BRAPA in .... FRAM 69 : CAULIS WITH DIRTY FACES

 

As I stepped off the bus in Kip Hill, a little town just north of Stanley, I realised that I was 'between two storms'.  Dudley, which had battered us overnight, was easing off.  Eunice was yet to come.  More proof that Thursday's are the best of all the weekdays for pub adventures.  

I'd stuck to my usual #ThirstyThursday routine.  Up early, little jog around the neighbourhood, popping into Sainsbury's for supplies, weights, shower, and then a nice modest Full English to line my stomach.

Poached eggs this week as I'd lost faith in my ability to fry them.  Worked out quite well, bit of white pepper, maybe 30 seconds overdone, but you can't expect perfection.  Bit light on the mushrooms too, note to self for next week.

I watched Postman Pat's Windy Day, it seemed apt.  Most annoying bit was when Pat's hat fell into the river, Ted Glen fishes it out, put it on a scarecrow to dry, tells Granny Dryden, who bumps into Pat and says "when Ted said he'd found a postman's hat, we had no idea it might be yours".  JUST HOW MANY POSTMEN DO YOU THINK THERE ARE IN GREENDALE, DRYDEN?  Ridiculous.

After cleaning my kitchen worktop which was streakier than Lee Johnson eating a bacon sarnie, I took the train to Newcastle, and from just outside the station, caught the bus to Kip Hill for my first County Durham tick of 2022.  I'm having to abandon North Yorkshire for now as the four remaining pubs are a bit out there, but with only six to do in Co. Durham, is this the year I finally get it fully greened?

It is only sheer laziness on my part as to why I hadn't done this first one during 2021 ticking, but such laziness was rewarded because there is now a new entry within walking distance of this one!  I like it when a plan accidentally comes together.

It was one of those 'cor blimey, it looks like some sort of development' places rather than your common or garden pub.  A variety of shiny signs pointed to different doors in different buildings.  No I don't want to look at the swans, hens, ducks or dogs!  Finally, I saw one that said 'bar'.

A posh hotel style reception desk was to my right.  Smartly dressed staff blinked at me expectantly.  "Which way to the bar?" I mumble, worried I should be asking for my Corby Trouser Press to be mended, before they point me around the corner.   Phew, South Causey Inn, Kip Hill (2050 / 3613) at last!  And only 200 pubs before I reach the halfway point of the GBG, exciting times.  I wasn't smiling for long, as I notice all three handpumps are turned around.  The barman confirms my fears, and being the helpful type, tries to point me in the direction of the 'next best thing' Beavertown Neck Oil.  I enquire about the Cameron's 'Steamer' Smoothflow, thinking it might be less flavoursome, but easier to drink.  But when he tells me it is actually John Smith's Smooth, I opt for the Neck Oil.  Noticing my hesitation, he gives me an overly generous taster, saying it 'isn't to everyone's taste'.  I know it isn't, and now I have to drink more than a pint of it!  And to add insult to injury, even this splutters three quarters of the way down and he has to go off and change it, leading about five members of staff to come over check that I'm 'okay!'  Pint in hand finally, I grab the nicest and most elaborate seating area, four grand leather chairs twixt rusty knight in armour, random pile of logs and mini wood burner.  The table is woefully impractical, more like a metal hobby horse.  A gaggle of different generation men folk with the same crew cut and chequered suits enter, and ask the staff to take photos of them.  Wedding do?  Feels like the type of place you'd stay overnight and wake with a bad headache.  Everyone else is a pensioner with their faces in the nosebag.  For all my gripes, in a lot of ways, this was actually a cosy nicely appointed space to enjoy a drink, and the staff were first class.

It is a 33 minute walk to the next pub, and Google Maps decides to be kind to me and rather than forcing me to walk along main roads as is standard, comes up with this rural route along a cycle path, through some nice woodland.  

Okay, so wearing yellow trainers wasn't the wisest move, but I skirt around the muddy boggier bits as best I can, even making the 'groundhoppers' jealous by ticking off this .....

Shield Row Amateurs 0-1 BRAPA F.C.  Colin the Cauliflower heading in a last minute winner from an Alex Apple corner.  Attendance : Me.  We'd have won by more if KLO hadn't been injured, forcing Colin into a rare Thursday start.

After negotiating an old man with excitable twild grandson and an even more excitable giant hound, our second of three pub ticks comes into view.

I'm expecting even more spangly dining bull-twang from Shepherd & Shepherdess, Beamish (2051 / 3614), so my heart gives a pubby little leap to find an incredibly traditional set up.  Carpetted throughout, stained glass partitions and doorways, upholstered benches and a grandfather clock minding its own.  It is very low key for a place that obviously makes foodie concessions, perhaps a bit too low key!  It is a real 'God's Waiting Room' type of crowd ('I Believe in Angels' plays on arrival), save for two rapscallions sinking Newcy Broons, one of the pair scowling across at me with worrying regularity.  The ale choice is Wainwright or Razorback, and buoyed by a fabulous pint of the former in Chorley recently, I order it without hesitation.  It isn't good.  Not off.  But as tired a Sainsbury's shift working Mum who has been dragged to a Little Mix concert by her daughter (the Mum in question grew up on a diet of Guns n Roses & Metallica).  An awful lot of the tables are empty but with 'reserved' signs on.  For all the fine aesthetics, there's a LOT to dislike about this place.  Following a 90 year old lady to the loos (just so I know where it is) isn't by wisest move, when she inexplicably finishes her widdle before me, exiting the ladies just as I leave the gents.  I hold the door so she can go first.  And then I have to painstakingly slowly follow her back through the deathly silent pub, past all the same people, like some tragic walk of shame!  Only in BRAPA do these things happen.  

Col makes friends with Robbie Rocket

I've said it before, but this part of the world has a serious blind spot when it comes to cask ale.  Last time out in Chester-le-Street, at the Shitty Wicket, I was forced into Neck Oil because no cask was on, and when Eddie F came up here last, THREE consecutive pubs failed to yield one pint of real ale.  And when you do get it, the quality is variable.  I remember RetiredMartin once telling me it was one of his weaker counties for his NBSS scores.  

The bus was a minute ahead of schedule, and before long, it plopped me off in Chester-le-Street where I gathered my composure in Morrison's before the final push!  

A bus towards Durham stopped at Framwellgate Moor, home of my epic late night Tap & Spile tick six weeks before the 'Rona hit in Jan 2020.   And now, there was a new tick in town.  

Did it ring a vague bell with me?  Hmmm, watch this space .....

An micro housed in a former NHS Clinic says the GBG, I walk into Fram Ferment, Framwellgate Moor (2052 / 3615) and am soon in a state of panic because, despite the generous bottle and can fridges to my right, I reach the bar and cannot see any handpumps!  I ask the landlady, who looks vaguely familiar but can't place her, and she shows me a clipboard with three cask beers on.  I go for a Durham Dark Angel and by gum, it is nectar.  At last.  It's a deceptively cosy place, I sit on a comfy cinema seat, my feet on this nice plush rug which is like a section of cleaner Wetherspoons carpet and goes fabulously with my yellow trainers.  Being close to the window, there is a 'goldfish bowl effect' as I've never seen so many locals shuffle by, peer in like startled gawpers, like they know they SHOULD be in here, but then shuffle off again.  I tune in to the conversation of the couple (who aren't a couple) next to me, tantalisingly called T&E.  They are trying to inject a touch of the 'highbrow' to proceedings.  Tracey Emin, a Mary Beard documentary series, Gaughin, and the inevitable 'What is art?' unanswered conclusion.  The place needed zhushing up a bit, and in the absence of me getting up and performing a little two-step, T&E's efforts are much appreciated.  All the while, enjoying my stout, I wonder why it has a 'Station House, Durham' logo on, that fabulous little place I ticked off drunk on 25/1/20 where landlord Chris M off of Twitter was the perfect host.  A 'Chris' keeps being referenced here e,g. landlady to T&E "you are paying Chris's wages by comin' in here .... LOLZ" .  Hang on, did he tell me about this place pre-emptively back then?  Suddenly, the mists of my mind are clearing, that's why I vaguely recognise landlady, she is Station House landlady too!  Well I never.  But she's off now.  "Want a lift up to Station House?" she asks T&E, as if to confirm my realisation.  They decline, a nice Irish sounding chap with glasses has arrived to man the bar and add bonus zhush, he seems familiar too, and steers T&E away from more art debate onto the subject of training rats. Now, two young lads arrive and say 'hello' to me as they sit down.  That's nice too!  One last wee, then am off.  Absolute scenes, as they say in the trade. 

The perfect combo

Last time we'd see Colin sober today

To save money on the train fare, I'd booked myself on specific trains, and erring on the side of caution to ensure I got my three ticks done, I was now left with a good 1.5 hours before I needed to be on the Durham-York.

My plan was to walk towards Durham, waste some time, but a bus is just pulling up as I leave the pub, so I hop on.  The driver is an absolute arsehole, and it seems most of the other passengers have realised the same, gesticulating rudely at him when they all 'alight'.  

I get off a stop or two before we reach the centre, means I'm passing the afore mentioned Station House, well it'd be rude not to pop in wouldn't it ......

Train passing overhead just at the right moment

Well it is nice to re-visit Station House in a slightly soberer frame of mind, I remember where the bar is but it looks a bit different, more enclosed maybe?  Another nice chap, this time more American sounding, noticing my latest 'panic' as to what ales are on, shows me the pump clips stuck to the wall and assures me everyone does same as what I just did.  Another strong one, pale this time, but a lovely drop on a day I'm not taking my ale for granted.  A few happy faced gents say "areet!" and "knee bother!" so I pull up a pew on a high bench facing the bar.  Soon, FF/SH landlady appears behind me and introduces herself.  Hurrah!  We have a nice little chat, my fave bit when she says about better to have a couple of cask ales on rather than eight averagely kept one.  Something I've learned over the years from my pubby forefathers, but am still amazed how many times I hear stuff like "can't believe this pub ain't in the GBG, it has NINE ales on".  'So bloody what', I always think.  Anyway, I didn't keep our new BRAPA friend talking too long, she had a meeting with someone from Chester (-le-St) who wanted to know how to sell ale or something.  On a sadder note, Colin was comatose.  Shame, he missed a cracker.

Newark flashbacks in the gents

Back at the station, still about 20 minutes til the train, and the wind is whipping up, all icy.  I just want a coffee at this point, but the only thing open is another former BRAPA tick, Waiting Room.  Oh well, a half won't hurt will it? 

"Great to see you again, been a long time!" says the barman when I arrive, adding something about this being the first time he's pulled a beer in about two years.  I'm a bit flummoxed.  Surely he's not alluding to 6:30pm on 28th December 2019, my final tick of the year as Dad incidentally searched in vain for coffee, gave up, joined me, just as well as I'd already bought him a pint.  Pretty sure the staff were exclusively female that day anyway.  I smile politely, make an agreeable noise, and take my half to a table, and prod away at my phone.  On the way out as I return my glass, he says "well, it was great to see you again mate, come back soon!" and now I'm worried that his 'Imagined Si' was friendlier to him than me, 'Real Life Si' who just sat on the side refusing to make eye contact.  Colin fell asleep.

Train surprisingly busy on the way back, almost standing room only, amazed I even get a seat but once back at home, I have a spot of scran, some nice cold lemon drink, an Ovaltine, and straight to bed.  Same is needed for Colin ......

Judged by Alex Apple, the ignominy 

Which all leaves us in a bit of trouble going into Saturday's trip to a county I don't often do.  

KLO still injured, Colin unlikely to have recovered.  Will the out of favour transfer listed Alex Apple get a rare outing?  Watch this space .....

Si 

BRAPA is ..... LATE IN BUZZARD (Cross Border Ticking in Herts & Beds)

I couldn't settle on a blog title for this one.  

'Hemmed in at Hemel' sort of worked, as I did feel hemmed in early doors, but it feels a more Tayloresquian than BRAPensian title.

'If you've got it, Flaund it', I liked.  But I worry how many people would actually be aware of Flaunden, or could see where I was going with that one.

'Bride(ns) of Chucky / Frankenstein / BRAPenstein'.  Obscure and maybe a bit too odd.

'A tale of Wo-burn'.  I mean, it is true, but for such dark reasons, even punning on it feels wrong.

So in the end, and considering I was much later in Leighton Buzzard than I wanted, and it trips off the tongue, I've gone with 'Late in Buzzard'.

Shall we start the blog?  Yes, let's.

Colin shocked at the lack of ballast in today's breakfast

For the second consecutive Saturday, I was Herts bound, and yet again, the rumoured engineering works between York and London failed to materialise, much to my relief/delight.

This all meant after a quick stride to Euston, I found myself in Hemel Hempstead at Early O'Clock, perfect as my required tick here was a Wetherspoons.  

'The churn' is always the second biggest grumble of most pub tickers (after laissez faire opening hours) especially when you are working specifically on a certain county.  In my case, West Hertfordshire was in this healthy position at the end of the 2020/21 season .....

Ignore the Arctic Coffee stain

And whilst I was glad to see difficult-ish outlier Wilstone de-guided, three awkward gaps had opened up .....

The easiest by far was Hemel, but no-one should have to endure TWO visits to this town in six months, even people who live there.  Do people live in HH?  I assume it is all offices and little retail parks.

At least it has a sense of self-deprecation judging by the first sign I witness .....

'Lol'

A short bus ride cut off the 25 minute walk into town, and the 'Spoons comes into view .....

And I was delighted to discover another one of those former art-deco 1930's cinema/bingo hall conversions, always amongst the most satisfying flavour of 'Spoons.  Full House, Hemel Hempstead (2045 / 3608) was branded a 'shithole' by two independent local sources I spoke to today, but that wasn't the impression I got, as I strode through a lively bunch of southern accented football lads (no idea who they supported or where they were headed).  The barmaid was of above average friendliness for the chain, my pint of £1.49 Orkney with a Mudgie voucher was in excellent condition, and I perched at a posing table so I could 'observe life'.  The stand out subject was a livewire of a bloke who, if he wasn't chatting to someone on a laptop, gesticulating wildly, he was confusing the barmaid, or summoning a passing member of staff to ask an unanswerable question.  Eventually, he turned his attentions on me and asked if I had any of what sounded like 'raisins'.  I soon realised he was saying 'Rizzlas'  I had neither, but he seemed so impressed by my response, he asked if we could do a fist bump.  I acquiesced, but tried to avoid eye contact after this.  There was a certain majesty about the place, but if you peered closely enough into some of the upper, darker recesses of the building, it felt a little bit 'half finished', like further restoration work might give it a nice 'complete' feel, the metal ceiling didn't help.  Having said that, I was overall impressed.

Queuing single file at the bar for no reason other than to set my teeth on edge

Our hero, right, introduces a mate to his laptop buddy

If this was a BRAPA holiday day with an overnight stop or 7, I'd have walked the hour + to Bridens Camp, north of town, in the absence of any bus service remotely close.

But it wasn't, so I booked an Uber, who irritatingly wouldn't pick me up here, so I had to walk 8 minutes to find him.  I was late, apologised thrice, tipped him, but the damage was done.  Bad review for poor old SimeySi.  

I arrived at the pub at 11:27am, all social media said 11:30am opening (very specific time, why would I doubt it?) and when I got out of the taxi, the guv'nor was pouring Doom Bar down a drain (probably) so I says 'hi, you opening 11:30?' to which he says 'no, 12'.  

Bugger!  At least a nice area of grass and woodland was facing the pub.  An owl hooted at me as I had a wee behind a tree, and then I sat on a mossy log and ate my scotch egg and a bag of Chinny Medders.  

With 12 noon approaching, it is time for take two ......

The door pings open, not a moment too soon and I'm in!  Crown & Sceptre, Bridens Camp (2046 / 3609) is a surprisingly traditional pub for the area, yes so food is obviously a 'thing', but it doesn't detract.  I'm greeted by a nervous kitten of a barmaid, Shannon, her first day on the job, so today's 'BRAPA #PubMan of the Day' Guv'nor Martin gives her first demonstration of how to pull a pint. Always happy to be the guinea pig.  I tell her the wind's very chilly out there so I'm eyeing up the welcoming fire to the left, but Martin has other ideas, and points me to a specific table for two in the room to the right. Well, I'm not sure how happy I am with this, harumph!  Feels like 2020 all over again!  But the situation soon changes when Martin spies my GBG, and spends the majority of the next 25 minutes sat chatting to me about all sorts.  This is despite his wife's best attempts to get him away from me to do some work!  I ask him about the so-called 11:30am opening, but he uses the 'Sheffield South : Ale House defence' which is 'not having control over what 'they' put on social media'.  The Tring is drinking well, and the overall Martin highlight for me, when he volunteers to ring me a taxi using his fave local firm Rainbow to get me back to civilisation.  What a gent, he even tells them I'm a pub ticker!  It arrives sooner than I expected, and I have to drink up, but only after Martin has done the 'highlighting'.  Not many boozers like this left in the Herts countryside I suspect, get yourself down there today and save the pubs!

Perhaps feeling guilty for charging me a fortune, Rainbow taxis give me a free guided tour of this thing called the 'Magic Roundabout' which is like one big roundabout, with seven little ones around it.  My taxi driver loves it, talking me through each one and where it leads!  I tell him I saw one like this in Swindon once, but DO try to appear interested.

My final West Herts tick DOES have a public transport solution of sorts.  A two hourly bus service from Hemel takes you to the end of Flaunden Lane, where you walk down a long narrow lane into the village.  Now, if you're not on an overnighter, you might not have the time, but the option is there .....

A group of friendly bikers growl 'allo', like a bunch of gruff Mr Cadbury's parrots, and I enter the peculiar Green Dragon, Flaunden (2047 / 3610).  The little heritage star in the GBG offers much promise, but it is a pub trying to be as modern and youthful, as it is, old and heritage, and the end result, it doesn't really end up succeeding at either.  A delicious tap room to the right in the obvious highlight for the pub lover, but it is empty today and separated from the main pub room, and I want to 'be where the action is', so even I shun it.  The staff are all young and giggly as I get served and 'Higher Love' by Steve Winwood plays, what a tune!  As you peer towards the back left, an open kitchen has a glowing giant pizza oven.  Woodfired?  Stonebaked?  I dunno, something like that.  A further group of biker types are enjoying them anyway,   washed down by non alcoholic Ghost Ship.  One is complaining about a recent adventure to the Peak District, where he stayed in Buxton and found the food so crap,  he boarded a plane to Bologna, WTF?  Colin is getting much 'distant' attention from the staff, peering around the corner, smiling at him!  I twice go by the bar and smile (once loo, once returning glass), to give them an opportunity to say something, but they remain frustratingly silent on the issue despite giving me knowing smiles.  'Come on, call me weird, say something, anything' I'm thinking, it's so frustrating!  Then a teenage lad walks past and smirks at Col too, but he appears to have a Jim'll Fix It  badge round his neck so he can hardly smirk.  And with that, ends a pub experience which promised a lot but didn't deliver a great deal.  Problem had been, I'd allowed that little black star in the GBG to raise my expectations to unreasonably high levels. 

Back in Hemel, part of me thought I should get a bus to St Albans or similar, and continue my Herts progress in Sandridge and beyond.

But..... I was on the same train line as Leighton Buzzard where I needed two, plus one in Woburn which was only a few miles away.  Fancy having your head turned by Beds!  

To be honest, Leighton B was, from my 2014-16 Bedfordshire ticking days, the one shining pub town light in a sea of mediocrity, GK IPA, Wells Eagle and general despair.  

Plenty of LB GBG entries, and good ones at that.  Falling asleep in the Black Horse and having to be revived by the landlord brandishing a glass of icy water was an all time BRAPA highlight.  Perhaps no surprise two gaps had opened up in the intervening years.

I tackled the furthest walk first, seeing as the opening hours seemed ridiculously limited, possibly closing 6pm today, but might be as early as 4. 

At the end of this little footpath, I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes ..... 

.... but the arrows pointed in all directions, and convinced it wasn't on the main road, I realised I had to enter this dingy industrial estate.  But where the dickens was the brewery tap?   Ended up at an Autoparts place, nearly bought myself a TPMS Sensor, whatever the bloody hell that is! 

Then, I realised I'd been an idiot and the industrial estate goes back into a second layer of dodgy lockup garage storage units.  I spy something in the corner ......

Looks dead as a dodo.  Nooooo!  Hang on, turn around Si ..... 

Door open, we are going in!  Delightfully flimsy and temporary in feel, Leighton Buzzard Brewing Company Brewery Tap, Leighton Buzzard (2048 / 3611) was quite a fun experience in some ways, I can't lie.  Felt like I did a lot of smiling whilst I was 'indoors', that's got to be a good sign, the place just perpetually 'amused' me.    Although it is an Irish lady in an Irish rugby top behind the bar, it is quite obvious who the guv'nor is, propped against the bar, pint in hand, so I tell anyone who'll listen but mainly him that it was a difficult place to find and as a result, I have very cold ears.  Next thing I know, I'm being sold a chilli porter and a ham & mustard roll.  Not a cob, not a batch, not a stottie, not a Nicky Barmcake, just a nice simple roll.  Thanks LB.  An odd man with the features of Keane Lewis Otter sees Colin, and seems to be tickled by the sight of a cauliflower, so I tell him to look after him whilst I go to the loo, but he doesn't thrive on such responsibility and his face contorts.  Most people are watching Scotland v Wales in the Six Nations, keeping up my 100% record of Six Nations on in any Beds BRAPA pub.  Another bloke addresses a Chris Sutton-ish dude buying a BBQ Panini .... "Always best to layer up when you come in here!" he advises, pulling scarf tighter around neck.  He's not kidding, in fact on the table displaying the rolls, there is a George Foreman grill, and people keep going over to warm their hands on it, the only source of heat!  Someone does find a fan heater later, but the lead doesn't stretch without acting as a tripwire.  The chilli n mustard combo IS warming, but I still end up putting my unlucky Blackpool Jane hat on to get me through the final ten minutes!  I'll remember this place, and you can't say fairer than that.

It is now or never if I'm going to crack Woburn, and if someone plonked you in the town, you'd find quite a vibrant little main street, so it is a total shock to me that there is (a) zero bus service (b) almost zero phone signal and (c) a nearest railway station over a 50 minute walk away.

Further drag from LB than expected too, and to add insult to injury ..... SHUT PUB ALERT!

Well, I don't even have time to start getting cross when this bloke crosses the road, and tells me the landlady's brother died tragically two weeks back when his car hit a tree near the deer park, and although she was due to re-open today, she hasn't (so far).  We had a look around the back, but nothing doing, so I tell him thanks for letting me know, just glad I haven't had a 'SHUT PUB ALERT' rant on Twitter only for South Beds CAMRA regular to 'call me out' and 'cancel' me for being a complete monster.

Of course, it's a BRAPA blow, but sometimes, you just have to take the perspective that there are even more important things than BRAPA!  

I stand in the one spot on the main street where there is enough signal to ring for a taxi, and after a confused muffled conversation, I pray he's coming for me in 15 mins so I pop next door for a highly unlikely pre-emptive 'half'. 

Black Horse, Woburn is a predictably flouncy restaurant style place, exactly the kind of reason an ale house needed to open next door.  Takes me an age to get served on account of a bloke buying his mates one pint of lager at a time, there's about eight of them.  I even go to the loo and come back again in the time his round takes.  Finally, a fed up tired boy serves me half a guest ale (very well kept I'm glad to say), in the thinnest glass I've ever seen.  I go to pay in cash, £2.20, he tells me I can only do that if I have the exact change.  I do!  "Well, howz about that?" I say merrily, fishing the decisive twenty pence piece out of my coat.  The muscles in the boy's face twitch.  Yes, he's trying to smile for the first time ever.  Awwww, and I noted that he smiled twice more before I left.  Top lad.  I sit in the middle of the 'pub' on a dining table, not bothering to remove hat, glove or scarf, and before I know it, the 15 mins is up.  

Where has the time gone?  Woburn has eaten it up something rotten.  I ask my impressively grey bearded taxi man to drop me right outside the pub, a strict 25 minutes here before I head back to Euston.

Everything about the White Horse, Leighton Buzzard (2049 / 3612) screams B&B, but to me, it felt just about the most quintessential late afternoon / early evening Beds/Herts pub going.  A boisterous bar scene , bar blockers galore.  Pride, Proper Job or Side Pocket.  Went middle one.  A nice little fire bubbling away in a grate to my left.  With no seating available, I perch on the hearth with the pokey, proddy instruments, not really caring if I'm blocking anyone's heat.  They can give me their seat if they like, and we'll swap!  Everyone seems to be a fan of the Arsenal, and everyone is whining about football in the nasally slightly depressed way that the Gooners do, but I'd better be nice.  BRAPA has more Arsenal fan followers than any other club.  Teams like Reading, Southampton, Bristol Rovers, Derby, West Ham and West Brom also make the top 10, but the Arse are well clear at the top so let's just say 'There's only one David Rocastle' and 'boo Tottenham boo' if they are all reading this.  A table finally comes free, but it doesn't change a lot apart from giving my legs a break.  Two blokes stand directly in front of me, discussing subjects like Anders Limpar's Swedish sausage.  Nice lively place to end a productive day's ticking despite the Woburn fail, which means I'll probably not try to complete Beds again between now and October (though only 4 other pubs to do + Woburn). 

As it transpires, I couldn't have got a later train back to Euston to make my 19:27 connection from Kings Cross, not even time for one sip of Parcel Yard ESB more's the pity.

The train is madness, as the announcement comes through "we apologise to non-football supporters as there are both Sunderland and Hartlepool on this train tonight".  Hartlepool AGAIN.  Always bloody Hartlepool!  Monkey nuts!

Just as I step on, my old next door neighbour Anteater rings me to tell me about a giant burger she ate the other night!  I tell her she couldn't have rung at a worse time but I ring her back later on the journey.

No way I can get to my seat, but I'm fortunate to find an unreserved two, next to some rather moody Pooligans considering they've won at Crawley.  The Sunderland fans are in higher spirits, celebrating a 1-1 draw at Wimbledon with gusto.  

I thank the inventor of noise cancelling headphones, down my weak lemon drink in one, and manage to immerse myself in Masked Singer final which I'm delighted to see Natalie Imbruglia (dressed as a panda) win.  She's still got it.  #SaveNeighbours

 

And on that note, I'm delighted to tell you that at 22:23pm on Wednesday 16th Feb 2022, I'm up to date on blog for the first time in months! 

Of course, only for 15 hours or so, providing Thirsty Thursday isn't scuppered by Dudley or Eunice.

See you over on Twitter for that.  If you read every word of that, I'm astonished but thanks.

Si