was SCREAMING down the phone that she needed her passport number urgently. I was chuckling along with a couple on another nearby table, but hubbie saw us and told her in polite terms to stop making a tit of herself. But she just screamed in his face and stormed off. The crowd generally looked like an intellectual student gathering, the type who could do some complex algorithm but wouldn't be able to buy a pint of milk from another human being. Ok, the place lacked a bit of character for me (it's not a pub) but you can see why it's in the GBG on ale.

Wheres my passport number.

These two laughed along with me

Headless man with shorts struggles to order pint of milk in public

Time for one last pub, and with my mind now hazy, I wanted to go somewhere (a) nearer the station and (b) where I wouldn't mind not being able to remember it too much. Wetherspoons seemed like a decent bet.

1138. Union Rooms, Newcastle

And I made the classic mistake of thinking that just because a bouncer is on the door and the place is teeming with Geordie pre-night-out drinking scum, that this place had little to offer. I walked into the main hall, an echoey place reminiscent solely of the Archibald Simpson Wetherspoons in Aberdeen, I didn't get called a dude by the attractive yet dead-eyed barmaid, and soon I was drinking something called Rhubarb and Custard from, I think, Tyne Bank, which was possibly the sweetest (and therefore most vile) beer I've sampled all year (which was well kept). I made a manful effort to drink it from my pillar adjacent to the bar area, occasionally moving like a shark to stop myself from drowning in a Geordie sea. I noticed a few other men in my position, but generally kept my head down and watched classic clips of Everton FC from the 1988/89 season on YouTube. Before you could say "Sheedy and his trusty left foot that never lets Everton down", I had wandered beyond the main room and there were side rooms, upstairs, and I realised what a glorious place I was in, Sadly, I'd left the last quarter of my beer at the bar and had nowhere else to go. I'd like to come here on a quiet morning, A 'Spoons of some distinction, shame about the clientele tonight.

Train back was unmemorable, could've been the six pints, and it was time to take stock and see what June had to offer us. A pleasing end to a difficult month!

Si

The good ship BRAPA sails on, aimlessly across stormy beer filled oceans in search of perhaps the perfect pub, or at least the eventual 4,500th one!

Only a late flurry of 11 pubs across the Bank Holiday weekend helped me to retrieve a quite pathetic month, and I ended with a respectable 24, the monthly average for May is 23 so I had to be happy.

Trips to Surrey & South London, East Buckinghamshire, and rural Cheshire were the main away days, with bonus trips to Glasgow and Tyneside very enjoyable extras. There was even time for a pre-emptive Hull tick.

The highlight of the month was bringing up one quarter of the GBG, my 1125th tick in the Red Lion at Marsworth. The aim now has to be to try and stay above this total once the new GBG is published in September, and I have the inevitable drop in numbers when I "cross-tick". I lost 110 last year, it's bound to be more, so I need to get to at least 1250 I'd say. It'll be a tough ask!

Best three pubs of the month, well there were plenty of classics so was hard to pick:

1. Lamb, Surbiton
2. Nags Head, Bunbury
3. Lion Hotel, Moulton

Pub experience of the month - Nags Head, Bunbury, Cheshire.

Also the Laurieston in Glasgow and Rose & Crown in Ivinghoe were unique experiences in different ways, so honourable mentions.

June is traditionally a very fruitful month, but again, I think it'll be more of the same and it could be a struggle to get to twenty! Last year, I did 41.

One of the 41. Last June, in Troon.

We kick off in North Derbyshire on 3rd, the last BRAPA chauffeur day in a long time. Apperknowle is the key location being the first alphabetically, and as I've said before, Derbyshire is becoming an increasingly important county as I'm getting through the likes of Bucks and Cheshire quite well.

On the 10th, I'm back in Buckinghamshire for a second trip north of the county, looking at the logisitics, I think I could be relying on the odd taxi which is never good! But if I get the 4 done I want, I'll be delighted.

The 17th sees the yearly 'work summer Heavy Woollen trip'. Less heavy woollen as the years go on, the plan is Oldham but I'm gonna see if I can edge them towards a second Newcastle trip of the year instead! It'd be easier for me, and will get more pubs done. See what they say at work next week.

And finally, on the 24th, my main York friends are joining me in Hartlepool, a trip I've had in the back of my mind for quite a while now. Should be a good day!

It'd be a big help if I got myself back into a Tuesday night rhythm too, so if I'm able to leave at 4pm, I'm going to really push myself, otherwise I think I'll struggle to get above 20 as there's no holiday dates in June which I can use. July will be far better!

See you then for more blogs and twitter check-ins in the near future!

Si

BRAPA - March Review / April Preview (2017)

BRAPA - Buckinghamshire Part II : South Bucks Fizz

BRAPA - North Yorkshire Complete .... at last! / Welsh bonus.

BRAPA - Darlington - what a place!

BRAPA - Ooh, Ahh, Just A Little Bit (of Stoke & Stockport)

BRAPA - Memories of Pontcanna Trauma

BRAPA - Back on the Cheshire Trail.

BRAPA - South Derbyshire on St George's Day

BRAPA - A Difficult Day in Aylesbury

BRAPA - Walking Trauma in Central Bucks

BRAPA - A Day in the Chilterns

BRAPA - A Bus Tour of High Wycombe

BRAPA - Stayin' Up in Southampton (or not)

BRAPA - A Belated April Review / May Preview (2017)

BRAPA - Glasgow 3, Hull .... Pre-emptive.

BRAPA - Slipping into Surrey

BRAPA - Bucks IV - Heading Out East

BRAPA - Sandstone Dreams in Rural Cheshire.

BRAPA - Tyneside Bonus Sunday

BRAPA - May Review / June Preview (2017)