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

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

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

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

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

940.  Swan, Three Mile Cross

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

The Swan chef recommends Chicken & Mushroom Pie

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

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

Biggest Fosters sign on a GBG pub in living memory.

941.  Bell & Bottle, Shinfield

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

You could almost be in Las Vegas

Fire was the highlight

Improvising with the seating arrangements

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

Pub Men unite at The Bull

942.  Bull, Barkham

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

I think it's time we talked BRAPA. 

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

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

943.  White Horse, Wokingham Without

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

The dogs are finally beaten!  Nice carpet btw.

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

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

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

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

A man with a beard is outside because this is London

944.  Star & Garter, Soho

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

The expressions say it all

Tartan Arse and Deadbeat Dad try to brighten the mood

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

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

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

Si

BRAPA - Dobcross 2-2 Stalybridge

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

Autumnal lunch along the canal at Greenfield

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

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

936.  Navigation Inn, Dobcross

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

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

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

937.  Swan (Top House), Dobcross

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

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

My view from the green armchair

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

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

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

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

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

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

938.  White House, Stalybridge

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

Hiding behind my pint

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

Q.  Just Q.

939.  Q, Stalybridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

Berking Mad!

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

Si

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

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

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

Pumpkin burning on bonfire the previous night.

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

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

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

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

934.  Sun Inn, Beverley

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

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

Crap photo of the ancient bat filled roof above bar

Where naughty pub bloggers end up.

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

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

935.  Ship Inn, Dunswell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Si

BRAPA - A painful day in the Manchester 'burbs

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

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

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

Traffic Island Spoons fun in East Didsbury

 930.  Gateway, Didsbury

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

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

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

Time for a name change?

931.  Friendship, Fallowfield

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

Lovely pub!

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

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

When closed earlier on......

932.  Victoria, Withington

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

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

Chosen by you!  But not me.

Get with the times Victoria!

U.S. Politics on the Withington Condom Machine

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

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

933.  Bar, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

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

QUIZ - What was the Pink Drink?

Quite a hilly climb to the next pub!

This view sums up my entire day

Ghostly pint of Dan's.

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

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

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

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

Si