BRAPA - Chorlton-cum-Hardy (Part One)

Because the young, cool generation that now inhabit Chorlton-cum-Hardy have had to put up with living in such a mouthful of a place, someone has taken pity on them with the naming of their bars.

They are all one syllabelled drinking dens with names like "Throat", "Gag" and "Spit".  It fits the youth of Chorlton, who look far too cool to have to form proper words and sentences.

These bars line the streets with optimistic outdoor seating areas, as though they've forgotten that this is in fact South Manchester and not Rome, Madrid or Lisbon.

Luckily, I suppose, I was there on the warmest day of the year so far, in this, the discerning drinkers Headingley.  It wasn't quite the apocalypse of yoof culture I was expecting, but the highest concentration of heavily pregnant women ever witnessed anywhere suggested some 2015 moment reminiscent of Village of the Damned meets that milkman 'hairy baby' episode in Father Ted.

Idiots (probably) enjoying a drink in the adult creche

 896.  Parlour, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

And my first pub was a good example of the 'ale scene' in Chorlton.  "Are you making the most of the sun?" enquired the suspiciously bearded but very friendly bar chap, a strange question when I'm obviously walking into quite a dark pub ordering a pint.  There were no seats in the adult creche anyway, but on the main Beech Road drag, this was hardly Swan at Inkpen outdoor drinking anyway.  I quite liked this bar, a lovely old jukebox which probably gets accused of being hipster with it's 50's vinyl.   The barman warned me my 'Bearly Spring' ale wasn't as coconutty as billed on the pump clip, unless you have an "expert palette" apparently, so I had a rant about beer tasters which I think was too aggressive for the chilled out 'vibe' they were creating.  To be honest, a nice mixture of students, old duffers and of course, pregnant ladies made for a most varied clientele, and I enjoyed trying to find a window in the sun (he'd made me feel guilty enough to seek one out!) and trying to detect the coconut.  A malnourished Ryan Sidebottom was very busy, bringing little tapas style things out to people, (one girl picked at olives and stuff in the most nonchalant way I'd ever seen outside London)  but I did like the feel of the place and it was a solid start to the day.

It seems Beech Road is a bit of a "thing" in the same way Bishopthorpe Road is in York, and don't you hate it when 2 GBG pubs are so close together, you cannot pick them out as individual pins on the Good Beer Guide app?  Okay then, maybe just me.  Took me ages to find my next pub!

897.  Beech Inn, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

Billed as one of the few traditional remaining pubs in town, I was eagerly anticipating this one but when you notice that a pint of Summer Lightning and a bag of Quavers will set you back £5, or that a former Masterchef finalist is serving Asian Street Food from something called the Hungry Gecko caravan, I think you can see why I was raising an eyebrow in a skeptical manner.  A dull faced Eastern European lass served me in typical 'throwaway' fashion.  Still, I found an old style pub room so old and battered with worn bench seating, I wondered if attempts to keep this little part of the pub traditional had actually gone too far and it needed a bit of love and attention.  Can't win!  In the gloom, an  old pub sign hung inside which is always nice to see, though I'd prefer them on the outside of the pub obviously!   Two old men were sat outside, very much 90's Premier League referees with the David Elleray one finding himself hilarious with quotes like "It's easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven".   When the pub cat went to sit on his knee, I realised it was a mangy thing of no discerning taste but I still went outside for the last 15 mins to try and entice it towards me.  It didn't work so I told it was never going to win BRAPA pub pet of the year to which it yawned.  I have more of a problem with this pub than Parlour, because it felt less honest, or was it simply that modern Chorlton bar culture is seeping through to the older pubs?

Nice pub sign, ok Summer Lightning, but .....

 

 

Epic fail from Pub Cat

Someone at work had led me to believe that Chorlton was one huge village green with pubs dotted around it, that had become such a glass collecting nightmare (i.e. which glasses belonged to which pub), they had to get the pub names printed on each one.  I wondered if this crazy Utopian pub vision was near the Manchester Road where most of the other pubs were, but it was more like Beech Road again.

Note the swathes of openness around the door.

 898.  Marble Beer House, Chorlton cum Hardy

As you can see, I was shunning the one syllabelled bars until my follow up visit here.  Though this place is probably known as "Marbs" already.  Two huge front  windows were open to such an extent, you felt like the whole front of the pub had been removed, opening the door to get inside felt kinda pointless.  Never have I more wanted to climb in through the window.  A relatively friendly beirdo served me an excellent but strong Chocolate Marble pint (a beer I never recovered from!), though their resident cat was no where to be seen.  The locals were friendlier here, even the old man who kept talking to himself and twitching, the blonde hippy girl with a  shoulder tattoo, and who should reappear but the 90's Premier League refs from earlier, again sitting too near to me for comfort.  It was school chucking out time, so we had an interesting BRAPA first, where a lollipop lady was helping people cross the road so they could get to this bar.  Two more pregnant women arrived, or one might have just given birth, the timescales got tricky as the Choc Marble went down, and then a drunk local spied a Japanese girl and tried to hone his language skills on her but only succeeded in saying 'good morning' instead of 'good afternoon'.  Funny place, and an attempt at a mosaic wall to perhaps match the Marble Arch in Manchester!

 

 

The ale that almost killed me, only 3 pubs in.

899.  Sedge Lynn, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

I was intrigued how a Wetherspoons could still get in the GBG in a small town which already has 7 other entries, it must be good surely.  It certainly looked the part from the outside, like a 1930's seaside pavillion probably art deco or something.  Inside was vast, open and spacious and I used one of my 50p off vouchers (I always judge whether I remember on my current 'condition' so it was a pleasing sign!) and by gum, that Hawkshead Windermere Pale truly must be one of the finest pale beers out there.  The locals looked a bit shifty so I went outside, where I was greeted by a mass of anti-social dribbling, gurning blokes who probably hadn't done the hard day's work that their drinking speed suggested.  People coming out of work and schoolkids walking past with their Mums looked terrified, and it's Scroats like these that give Spoons a bad name.  Bring back the trendy kids and pregnant women!  Luckily, a man reading his book sat between me and them, acting as a buffer.  I tried to block them out by imagining who Sedge Lynn might be, I thought perhaps Vera's underground anarchist brother who released second world war hits like "Hitler is a twit-ler" and "Goebbels fancies gerbils".  It was that kind of a pub.

Scroaty fun at Chorlton's finest 'Spoons

Pub 900!

 900.  Dulcimer, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

One fifth of the Good Beer Guide complete!  A monumentous, fine achievement (even if I have to say so myself) , alas there was no fanfare, no warm feeling of love or virtual hug from my 'army' of secret (imaginary) followers!  Just another friendly (bored) young chap with some degree of facial hair serving me from an interesting but peculiar range of real ales in a place that resembled a Torquay Utd Supporters club bar mixed with one of those seedy over 18's slot machine places in shit towns like Chesterfield and Swansea.  I ordered a smoked porter, too strong and too smoky but my own fault.  The decor was a bit bizarre, upstairs had bright lime green walls which I obviously approved of but the weird hard bed covered in an African style blanket was just strange, who could possibly get into a comfy drinking position on that monstrosity?  Downstairs was a riot of cushions of all colours, shapes and sizes and it appeared that a colour blind pregnant woman had been responsible for the pub layout.  All I could do was display my hastily made "900 up!" placard, like anyone cared though an impossibly long version of "I don't like Cricket" started blaring out of somewhere, briefly lightening my increasingly black mood!  It was home time. 

900 up, like you care!

Huh?

Cushions, cushions, everywhere.

Do you want that topping up mate?

The beers had been strong, the 'pubs' had been, well, not bad but not massively to my taste so I decided to cut my losses and do the remaining three pubs combined with another silly named place "Whalley Range" (where you must go to shoot wallies) on a future visit, hopefully this year as I'm cracking on well with the Greater Manchester GBG entries in 2016.

Enjoy your weeks, and I'll try and squeeze in a trip to South Yorkshire on Tuesday.

Si

BRAPA - April Review / May Preview (2016)

R.A.F. BRAPA saw it's prize jet fighter beat the ale speed of sound over much of the UK in April in a record breaking month.

April Review

45 new pubs is a monthly BRAPA record which will take some beating, eclipsing the previous best by a whopping 12 pubs!  I also managed 5 pre-emptives, and met 3 Twitterers.

So many weird, wonderful and magical pub experiences, it is hard to only pick three to put forward to the "pub of the year" awards, it could easily be 10 or more.  But being brutal, I'm going for .....

1.  Falstaff, Derby
2.  Hungerford Club, Hungerford
3.  Eagle, Salford

45 BRAPA pubs have been visited since I stood outside the Golden Lion, Leyburn.

Berkshire was easily "the best BRAPA trip, I've ever been on" but days in Derby, rural North Yorkshire, Bolton, Manchester Punk Festival, hell even Donny, were really 'great days out'.

May Preview

No way I'll get anywhere near April's record breaking month, but I'm going for 20-25 as a rough estimate.

We are very close to 900 pub ticks, which will be 2/10 (or 1/5 for you extra special mathematicians) of the Good Beer Guide, a real landmark moment and less than 2 years since I got the 450 up in the wonderful New Inn at Baschurch, Shropshire.

The month will kick off  with a Birthday Special but I still have no idea where I'm going at the time of writing.  The following day, I'll be pressing on with a bit more rural very north North Yorkshire.  A week later, I'll be back in Berks which will also involve a rare foray into Buckinghamshire.  Gulp.  A week after this, it is probably a blank Saturday as friends like beer festivals (spit) at this time of year.  And finally, Hull City can be the ultimate BRAPA Crappers by reaching the play off final and doing me out of a day in the Dales.  If this happens, I'll at least try and get a bit of London ticking done between heartbreaking defeat to Fernando Forestieri (ooops, I mean Sheff Wed).

Midweek nights give me a chance to crack on with South Yorkshire after a tricky month.  Firbeck looks near impossible on an evening, so I might look to delve into the likes of Harley, Harthill and Hazlehead with pages 1, 2 and 3 of SY all now completed.

Right then, that's yer lot for now ya set of bastards - nothing to see here, move along to the next pub without making a fuss.  Thanks.

Will BRAPA be mauled by the Tigers in May?

BRAPA - Bolton (and a bit more of Salford and Manchester)

There didn't feel much point getting a ticket to watch Hull City, this has to be the most depressing season supporting the club ever (well, since the Dolan days), but there were rich pub pickings to be had in Bolton for me and my BRAPsters Tom and Dad.

After a bit of bus jiggery-pokery, we were soon at the northern suburb of Astley Bridge to kick off today's proceedings, pretty much bang on 12 noon.

Dad and Tom ready to go in, seconds after opening.

890.  Bank Top Brewery Tap, Astley Bridge, Bolton

And as we approached, the doors opened front and back to let in a waiting stream of desperate drinkers, sounds weird but it was a 'healthy' sight.  I always imagine anything with 'Brewery Tap' in the name to be bright and shiny with wooden floors and brass poles, more like drinking spaces so how nice it was to see your archetypal Lancastrian pub, all carpets, bench seating and no nonsense.  The nine handpulled ales from Bank Top made for a glorious sight, and we were happy for the locals to get serving preference ahead of us despite their insistence on shunning the ales for Holsten Pills which looked more like fizzy wee in a glass than anything else you'll see.  They chatted on the two subjects most dear to north western drinkers, "traffic snarl ups" and "unseasonably bad weather".  It was great, and the barmaid did some "hand ironing" to flatten the beer towels.  The Bank Top mocktail menu was perhaps the only feature that seemed unnecessary.  Dad as usual, hadn't read the BRAPA script and wanted to 'get settled', but you can't do that with pub ticking!  Great start, and so nice to see beers with proper names like Old Slapper and not like something you'd find in a petri dish like "Experimental Amarillo Simcoe Hop version 2.1b # Cultivation Sampler Revolutionist".

Proper beer for proper men (and proper women I suppose)

After a bus back into town where Tom enjoyed his messy butter pie ("butter pie" being a local thing, a concept Dad couldn't quite get as it contained more than just butter) and we had some boring pork pies from my bag of tricks, it was time to tick off the very central pubs before the phantom football rush arrived back from the game.

891.  Hen & Chickens, Bolton

As I made a bee-line for the ales, the landlord apologised for the lack of ales on saying "they'd taken quite a hammering last night"so only 2 were on and I had something from Andwell in Hampshire, just like being in Reading again.  Dad wasn't initially impressed by the man (was it his shifty walk and southern accent?) but he soon redeemed himself with a fine trusting nature, not only offering a CAMRA discount, but accepting my "please sir, I've left it at home" excuses.  50p discount is one of the most generous I've known, especially when beer in Bolton seems to be about £2.50 a pint anyway.  The pub was lovely and warm and it's nice to see this, when my current pet hate has been pubs insisting on leaving the door open as if they can't accept late April might not be 20 degrees centigrade plus.  The pub had some nice features like green tiling around a circular bar, and we sat at the far end away from the barman and all his papers and stuff.  Otherwise though, pub was probably a tiny bit underwhelming.

We walked through town and past some tall pink women on stilts .......

And then we were at a pub which had quite surprising interior .....

Arriving at the Alma, but what lies beneath .....

892.  Alma, Bolton

Proper metallers pub!  You don't get too many of these in the GBG, though we've all been in them - you know the type, crazy jukebox, everyone has long hair, vests and tattoos, lots of signs up about Jaegerbombs and 9% ciders, and in this case, you can buy a £6 Pre-Menstrual Tension Internet Troll, though sadly I never discovered the details.  Like all good rocker pubs, it was Marstons(!) beers on and despite getting one Hobgoblin out, it was bottom of barrel so barman wouldn't give us even one - very good staff behaviour, I wish this happened more often.  Dad was in the hardcore metaller zone so was soon on the Old Rosie, whilst I tried to stay sensible so I could remember the details and drank a very boring pint of Pedigree.   Dad came over to inform me we were listening to "Children of the Sea" by Black Sabbath but the pub needed a punk rock injection so I slapped on some Dropkick Murphys with a dosage of final album Distillers when they started to go rubbish.  Under the raucous circumstances, we chanted "Steve Bruce has got a big fat head" and no one could even hear us.  The toilet graffiti was wonderful/a monstrosity depending on your taste, Dad complained it did nothing to "facilitate the execution of a simple bodily function" which may have been quote of the day, good stuff that Old Rosie.  Interesting place but a bit of a dive, it has to be said.  It made Manchester's 'Thirsty Scholar' feel like Tap on the Line at Kew!  

Beware the Hobgoblin, it might bite you.

Errrm, what the WTF??!!!?!

A short walk to the edge of town found us at the most intriguingly named place of the day.....

Time for a taste of the Ukraine - Bolton style

893.  Bolton Ukrainian Social Club, Bolton

Clubs eh?  That usual fear of getting in and getting served, when you are just an idiot CAMRA visitor, you never quite know what to expect.  Wielding my physical Good Beer Guide seemed a bit excessive as it turned out, woman steward was more than happy to serve us without a fuss.  Luckily we were spared the ringing a buzzer and showing the GBG on a screen!  A very friendly place it was too, the theme seemed to be locals having conversations across you, whether you were at bar, in loo, or just in a doorway.  A young Bolton supporting girl appeared with Dad, absolutely ecstatic to have won only their fifth game of the season, I sheepishly tried to look as much like a Blackburn Rovers fan as possible, not sure why, they were the first club that came to mind.  And that's how desperate things have become.  The beer, Ultra Pale by 'Outstanding' was pint of the day and the building, whilst it felt more like a big house than a pub, didn't feel very Ukrainian apart from a couple of pieces of art and the blue corridor to the loos seemed quite European to me.  Most people were watching Newcastle Utd and acting excited about it for no reason, the only thing that was reminiscent of the Grosvenor in Caversham.  In fact, Dad thought this place was like Hull's Walters with sunshine.  I guess the chairs were similar, it was an excellent place in any language.

My arty shot of Dad at the Ukrainian.

After some late Bolton excitement where Dad slipped on some mud (nothing to do with the Old Rosie I should probably add), we were on a train back towards Manc.  Dad went home, but Tom came with me for two final pub ticks .... and I was back in Salford just as I was last weekend.

894. Eagle, Salford

Some pubs are just brilliant from the second you get through the door, and to be honest, here at the Eagle, you could tell from the moment the pub came into view.  Being in a strange location added to the charm, quite hidden away from some of Salford's more poisonous areas.  Pubs with corridors and side rooms always seem to be amongst the best. and we were served by an ultra friendly lady with a gentle scouse twang, who kept making excuses for her own "dimwittedness" but she wasn't really doing much wrong in my book.  The ales on were mainly from a brewery called Bootleg (the Lawless was excellent), other ales by Joseph Holt but I was all Holted out after the events of last week.  We sat in a sunny side room with a wonderful mirror and other great features, and then some pub tourists came in and started taking photos and cooing about the interior - being the hypocrite I am, surely only GBG pub tickers like me are allowed to behave like this(!)   The most vocal and friendly male  got interested when he heard us mention Henley-on-Thames and along Salisbury, it's Henley that seems to be capturing the imagination in 2016, honestly, I'll be glad when I've done the Bird in Hand and the Salisbury Hopback pub and I can go back to being smug.  The loos were impossible to find, hidden in a dark side room behind a piano which I decided to try and play on the way back, luckily nobody saw/heard as 'Jingle Bells' wasn't an appropriate tune.  Pub of the day.

I'm a pub ticker, I'm allowed to take such photos.  You are not.  

A wander back into Manchester took us to my final required city centre 'tick', the one that had been omitted from the paper based GBG by mistake, but is on the App.  

895.  Rising Sun, Manchester

It felt more like a kind of acceptable Yatesies crowd when we visited late on the Saturday afternoon, all 40's-50's somethings leaning against the bar and those annoying tiny high circular tables as if to say "look at me, I can still stand up / perch / lean in a pub, I'm virtually".  Me and Tom had no choice but to stand at the bar and this isn't somewhere I ever feel comfortable, particularly in a bar masquerading as a pub, not that it was too bad.  My Black Swan mild from Rainford (I was thinking low percentages by now!) was as good an example of a mild as you could find, staff were friendly ("try before you buy") and very hardworking (you get that insight when you are at the bar) and Tom's eagle-eyes noticed they'd experimented with the whole "jam jar" thing and ditched it as the empty jars were in a display cabinet with a pointless Cask Marque certificate and some even more pointless display bottles, some drunk, some full, as if to say "here's what you could be drinking, losers!"  Bit of a weird set up and I can see why it was forgotten in the paper-based GBG but like I say, an okay experience and following the Eagle, I'm probably being harsher than if I'd just hot-footed it from, say, the Clarence in Bury.

Odd display cabinet served little purpose.

View from the bar

Ace pint to finish with.

And there it was, a fine productive day and you can't do much better than six new pubs (3 brilliant, 3 okay) and still remember some of the finer details.  Hull City embarrassingly lost so I wasn't even sad I missed the match, plus Bolton has a couple of new Market Place pubs which I can combine with the remaining 2 'out of town' pubs in two seasons time!

Si

BRAPA - Pub Ticking in Tickhill (and farewell Doncaster)

I have to admit I was not feeling that emotional when I sat in Doncaster Bus Station for the final time (well, until September at least) waiting for the number 22 to Tickhill.

It was a typical scene - a shifty man with an indistinguishable bird of prey tattooed on his neck skulked around.  Some teenage girls giggled over "Penistone".  A man pulled three bags of Walkers French Fries from his rucksack and devoured them all within 5 minutes, with an air of routine monotony.  It was a relief when I arrived in the well-to-do village of Tickhill, with a nice cricket pitch the centrepiece.

Scarbrough in Tickhill, during a rare sunny spell.

888.  Scarbrough Arms, Tickhill

My policy of entering the left hand door of any pub in 2016 might have to change.  Today, it deprived me of the supposed wonderful 'snug' with it's cosy atmosphere and barrel furniture.  I could've even honed my bar billiards 'skills'.  There was no door from one bar to the other, and the fact of taking my pint through the car park in a sleet shower in the weirdest late April ever didn't really appeal.  This was mainly because the lighter more modern room was warm, comfortable, furnished to a very high level.  Plus, an entertaining old man seemed to have just 'discovered' real ale  and proclaimed he was going to drink a half of all of them, as though he'd invented that concept!  He also commented he's been delighted to see real ale on at a recent funeral he attended.  The staff deserve a special mention here, young barman took me through all the ales (the Two Roses White Rose was superb) and the landlord noted he didn't recognise me, always a mistake as I then bored him with BRAPA.  His favourite ale town seemed to be Thorne, randomly, and his friend had just gone to Question Time and tried to ask a question about Pubs which Dimbleby was quick to shout down.  I've never liked him.  The pub smelt a bit like a Spanish Villa which was a pub first for me, and the only other people in the room were a Mum with her 'rocker' son who had a worse bladder than me, and I can tell you, this pub is a contender for heaviest toilet door in the UK.  I'd recommend this pub to anyone.

Inside the Scarbrough, note rocker son and Mum.

Back in Donny, a typical ill-wind was blowing across the market place but what was this, the pub is actually open?  To be fair, I knew it was because they responded to my Twitter question which was nice of them, after several aborted attempts to get here.  Their opening hours might be described by Wargrave Snooker Club as "highly generous".  

Squashed into the market place like a northerner on the tube

889.  Marketplace Alehouse & Deli, Doncaster

A friendly barman greeted me, and with the wintry conditions, I thought a nice Porter from Northumberland was the order of the day.  For a modern place, this had a really good traditional feel to it, it was no Friends of Ham, though the food smells were the nicest ever in a pub probably since I was in Gateshead's Central all those years ago.  A smiley girl and her faceless boyfriend were working their way through some very Deli looking food, a bit namby-pamby for my blood, but I could've murdered a scotch egg or pork pie at this stage but the porter was like a meal in a glass.  These did not look like the kind of couple you'd see in the Little Plough or the Corner Pin.  I once heard you could live in Guinness alone for 3 weeks, probably a month with this one!  To keep up a theme of the night, the toilet door was stuck and a single cubicle like a micro-pub, but what was weird was that the coat hooks were within the toilet room, so it didn't feel right to linger.  Anywho, a welcome addition to the Donny drinking scene and when Hull City play them in the league in two years, this might be my first port of call.  

Think someone's stolen the '&' letter from the sign.

I walked past the always terrible looking Tut n' Shive (even when it was GBG listed) where people were getting excited over some boring European football match, and back in Donny station, I kept a tradition going that dates back to 11pm on 6/5/2005 of getting a chocolate bar from the machine - not because I like being ripped off, but because I firmly believe I'll be murdered if I don't.

A group of pie-eyed local older ladies came along and asked in slurring tones if I could get them a "chunky chit-chat(!)" whilst I was there.  That escalated quickly to a chicken wrap, and then became a request for a "58 year old single man with no ties".  It seemed a fitting post-script to leave Donny on.

Si

 

BRAPA - Manchester Punk Festival - Day Two

The day dawned bright and sunny and after my fifth Premier Inn breakfast of the last week (better sausages here than in Reading and mercifully, no fake Bubble and Squeak, but sadly, no Pia either), I hopped on a Deansgate tram to Salford Quays where punk festival goers were at a premium in Media City.  Probably eating rats in their squats.  I must try and be more punk.

Shut pub alert - Craftbrew, Salford Quays

If normal Salford yesterday looked spruced up, this was like some futuristic vision of the country where rowers, jet skiers and the like, did their Saturday morning activities.  Whatpub, the pub website and the GBG all told me Craftbrew opens 10am, it wasn't and a sign told me there'd been a private party the night before.  Cleaners were inside, lights were on, I waited til 11am.

I found a posh looking woman peering in, she didn't look like your stereotypical BRAPster so I went over to ask what her game was.  Well, it was her son who'd had the private party last night, he'd lost his scarf, so she'd come along to see if she could get it back for him.  I'll just let you digest that sentence for a minute. 

We chatted on BRAPA, she told me she was from Lymm, I asked if it was in Greater Manchester and she looked mortally wounded and told me Cheshire.  He husband appeared, didn't seem to trust BRAPA as a concept, and they left.  I found a barman, he told me pub wasn't open to after 12, he wasn't apologetic, I was not happy, I got a tram back to Manchester.

After that palava, I was dying for a pint and I finally found a pub ,,,,,

Feel the quality 

886.  Vine Inn, Manchester

And it was another little city centre gem in the Grey Horse ilk,  I'd been in a pub next door called City Arms before which was spoilt by a local who slagged off my job cos I wasn't a biochemist, so I much preferred this place.  It had that happy Saturday morning feel that 11am openers do, putting a brave face on the hidden chaos, as it to say "yes we are open and we are pleased to serve you" whilst secretly scurrying around looking for a clean glass.  The barmaid and landlord (who was doing some paperwork) where both very welcoming, and as always happens in a new pub, I walked in the opposite direction to the loo and had joke "they are always in the last place you look".  I climbed some stairs and enjoyed a quality Tim Taylor Landlord in the pre-punk calm.  A large group came in and after another pub singalong (this time Inspiral Carpets, so an improvement on Sade), they debated whether or not it was true that Shakespeare died on his birthday.  I'd like to have added that he was more likely to be a Staffs Aleman than a writer of all those tales, but I know people get very sensitive about such possibilities.  Lovely little pub this.

My Landlord strategically positioned by the stairs.

My next pub was right next to the venue, so a good place to base myself before the music restarted.  But hang on, this looked familiar, 99% sure I'd been here before without realising! 

Looks lovely, isn't.

887.  Salisbury Ale House, Manchester

It was my birthday in 2014 when in the Lass O' Gowrie (a pub I'd like to review one day), a jolly barman waxed lyrical about this fantastic new real ale place under the arches near Oxford Road.  We got there and were left unconvinced by dodgy Holt's Two Hoots and some miserable locals at the bar who we even tried to chat to.  Today was much the same.  Despite the beautiful looking building from the outside, freshly watered hanging baskets, and an old mutli roomed interior, history repeated itself.  Despite obviously looking at the handpumps, the 5 or 6 barflies refused to budge even when I was peering around them (this is in a near empty pub) so I can only assume they'd wanted to hold their territory against a potential punk invasion, meaning anyone with a festival wristband was treated as the enemy.  My J W Lees was near vinegar, but I didn't return it mainly cos I didn't like the pub atmosphere.  And it was all a bit dreary and dirty feeling otherwise, a bit like an extension of the railway arches looming over the pub.

Interior shot of Salisbury proves it could be a very good pub.

And what an idiot I felt when I finally left, crossed the road to the Thirsty Scholar where acoustic punks like Emma Hallows and Blackburn's finest, Edgarville, were treating us all to some deep and harrowing tunes.  FOUR Little Valley beers, I tried 3 and all very well kept, if you ignore the plastic cups.  I know there was a vegan festival on in here too, but I'd like to think this is a normal range for this cosy little bar which surely belongs in the GBG a lot more than the Salisbury.

Unlikely pre-emptive?  Thirsty Scholar bar.

There was no more GBG opportunities from here as music took over, more great Holt's bottles in Sound Control, and a nice last orders St George's Day ale from the always reliable Phoenix in Lass O'Gowrie where we watched a dreadful pub band 'play the classics'.  

Worse for wear?  Enjoying a Joseph Holt's bottle with the sis towards end of festival

Great fest, productive pubbing.  Join me next time for a review of Tuesday's trip to South Yorkshire.

Si

BRAPA - Manchester Punk Festival - Day One

If my sister and her boyfriend thought that inviting me to Manchester Punk Festival meant that I'd be happy to stand around drinking out of a plastic 'glass' watching crazy bands in equally crazy venues for two days solid when there were EXCITING BRAPA PUBS to be had within a couple of miles, then they had another think coming!

I'd still not recovered from Berkshire, never mind Fenwick, and my decision to get a cheap ticket via Leeds to Victoria was a silly decision as it was delayed, I should've sucked it up and gone straight to Piccadilly.  Oh well, that's life.

There was an "ill-wind" blowing around Manchester which I always find a real mixed bag of a city.  It's like Russian Roulette.  One minute, you are greeted warmly in a beautiful cosy pub like you are an old friend, you have a great pint and watch a superb band.  The next minute, a crazy woman is running down the road after you claiming you've tried to stamp on her dog, whilst a drag queen comes along to try and help, a girl from Burnley ditches you for a pop-punk club night, you get locked naked out of a hotel room, and the pub you are in becomes a virtual toilet late on a Saturday evening as grey buildings loom above and suffocate your soul.

Or may be that is just my own personal experiences.

Bet this solicitors makes some interesting business decisions!

882.  Cask Bar, Manchester

This pub was notable for meeting pub ticking extraordinaire Martin Taylor, or RM (they are the same person after all, Mrs RM was randomly painting a wall somewhere).  I was immediately showered with the generosity of a retro Hull City shirt ("Sportscard!), an Exploited record and a copy of Central Lancs beer mag which mentions BRAPA!  With such excitement, no wonder I couldn't find the hand pumps though the Euro bar style array of Belgian stuff (which I'll come back to) and those huge fonts always make me lose my focus.  Cosy little Euro style cafe bar, but didn't quite feel it had the magic of North Bar in Leeds (on a quiet afternoon).  Barman had a serious case of dropsy, smashing one glass whilst we were talking, he later wrestled one to the floor, and then juggled one for a finale!  Probably a solicitor masquerading.  The ale we tried, from Squawk brewery was perhaps my finest all weekend.  What didn't help the comfort was them leaving the door wide open despite the chilly wind, it's like the owners of Greyfriars of Reading had followed me up north just to annoy me.  I understand this policy at last orders when they are trying to flush out the dregs (the Vernon in Liverpool springs to mind), but mid afternoon, I just don't get it man!  I was off to Salford, Martin was off to St Helens, so we didn't have too long to chat but it was great to talk pub ticking with someone who understands the complexities(!), I could imagine him holding niche workshops in the Arden Arms in Stockport for newbies (telling any diners to piss off as they try and sit in the back room) on how to get the most out of your pub ticking experience.

Martin's gone, I'm left to contemplate this quite okay European style bar

I went to drop my bags at my Premier Inn before heading from Deansgate to Salford and who should I see checking in ahead of me but Martin.  how amusing!  He rightly told the receptionist to stop asking so many daft questions and that 4 flights of stairs does not require a lift when you are one of the UK's top pub visitors (though I paraphrase here).

I ended up walking to Salford, inspired by the 4 flights of stairs, and was glad to see it wasn't as bad as I remember.

April 1997 and oh my lord, I had a university interview here and I have to say it was grey, soul destroying, and by the time I got in the interview, I'd made up my mind I didn't want to come here.  Dad waited for me in a pub called the Peru Arms(?) on Lima Street(?) and it had signs up saying no guns, no drugs, no knives etc etc.  He feared for his life!  I meanwhile incurred the wrath of my interviewer by saying TFI Friday was my favourite programme (it wasn't) and he went mad, claiming sections like "freak or unique" and "ugly bloke" were shallow and degrading.  Good lord!  Never have I been so glad to get back to my York slum(!)

Sorry, back to the pubbing and Salford seemed to have had a facelift.

New Oxford - an absolute cracker

883.  New Oxford, Salford

Wow, though the location was in a posh kind of pedestrianised square, this was a proper backstreet boozer and I entered to find a local old character called Bob telling the pub he was an expert when it came to the weather, but he was not Fred the Weatherman!  (a joke it took me far too long to get).  Really friendly place, the landlord all Irish and toothless, nice smiley barmaid, other locals were pleasant.  So nothing like the Cask Bar you might think, well it actually was in that it had a HUGE selection of continental beers.  As I looked around, all these grizzled old boys were drinking Belgian beers in funny shaped glasses, whilst I supped my pint of porter by the door like the last bastion of English sense.  I just don't get this Belgian beer thing, 99% of ale/beer drinkers seem to rave about them, but to me, it's all fizz, high percentages, glasses not designed to get your lips around, high prices - I don't see the attraction, winter or summer, pub or a bottle at home.  I just don't.  But back to the pub, it was lovely.  A bit like King Charles Tavern in Newbury, you could sense the history but feel a few modern tweaks may have been best left alone.  Had they had proper old bench seating instead of the shiny swanky black leather toss, I shudder to think how wonderful it'd have felt.  Oh, and a note to the locals, you WILL say bye to me when you leave, I'm sat by the door smiling.  There was quickly time for the pub to have a Sade sing-a-long before I left, it was that kind of a place.

Bob sat to the left, and I'm drinking proper ale (but not Black Bombardier!)

Best pub colour in the UK, great curving building, but what is within?

884.  Salford Arms Hotel, Salford

The green exterior and curved corner was an encouraging start, and the barmaid (cute, blonde, typically sulky, think Xanthe from Neighbours but with that Salford stare i.e. "don't come any closer of I'll cut you!" humoured me as I spent ages choosing from all these Manc microbreweries I've never heard of, eventually opting for "Cut Like a Buffalo" cos it had a funny name, I'm not that discerning when it comes to ales.  Pubs though, I like to think I can judge and it was soon apparent that the shabby interior I thought was promising, was the dreadfully self-conscious 'shabby-chic', an awful concept that anyone who's visited Newcastle's 'Pleased to Meet You' can testify to. (oooh, I'll have a gin based cocktail under this faux rusty fan heater - no thanks).  I sat amongst decor of vinyl records, old maps of the world and beat-up 80's television sets and noticed the pub was trying to combine old man pub with student dive, and failing at both.  It smelt of puke mixed with disinfectant, the pool table and fruit machines jostled for attention, and how can you enjoy a relaxing pint with loud background hip-hop music about 'popping caps in the muthafuckin' bitches head?'   It's just not cricket.  Still, I've been in plenty worse.

Quirky but shite decor at the Salford Arms....

....great beers though!

I really wanted to get out to the Eagle next (3pm opener so ordinarily a more difficult one to tick off) but the sister had checked in and wanted me to be in the vicinity of the Manchester Punk Festival.  I wouldn't mess with her so I headed back into Manchester, had a quick burger from some strange cafe/restaurant place, but she still wasn't ready so I had time for another pub!

Final BRAPA tick of the day - it's a gem.

885.  Grey Horse Inn, Manchester

Yes, this was more like it.  From the offset, I knew this place epitomised all that is great about Manchester pubs.  Very central, yet tiny, unspoilt, really warm friendly welcome from the staff, the locals even trying to move so I could see the guest ales.  The pub wasn't busy, yet it was full - yet somehow I managed to get a prime seat facing the bar.  Perhaps the old crones took pity on me, I'd walked in with a bottle of fruity Volvic in a vain attempt to keep myself sober-hydrated for all the punk music / festival ales ahead of me.  Not very pubby behaviour, but they looked at me sympathetically like they realised when a chap was struggling!  The toilets were outdoor and I read something about this pub being linked to the circus (I'd been to an even tinier one before on same street called Circus Tavern), but what can a grey horse do, jump through a ring of fire?  You'd have the punk vegan animal activists on you before you can say hummus, which is partly why I pretended to my sister that I'd lost signal for a brief 40 minutes!  I drank a Hydes Old Indie, dirt cheap, dark and flavoursome and I paid a (back-handed) homage to Tim Burgess of the Charlatans who's music had saved me from the hip hop back in the Salford Arms, which was now a distant memory.  I was rejuvenated, and I hadn't touched the Volvic.  Time for punk rock. 

Ignore the Volvic, I'm still hardcore really!

Of the venues I then visited for the MPF on day one, Sound Control had no cask but three excellent bottles by Joseph Holt - Triple Crowned Hat Trick, 1849 and something honeyed.  And in Retro Bar, I got a really good pint of Robinson's Trooper - a beer I either seem to love or hate.  Could I class them as BRAPA pre-emptives, after Blackpool's Rose & Crown, anything is possible!

Join me tomorrow for a review of day two in Manc.

Si