BRAPA - We'll Have a Cambridge Blue Moon Christmas (But Green is the Colour)

Halfway through Saturday then and I was already sobering up in the Taylor Lounge (not a micropub) with a good strong cuppa, reflecting that this cosy spot is very much the drunk tank of the Fens.  As Canadian(?) 70's Christmas tunes soothed me even more, and awesome teenagers ran around slamming doors, listening to sk8 rock and making vague promises about trying hard in mock exams, it was soon time to get back on t'track towards Cambridge proper where I had pubs aplenty to do.  Yes, I'd almost forgotten I was on a BRAPA day, you know, that thing where I tick pubs and judge everything! 

Christine 'Mrs RM' Taylor joined us for what would be her official BRAPA debut (she came to the Sun in Waterbeach when I did it, but it was only a pre-emptive then so didn't really count as there was nothing to highlight in a book).  She may soon have been regretting her decision as the icy rain and gusty winds lashed into our faces as we boarded the busy Waterbeach Express (a bit like the Polar Express but colder and more full of idiots).  A quick check of the Hull City score, 2-0 up after 29 mins, whatttt??  I blurted out the great news to CT but she looked un-enthused as most people are when I talk Hull City.

The walk to the first pub wasn't far, but just as painful, I couldn't hold my hood up and my hands were blocks of ice.  Of course, the pub had to be at the bottom of an unlikely cul-de-sac and poor Martin was dying for a pee so sped off around the corner like a man possessed.  The little complex this bar was in was like the kind of place your fave gypsies keep the tastiest chickens .......

Martin needs the loo.  Watch him go! (not literally)

1423 / 2396.  Calverley's Brewery Tap, Cambridge

You had to slide the door to get into this oh so basic little bar (door handles are sooooo 2017), it felt a bit like going into a shed and there were so many lurkers, it was hard to tell who was drinking and who was simply sheltering.  The bar, if you can call it that, was right there, and Martin being the expert told us what to drink.  "It might be card only" whispered Martin, and there were four of them all lined up looking like desperate Whitechapel wenches vying for position hoping you'd insert your Goldcard into their slot.  In all the mayhem,  it almost passed me by how much the drinkers in here were caricatures of 2018 Brewery Tap regulars.  "Uh oh, my 'zine is out on the same day is yours!" said a young lady to the beardo serving me.  "How much is yours, mine will be £1.25?" he replied.  "Ouch!  Mine is £3.50" she replied, before adding that it came as part of a meal deal or something insanely quirky befitting the persona she'd created for herself.  What were these 'zines?  What are they about?  I'd love to have known, but this wasn't the type of place were any old randomer could engage the cool kids in convo.  We sat down towards the back on these benches and Christine said what I was thinking, this is somehow a nice place to have a drink in.  I don't know how, when you look at it from afar, but it really works!  It was cosy, happy, the beer was fantastic btw, and as Martin says, how often when they brew their own stuff at places like this it is dire, but the porter was cracking.  Might sound silly but it was almost so pretentious, it had gone the full 360 degrees and totally lacked any pretension.  Owl on the glass too, bonus point, and when I queried whether this was the pub on the front of the GBG, a member of staff jumped in and gave us a potted history about the building that absolutely no one had asked for, but was still appreciated.  And then came the highlight of the day (excuse the pun) as Christine highlighted the GBG and declared 'green' as the superior highlighting colour!  Hurrah.  It then all turned into the famous Eastenders Christmas Special of 1986 as Martin almost word for word quoted Dirty Den.  "This, my sweet, is a letter from my solicitor telling you that your husband has filed a petition for divorce."  

The weather wasn't letting up and the fabled pizza van which sits outside when the weather is better than this offering amazing pizza to all was nowhere in sight.  Martin thought it might be nice to 'break our journey' to the next BRAPA tick with a visit to an old fave ..... so we did.

Yes, The Cambridge Blue.  I picked this out as a pre-match Hull City pub on 7th Aug 2002.  Me and Dad liked it so much, we returned 25th Aug 2003.  The modern day BRAPA is horrified at such a revisit, but I was young and naive then.  An old lady said I had to tell her how to pull real ale cos she wasn't an expert, we sat outside, it said 'don't smoke near the rabbits', 'don't feed the animals with apples falling from the tree' and I had a cracking plate of liver n mash.  Oh and Hull City won both games.

So this was my first visit and over 15 years and wow, what a pub!  Felt a lot nicer inside these days, the crummy conservatory was gone and airy feel vanished, better beers and all round a very enjoyable pint.  And the news coming through Hull City had won, a lucky pub this too! 

Back out into the harsh conditions and soon we were at 5pm opener, hence why we were happy to hang about a bit, the Blue Moon .....

I thought I'd seen an  actual Blue Moon but it was actually the beer affecting me again.

1424 / 2397.  Blue Moon, Cambridge

What with the neon lights and banging music, my first instinct was 'bloody 'ell, turn it down a notch' but then I realised there was a live gig on, and the band list in the loo confirmed they'd been open all afternoon so we really could've come here sooner, not that I'd want to have missed the superior 'Blue'.   Well, 'Salamander' (unless it was Watford themed metal band 'For the Hornets' but the guy just didn't look Elton John enough) were giving it their all but it looked like you had to pay to get into a separate section so we didn't really try.   Somewhat annoyingly for me, the beers all seemed to be from Brew York, probably one of those Twap Twakeovers the beer bods so love.  Christine of course, put us to shame and showed how it should be done with the 8.7% Don Peregrine whilst I no doubt got tiddly on the 2.5% Debaser.  Not a huge fan of Brew York but certainly seemed great ales today.   We sat at these low black leather settees, I kept sticking to it, but only in a good way and no one else did anything interesting.

Rock off!

If you look closely, you can see Salamander (and I don't mean the West Yorks brewer haha!)

Still time on the clock so Martin's next move for us was even better than the Cambridge Blue bonus as we got a great pre-emptive tick in called the Alexandra Arms.   Well listen up Cambridge TWAMRA, you need to get this pub in the 2019 GBG.  The Oakham Citra was absolutely fabulous quality.  Pint of the Day.  And how often can you say that on your 7th pint of the day when your palette is shot to smithereens?  Very rarely I'd say.  Nice cosy pub, friendly, perhaps lacking a tiny bit of character of some of the others but as people like to remind me, it IS a beer guide, and if I think of some of the bang average Cambridge pints I've had in the summer in the likes of Geldart, Haymakers and Flying Pig (though the latter was better), I'd get it in the reckoning.  Oh, and to prove how amazing Martin & Christine are, they got two lots of burger and chips and cut it three ways so I could share.  So comfy, nearly missed train and had to run, they ran with me, Martin got me ticket and apparently was shouting "SIMON, SIMON" in the centre of the station but I'd already legged it to just make the connection to Peterborough.

Phew, a crazy end to a wonderful day, great hospitality, and now only NINE Cambs pubs to do, 5 in Jan and the other 4 sporadically when I get the chance!  And then I can get focused on Cumbria and Derbyshire.

Lots of love, Si

BRAPA - The Ely Twild Show (Part 1 of 2)

We all want to be Chris Packham in the 'Cambs Pub Ticking / Really Wild Show' analogy, but I'm probably more Michaela Strachan, or dare I say it, Nicola Davies in truth.  Martin Taylor must be Terry Nutkins,  which I guess means Christine Taylor is actually Chris Packham.  You, dear reader, will have to be Steve Backshall, whether you like it or not.

What IS he talking about now?

It was a bitterly cold morning in Ely as I arrived just before 11am for the first of my remaining 14 pub ticks in the county.  'Bitter' isn't a word you see associated with real ale much any more cos it sounds like something old men drink, so I guess we should really call this weather 'Hop Forward' whatever that means.

It felt a far cry from my warm April visit when I ticked off two pubs, the Drayman's Son Micropub and the Prince Albert, but like all good towns, it had added something new to force my return.  The Cathedral was still standing:

And I skirted around it and the main shopping drag to find our pub across the road:

Retrospective 'entrance' photo on my way out!

1420 / 2393.  Townhouse Pub, Ely

Quite a spacious place, guess it did feel like a 'town house' in some ways if you ignore the terrible bookcase wallpaper, strange brickwork and totally unnecessary conservatory style back bit.  There was an ale on called 'Tundra' so I ordered that, trying to make a joke to the veteran barman about it being fitting in the climate.  He laughed mirthlessly, my comment deserved no better in truth.  He had a wrist support, possibly from too much pint pulling.  I learned Ely TWAMRA were due in town later for their annual xmas knees up, and from what I hear, they are a strange bunch who's calendar revolves around an obsession with their breakaway beer festival from the Cambridge one, the bloody renegades!  I sat in the front room, it felt a bit more 'pubby' with a degree or two more warmth, and a bar billiards table.  Martin Taylor arrived and ordered a coffee, which came in a clear glass, and looked more like bovril, or just gravy in truth but he nibbled those pointless little biscuits you get with such things, and we chatted about Brentford, Belgian Blue and other B themed things.   Not a bad starter pub, bit ordinary but eminently a nicer place to drink than the three I'd done on Wednesday! 

Glass of gravy anyone?

Just really no!

Like the chauffeur of the year he (probably) is, the Mart-Mobile was parked not far away and we sped off to Little Downham across flattest flat Fenland for a pub which had been shut on my previous visit here back in April, 3pm on a Saturday, possibly because the Sunderland supporting landlord was sulking about impending relegation, or so sources told me at the time.  All that was left to do was talk to a man from March with a horse, like you do.  

The ancient inn sign was still creaking on its hinges in the wind, but this time, there was a light on and the curtains were only slightly drawn.  Message to pubs : You can run but you can't hide, BRAPA will track you down! 

1421 / 2394.  Plough, Little Downham

It wasn't my most graceful pub entrance, as the door split into two, the highest section separating first, the strong wind made all the pieces of paper on the noticeboard flutter, and they hit a bald bloke in the face.  I apologised but he told me I wasn't responsible for the weather, which was very decent of him considering he was the moody Mr Sunderland I'd been told about.  I was served Bath Gem by his Thai Bride, in a woolly hat (I'd been in warmer pubs, the fire struggling to get going) who then controlled a Thai child (not a twild really, he was a great lad) called Jayden(?) who despite his youthful years, was being taught how to pull pints by his Mum.  Very cute, "ahah, we start 'em young in 'ere" said the landlord, about the closest anyone got to properly engaging with me in here.  Otherwise, the locals were chatting about a trip to Sutton like it was on a different planet, and when I later learned there's actually a Cambs village called Sutton, it could've been seen as even more tragic.  The pub itself was as much of a gem as the beer I was drinking,  some nice stained glass and old features, gorgeous smell of rice, and I was told where the bogs were before even I'd really made up my mind I was looking for them in a great psychic ending to my time here.

A classic Cambs village pub scene

Bit of a fire fail in here

The pub being good

The beermats had an Asian twist

Action shot 1 of pint pulling lesson

Action shot 2

Martin had braved the cold and gone for a walk, having had several recce trips to the Plough this year, but he was more than up for pub three, in the village of Rampton.  

First, we took a quick detour to one of the most mysterious pubs in the UK, the King's Head (just to peer in through the window), can't remember which village it is in but it doesn't feature on WhatPub, there's no record of it on the internet, yet it does exist and opens very occasionally, problem is, they never tell you when.  So imagine Martin's delight on seeing a sign in the window saying they are open next Friday evening!  The pub sign is even more ancient than the Plough in Little Downham, but looking in through the window, looks quite rubbish actually.

Rampton then, where Sebastian Faulks set the novel Engleby.  My Dad once compared me to Engleby, the bloke, but when my sister read it, she said that was quite harsh, even on me!

Now you know a pub is going to be shite when instead of having a picture of a Black Horse, they have the letters 'BH', AND you can see a man with a waistcoat in the window stuffing his face......

After some good pub signage, this places effort was embarrassing

1422 / 2395.  Black Horse, Rampton

And the entrance woe theme continued.  A sign on the front door said 'use the side door', but when I pushed it, it was being weighted down by a fake old Scrumpy pump as the door doesn't close properly when it is windy.  That might be ok if you were in some ancient grade II listed heritage untouched jewel of centuries past, but when you are in bland purgatory, it is harder to accept.  Especially as the locals at the bar and their super judgey hound tried to make it we should've known that!  And what's more, where the eff were the ales?  This pub was seriously winding me up.  Through to the other room then when Mr Waistcoat and his overly privileged feeders stuffed scampi into their gobs like Jabba the Hut and his family, glaring up at me like "ugh, drinkers, how quaint!"  But on the plus side, the ale came straight from the barrel, wasn't Greene King, was top quality, and it was nice to see they separated drinkers in one room and diners in the other, even if you had to go into the dining area to properly see the ale but never mind!   A version of "Joy to the World" was STILL playing (must be the 20 minute extended version) as RM brought the pint and a half through on a tray like some German beer wench, and the door flew open a couple more times.  RM put my antagonism here down to fact I'd had three pints, probably right, and ordered me back to Waterbeach for a 3pm cup of tea sobering up session!

Ales on a tray

Judgiest hound in Christendom

Worst doorstop in Christendom

More warming than Little Downham, but only just

Don't get mad Si, focus on the lovely kittens!

So back to Chez Taylor then before we resumed the pubbing in Cambridge with a BRAPA debutant, some abysmal weather, a pre-emptive, and a re-visit.  Join me tomorrow for tales of that one.  

Si

BRAPA - Hebden, Brig and Tod Too (Doing the Hard Yards in West Yorks)

In Good Beer Guide ticking life-cycle terms, I remain a mere twild.  Snotty, snivelling and entitled, I sort of still expect every pub outing to be brilliant, and failing that, at least mildly amusing.  After all, I still haven't been to so many of the 'classics'.  The Nursery in Heaton Norris, the Tandle Hill Tavern, Bag O' Nails in Bristol, Owd Nell's Canalside Tavern in Bilsborrow.  The stuff of legends.  Errrm, the Maidenhead Conservative Club.  I've still never ticked a pub in Slough for heaven's sake! 

But for my longer in the tooth (I'm not calling them old, kind of) contemporaries, the yearly process of 'mopping up the new entries in counties they have completed several times over' must sometimes feel like a chore.  All the classics are gone.  You are left with a dangerous combination of new micropubs, improving Wetherspoons, dining holes with pretty staff selling good beer and pubs that have been open so bloody long, the local TWAMRA committee have finally cracked and given them a one-off place in the Guide based on length of service.  A sympathy vote if you will.

For me, it is only on these icy winter evenings as I complete West Yorkshire for the third time that I get a glimpse of the flip side of  that glamorous life of the pub ticker!  If I thought the new entries at Ackworth and Alverthorpe had been dull a few weeks back, I was in for more of the same tonight.  Even the journey was boring, the highlight when a stripey dude pulled a can of Camden Hells out of his sock at Halifax .....

Todmorden is a place which has filled me joy over the years.  Some of the friendliest folk you could hope to meet in the street, a UFO abduction at Eagles Crag, the wonderful Staff of Life staff, Sunday arvo karaoke in a pub called the Polished Knob, something called Barearts, and plenty more.

But it was in mean, miserly mood tonight as soon as I stepped off the train, straddling the Yorkshire / Lancashire border hungrily like Rose West on one of her West Indian gentlemen.  Our first pub was called The Pub, surely nothing good can come of calling your pub The Pub .......

1417 / 2390.  Pub, Todmorden

Actually, I was expecting great things having recently read two reviews from local pub legend Chris Dyson and also that cheerful bloke from the Fens who likes Bass (not Ian Huntly).  I walked in to a rather chilly scene, it smelt like a summer beer festival in a tent - that heady mix of stale ale, old man arse crack and soil.  Everyone was munching on crisps, and the sound of that many people munching on crisps in a confined space in stereo is quite irritating.  Luckily I spied my 'beer of the moment', that chocolate milkshake mild I got in Vintage in Hull recently, it was amazing again.  I perched on a side seat by the bar, a lady with a bad knee she didn't like to talk about  that had seized up in the cold briefly smiled (bad knee unity!) but the scene was dominated by three locals chatting with the barmaid, all quite insular and League of Gentleman.  I kept smiling and blinking around the room, even put my GBG on the table, but nothing doing, and throughout, I felt like I was in a waiting room about to be taken through to view the corpse of a dead loved one.  One of the blokes drank three thirds, another revealed how he accepted his wife's marriage proposal because "I thought, well you ARE really nice", talked about his hand lump,  and another one revealed Tiki Fire Gin and Lemsips are a good cure for the common cold.  The humour was stilted, a bit like an episode of Friends, you could smile to yourself but it all felt a bit forced.  I'm sure there's a 'micropub banter' script that Hiller flogs to them all for a fiver and a glass of Whitstable Bay.  As the blokes left, three old men who'd been on a hike came in and they seemed lovely chaps, so perhaps I just caught it at the wrong time.  I lingered for barmaid to finish serving nice bad knee lady so I could say thanks for a great pint on the way out, but even then, barely a nice goodbye either!  I've now been to two pubs called Pub, and disliked both equally!

Tod secretly wishes it were in Lancs, I'm convinced!

But if I felt a bit guilty about slagging off a town I'd previously had nothing but love for, at least I was consoled to see there was a Twitter account called 'Todmorden is Shit' on my side:

Next up was Hebden Bridge, and unlike Tod, not a town I've had any problems disliking over the years, pushing the locals to the edge of town to drink Buckfast and do heroin whilst art students, ghosts, patchwork quilt enthusiasts and vegans take over. 

Pub-wise, the GBG always gives you something new to go at and whilst I quite enjoyed Calan's micropub the other year, Old Gate was a little bit crummy.  And it was across the road from the latter where I found this year's debutant, and there was a question mark hanging over it before I even entered!

1418 / 2391. Drink?  Hebden Bridge

I said the same last year about pubs with a capital letter halfway through their name, and I'll say it here, no pub needs a question mark.  It looks pretentious, it screams of uncertainty too.  It should be Drink! Drink! Drink! if anything with a nice picture of Father Jack on the pub sign.  Drink? makes you think 'doesn't really matter if I don't bother'.  Imagine your favourite pub with a ? on the end.  I bet it makes it 5% more rubbish doesn't it?  Yet, to confound me, I entered to a table of check shirted 30 somethings welcoming me in!   So bewildered I was, I went through to the bar where a lady was saying to the barmaid "can I get this on tick, you know I'm good for it?" like she thought she was Jack Ford in When the Boat Comes In.   Not what I'd expected.   The place itself wasn't too cosy, my coat didn't come off for a second pub in a row, though my gloves were at least removed here unlike in Tod.  It was a bottle shop in truth, baskets full of cans and bottles reminded me of those heady summer days when me and Martin Taylor went to Willingham.  A bloke called Dario appeared, (not Dario Gradi) he seemed to be known to all.  There was a secluded warmer upstairs area but with no folk on it, no good to BRAPA really!  Just as I was relaxing and thinking "this isn't too bad I s'pose" a bloke didn't close the front door properly and one of the bearded blokes from earlier span round and shouts at me "YOU BORN IN A BARN OR SOMETHING??"  Well, it wasn't even me.  I could've cried, I suspect Streatham had turned me into what we call a 'snowflake'.  Two blokes admired each others Andrea Pirlo shirts, surely an in-joke and not a coincidence but still a bit weird.   Then a young lady got incensed when her friends suggested the first single she bought wasn't Killing me Softly by the Fugees "It was even on a cassette tape so there,  waaaaah!" she concluded. 

GBG and the friendly gang, tick lady and 'born in a barn' shouter.

Dog, bottles, cans, murder enquiry.  Hebden Bridge microcosm of life/death

Bike parked at escalator up to the Tube Station

Rochdale pub crawl sounded nice!

In the bogs

Killing me Softly

Back into the freezing night air, and a bit of a painful long wait for the next train towards L**ds, so I sat in the waiting room and munch crisps loudly a la The Pub to upset an old lady trying to keep warm. 

The great news was that this train stopped at Brighouse, where I had a new tick to do.  Three in one night would be a consolation for the poor standard of pub. 

Over four years since my one other visit to the town, where I quite enjoyed both the Red Rooster and the Richard Oastler 'Spoons.  Luckily, it was a short walk to tonight's effort ......

1419 / 2392.  Millers Bar, Brighouse

There were two ways that this place could've been excellent.  It could've been full of clones of my work friend Joanna Miller, or it could've been Rotherham Utd themed with old blokes in string vests clutching hand me down toothbrushes swilling six packs of Stones at the bar.  But there was to be nothing of this level of amusement.  It somehow managed to out-bland the previous two places tonight with it's bare boarded dining feel, felt like being in South Bucks and I can't be any harsher than that.  Quite a large place, very much empty with all the folk concentrated around the bar area.  Luckily, two identikit barmen were on the ball and saw me from over top of a crowd of people to serve me.  I only saw one of them first, so when his colleague asked if I'd been served 5 seconds later, I thought it was the first guy with severe short term memory loss!  In fact, one was bearded and one wasn't but I didn't notice this at the time.  On the plus side, the pub was warm and I sat at a distant table and was finally able to remove jacket and gloves!  A barmaid came out and gave a back massage to one of the blokes, and a local lady said "you alright there?" which was the nicest thing anyone said to me all night.  I nearly cried again.  A young woman who seemed to be drinking outside to avoid the crush (possibly had read Garden Hermit's suggestion on my blog for Christmas time pub drinking) had a rather spectacular penguin top on so I nodded at her, but a touchy feelie Dad with an air of the guy who played Brian Clough in Damned Utd stroked and kissed his son from behind.  The food menu looked good, the real Joanna Miller (not one of her imaginary clones) tells me there is a restaurant upstairs which is rather good, but we'll just have to take her word for it. 

Not the same bloke, but I wasn't to know!

To pass time on the boring journey back to York via L**ds, I started a new career of New Star Soccer and the club I got offered to play for were Bradford Park Avenue, who came up like this ......

BRADPA - spooky!

So there we go, three more ticks is about the best you can say after that mini-shambles.  5 left, the plan to finish them before the end of Jan is still on, though I doubt I'll get one in next week cos am out Tue, Wed and Thu, need Mon to recover from weekend, and "Mad Friday" is a day I'd encourage anyone who loves the Great British Pub to stay the hell away from them!

Si