BRAPA - Slipping into Surrey

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

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

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.

Si

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

*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.

BRAPA - Stayin' Up in Southampton (or not)

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.  

Si