BRAPA THE RAPPER IS ..... STRAIGHT INTO COMPTON (Wolves & Beyond)

Word up Homies!  

A week off the ale is a long time in pub ticking,  as Harold Wilson said in his early GBG days.

My liver still wasn't totally recovered from Hants when Daddy BRAPA posed me a tricky quandary the following Saturday. "I've decided to go to the football after all, so I need you to come up with a good 11 o'clock opener" he WhatsAppd before I'd even washed and dried my Hants undies.

Hednesford, my intended destination, was no help.  I had to leave Walsall alone because I've got two people who want to join me for a 'special BRAPA day' there.  Elford, Whittington and Burntwood provided little solution.  Even my remaining Central Brum's were all nooners.  

But I eventually stumbled upon something on the outskirts of Wolverhampton, in the Compton area.

After taking the now traditional 07:44 down to New Street (AKA the worst station in the world) , we hopped aboard the connecting train and were at a bus stop near Wolverhampton station about 10:45am.

After about 50 buses not stopping at Compton, two turned up at once, we zoomed three miles down the road and I pressed the bell with a sense of anticipation, trepidation, and whatever other feelings visitors have arriving when on a Wolves bus.  Across a road, just after 11, relief to see the pub open.  We couldn't have got here any quicker.

It might've been a Marston's pub, but best to view it as a Banksies, the Swan, Compton, Wolverhampton (2115 / 3678) set the tone for a day of cracking boozers, not a weak one amongst the  seven I'd do.  Suddenly, Isle of Wight, outer Southampton and South West London seemed but a distant memory.  A Wolverhampton Wanderers flag almost dared you to admit you supported someone else.  Being a multi-roomer afforded us the luxury of taking our delicious pints of Banks's Mild through to the larger lighter back room, its 18th century history very much in evidence if you ignore the Six Nations flags.  We had so much room, Colin stretched his florets out over a long bench.  Eventually, some lads arrived and what salt of the earth lads they are.  "Wheyyy, on it early today mate!  Av a groit doiy!" they said both as I went to the loo and on the way out.  'Twas a great start, I felt like I'd passed my 11am pub brief with flying colours, I just hope #DaddyBRAPA appreciated the hours (well, 45 mins) of research which led us here!

The bus driver says I need to ask for 'Chapel Ash' when I tried to explain where our next stop was, a name I recognise from the Combermere Arms which I visited a few years ago.  It was nice, old and had a tree in the loo unless I was very much drunkenly mistaken!  

I'm not 100% happy with that 'tick' however as I only had a half and the experience was a bit rushed, so I fully intend to return for my second half at some point in the future, which probably should've been today but wasn't.  

Our second pub was just before you get into that inner ring road, the sun was bright in the sky, and we were happy to enjoy a Vitamin D boost before the clock chimed noon and the door sprung open .....

Royal Oak, Wolverhampton (2116 / 3679) was another staggeringly impressive old Marston's house with a Banks's bent.  We'd had the mild, now time for the bitter.  Equally yummy, and the lacings tell you all you need to know about the quality.  And my decision partly made by the fact that I haven't enjoyed Sunbeam on the last few occasions I've had it.  Not sure what has changed, me or the beer, as there was a time circa 2015 I was a big fan.  Although this pub feels a touch younger than the Swan, it is homely, cosier and has a real heart.  The real winning point for us was the landlord coming around the corner to welcome us and have a chat, a really top bloke, and this was long before Colin or my GBG or Stabilo had been pulled from the bag of dreams.  And when he told us another BRAPA tick I needed was a short walk around the corner, I was stunned, I just hadn't realised!  Dad agrees that yes, he has time to squeeze that one in with me too before he has to head off to the match.  We settle down on the nicely upholstered benches, and I'm shocked at the sheer amount of people on my Twitter saying that this is their local.  Well three anyway, a BRAPA record.  Must be lots of housing around about.  And what a local to have.  I'd actually be jealous if I wasn't a ticker!  Superb pub.

The landlord wasn't kidding, barely five minutes away if that around a couple of back streets, this pub which has been on my Wolverhampton radar for a good 15 years came into view.

And for added excitement, this was another candidate for my famous '2007 mystery pre-match pub' we visited when Jay Jay Okocha ran the show on a rare 1-0 away win here ......

Chindit?  Binned it!

Sadly, it was soon evident that the Chindit, Wolverhampton (2117 / 3680) was not the pub in question, much as I was clutching it straws.  "We ARE facing a bar though!" I told Dad hopefully, as though facing a bar in a pub is something that only happens once every 15 years.  No, the more I think about it, the more I think that mystery pub was the Newhampton, just that on my 'revisit', I spent most of my time sat outside with my head in a set of stocks which wasn't conducive to scrutinising the interior.  Potential third visit needed?  Paul WME , a Twitter chap who knows more about Wolves boozers than anyone, gave me a couple of other 'long shots' but they don't ring many bells despite having been in the right part of town.  Anyway, back to the present (as it was then)  I'm just not enjoying my HPA, it smells of 'wet dog' and having had a lovely pint of it in Ware recently, I know it isn't supposed to.  Doesn't help that Dad keeps telling me how great his pint is at regular five minute intervals.  You know how much I love a pub carpet, and bonus points here as the carpet creeps up onto the front of the bar, like a naughty furry thing.  A long covered corridor leads to the gents, and I realise there's a bit more life in the other bar, by which I mean the guv'nor is chatting to one local.   A lovely, honest street  corner boozer with few frills, but the ale plus 'residue 2007 disappointment' means it wasn't one of my favourites today.

The 'Col effect' proves the beer is totally clear if nothing else!

Time to stride back to the station where Dad needs to get himself back to Brum quick-sticks with time ticking towards kick off.  Isn't it nice to see Martin the Owl making a new career for himself?

And Dad's final pre-match act is to take the below photo, as I've now spied a central tick I somehow have never done despite seeing it in GBGs every time I've visited Wolverhampton in the past ......

And I'm sad that Dad missed out on the Posada, Wolverhampton (2118 / 3681) which surprisingly. in my experience for a pub so close to bus and train links, is not only a rugged boozer full of growling one toothed men with indecipherable accents (to my ear at least), but is incredibly ornate and unaltered which I only really notice the full extent of when I run the gauntlet to the loos through the back of the pub.  Tiling, snob screens, stained glass, wooden fittings - everything for the pub lover is here.  Homemade cobs on the bar, which for me, are the West Mids equivalent of an outdoor loo in other areas, AKA an indication of a quality pub for a quality ticker (that's me if you were wondering).   I grab a cheese & onion and sat at the bench in the window with an old bloke called Will or Wilf (he was as softly spoken as that Dundee bloke in Kensington last week).  We exchange nods and munch on our cobs and sup our Bath Gem ale for five minutes in companionable silence, until he sees my GBG and tells me he used to be an active CAMRA bloke back in the day so I shuffle along the bench and we have a nice chat.  He is quite frail these days but always makes a concerted effort to come out to his favourite pubs, #PubMan, a lesson to us all, we exchange a warm handshake and I get on my way.

I'd never expected today to be so Wolverhampton orientated, and here I was, four pubs in already well before 3pm!   

Having said that, I didn't really have much appetite today to visit the two newish sounding micros which sound like they are out in the 'burbs, Starting Gate and Keg & Comfort, and knowing I've still got unfinished business at the Combermere, plus a possible third Newhampton visit, I fully expect to be back in the town again in the coming years.

No, instead I boarded a bus full of 'yoofs' blaring 90's rap music out of their anti-social speakers, and despite the blog title, I'm more of a punk rock kinda guy.

Perhaps this horrid journey led me to accidentally pressing the bell two stops too early, but I did, and left myself with a long walk to pub five .....

Hoping it might be a lucky omen for Hull City, the Royal Tiger, Wednesfield (2119 / 3682) appears a pretty typical 'Spoons, but I suspect a cut above the average when I order my Damson Porter, hand over the 50p voucher, and the bloke asks if I'm a CAMRA member.  I confess all, and he asks if I can submit a beer score on the old NBSS, quipping 'every little helps' , winking, smacking his bum pocket, and walking off.  I think he may've confused past Tesco & Asda slogans, but I got the meaning.  Fifth pub of the day, taking my first sup of Porter bang on 3pm, let's just say I wasn't perhaps at full 'pub observations' level.  In fact, I couldn't help but think back to THAT day in North Kent where I'd had eight pints by 4pm, then two ESB's, and woke up on THAT beach in Brora or Wick, allegedly.  Anyway, the locals were lively, the walls were a vibrant red, the beer was good, and Tessa Sanderson smiled down on me from a wall.  Life was good.

Just around the corner, my other Wednesfield tick was looking back at me like a large square mechanical cat ......

Oh yes!  Almost like a 'greatest hits' collection of all that had been fabulous about my Wolverhampton pubs today, with a couple of promising previously unreleased bonus tracks thrown in, Vine, Wednesfield (2120 / 3683) truly was your quintessential West Midlands boozer.  1938 might not sound particularly 'old' in the grand scheme of British pubs, but this just shows what can be achieved when you don't go dicking about with the interior.  The place is deservedly heaving this Saturday afternoon, and I grab my Pale Moonlight noting another enticing selection of cobs, and have to walk right around to the old 'smoke room' before I finally manage to find one small seat underneath the TV screen.  Colin refuses to come out of the bag, even six pints in!  A man who is drinking a quick succession of Carlings with even fluffier heads than Col keeps peering over at my GBG n Stablio, and I eventually pluck up courage to chat to him.  As with most people on these days out, he thinks it insane that I return to York on this very same night and not staying overnight in a Walsall bordello.  Amazing what a chat can do, I suddenly feel part of the pub, well that is until his wife swoops down, buying him his 15th pint of Carling in the last half an hour and killing our chat.  A true classic, if you haven't been, please do!

I find I'm having to concentrate very hard just to find a bus to get me back to Wolverhampton station, which would be pretty easy from here for someone with a sober mind.

Once in Wolverhampton station, I manage to look up Birmingham to Wolverhampton trains by mistake, totally make a balls of getting back to Brum, which is then compounded by a train cancellation and a delayed one behind it!

So by the time I finally reach New St, the match has long since finished and Dad has made it to the designated meeting pub already.  Now Google Maps tells me it is a 17 minute walk, grrrrr, here was me thinking that being called the 'Bull' is was by the Bull Ring and about 3 minutes away!  

Still, I stride out best I can, feeling soberer for the benefit of a brisk walk and nice bottle of weak orange drink, and the pub is on the horizon as the light starts to fade ......

I walk in to the Bull, Birmingham (2121 / 3684) and I'm pleasantly surprised to see not just Dad, but Tom too, so that the original BRAPA O.G. squad was all here together.  I'm expecting them both to be in high spirits following what a paper looks like a decent point in a 0-0 against a team close to us in the league, but both tell me it was a woeful game between two woeful teams!  Apparently we did all our best attacks in the first 3 minutes and then stopped.  Never mind, here was another cracking pub to rubber stamp a particularly high quality day, again making me realise I need to 'crack' this part of the world whilst these old pubs are still making the GBG before it does a Tyne & Wear / Merseyside.  It puts me in mind of my Craven Arms visit a few months back.  Far enough out of town to have a gentle atmosphere.  Jugs hanging from the ceiling, a fabulous pint of Oakham Citra, and a fluffy little pub cat roaming around just to put the cherry atop the icing atop a very nice pubby cake.  Sad that my tardiness in getting here means I only have the minimum 25 minutes to drink my pint, as I could've easily relaxed into this wonderful place.  

Top lacings!  What a day it had been.  Seven pubs and I couldn't feel a thing, nicely numbed for the train ride home to York.

Join me at a similar time tomorrow for tales of a Wet Wednesday in Coventry.  Nicer than it sounds, honest.

Thanks for reading, skimming, looking at the pics, whatever.  Si  

BRAPA in .... HAMMERSMITH, LIVE AT THE BRAPOLLO : ALL PUBBED OUT (Part 10)

4 counties green, how many more before the 2023 GBG comes out?

It was time to say farewell to my Portsmouth & Southsea Premier Inn.  For nine nights, it had served me well as I ticked a whopping 48 pubs. 

As I journeyed north to London on this sunny Sunday morning, I found myself pleased that I was on the slower Victoria route.  I had no appetite for a 10th consecutive day of pubbing at this stage.  I was, if you like, all pubbed out.  

Nothing would give me greater pleasure at this point than being back in BRAPA Towers in York sipping strong tea and weak lemon barley with a small triangle cheese & cucumber sandwich.  Sadly, those pesky engineering works prevented me from getting back until the Monday morning.

I'd slept until 10am, had a leisurely brunch, and yet was some still way off the 3pm check in time at a new Premier Inn (hey, maybe I could tick Premier Inns?) in posh Kensington close to Earl's Court. 

The heaving District Line was a problem with all my luggage in tow, but I surfaced for air at Hammersmith, fighting my way through the crowds for my first tick .....

I approach the bar in this gigantic yet packed out Wetherspoons, William Morris, Hammersmith (2109 / 3672).  A patient barmaid is trying to explain to a hard of hearing elderly Irish chap that his food will be a 30 minute wait.  He finally hears her, and suggests that perhaps it won't be that long in reality.  Her expression suggests she doesn't share his optimism!  He turns, gives me a cheeky wink and a dig in the ribs and says something gentle, Irish and lilting about people being in such a rush these days.  I fully expect him to take a pocket book from his jacket and quote me a bit of Seamus Heaney but it doesn't happen.  The barmaid maybe overworked, but she's still smiling and tells me it isn't always this busy, but something is afoot at the Apollo.   I order a 'Nook of Pendle' for £1.79 with a Mudgie Voucher, but it is dreadful quality.  I'd only gone for it because Burnley seemed like a different world ..... I mean, Burnley always seems like a different world, but even more so in the centre of Hammersmith.  I perch on one of the tiny 'sad bastards' high stools, facing the bar, which seem to be solely occupied by single men blinking mournfully into the middle distance.  I can do that too!   Colin and KLO are squashed beneath my washbag and clothes, so they are saved this experience.  The carpet is of the washed out William Morris variety, I appreciate the effort, but this pub is considerably less William Morris than the Moorbrook in Preston, and now I think of it, even the Great Northern in St Albans. 

It is approaching 3pm as I hit Earl's Court so I decide to walk straight to the Premier Inn and see if I can check in a few minutes early.  No chance when I see the queue.

Checking in selfie woooo

I dump the vast majority of my baggage, bringing only essentials like Colin, GBG and the Stabilo (I've totally given up on The Works budget seaweed coloured monstrosity by now) and I walk the short distance to a place called West Brompton, my only pub today found under 'South' rather 'West' London.

Although my expectations are always particularly low when ticking in the south/west of posho London, I'd say that in the grand scheme of things, Lillie Langtry, Fulham (2110 / 3673) is pretty decent.  Stick it in the Potteries, it might be unbearable.  But you know, I've been to plenty worse in SWeverything, and I would later on today too.  The green walls help, even if they are closer to The Works than Stabilo if we are talking Highlighter shades.  And it is absolutely no surprise that without even being an Antic, they have plenty of pointless manufactured quirkiness going on - e.g. rolling pins for handpumps.  The chirpy barmaid is confused as to which ale is which, she might be Australian, or just southern.  The final whistle has just blown on the football match behind me - I squint to see Watford 2-3 The Gooners.  The couple behind me do the gentlest high five ever in celebration.  Even if they'd done this in a Watford pub, no one would've cared/noticed.  I soon realise how lucky I am to get the one remaining stool on the other side of their pillar, so many people foiled in their attempts to find seating.  A Spanish sounding couple have reserved the table behind me, and a multi lingual barmaid starts getting all multi lingual with them.  Impressive, you don't get this in Thornaby.  I feel a bit like a fish out of water but at least I'd put a new shirt on, clean jeans and combed my hair!  The ale was good, though I'm not a big fan of the ultra London trope of traditional handled glasses. 

The map on the floor of the gents inspires me to walk to my next pub rather than Tube it, and it ain't far, a mere 21 minutes to my next pub, the sun glorious in what has been a very hit & miss weather week.

The vast amount of people penned into the tiny outdoor area out front doesn't bode well .....

With a name that sounds like it should be in the heart of the Lake District, Scarsdale Tavern, Kensington (2111 / 3674) couldn't feel further from it.  I suspect that on a quiet midweek lunchtime, you could appreciate a nice old pub interior.  The Six Nations flags which are ruining pubs the country over at the moment don't help.   The pub was used in the 1970's show The Professionals, and Princess Di used to sink a few jars here to get away from it all so definitely assuming it has quieter spells!  Did I tell you me and Daddy BRAPA once saw her at the Deva Stadium shouting expletives at Stuart Rimmer during Chester 3-0 Hull City back in '93?  How I got served immediately and then spin around to see the nearest small table come free just at the opportune moment, was either incredibly good luck, or 'BRAPA using all his experience'.  Whilst Col decides to explore the windowsill board games, I enjoy my well kept Pride and a waistcoated man with an evil sculptured beard who must be an actor / entertainer / local paedophile puts on an impromptu show for some bored children called Jocasta, Hugo, Bijou and Toby.  Enjoyable, that thing he did with the balloon and his pockets particularly remarkable. 

Back on the Tube, a little bit of jiggery pokery (that's what that bloke said too!) takes me onwards to Chiswick Park where I have two required ticks.

The first is full of promise .......

Leafy peaceful location, some great brickwork and tiling, beautiful curved windows, soothing atmosphere, friendly hard working staff, and a really well kept pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord.  Problem is, Swan, Acton Green (2112 / 3675) is a restaurant in pub's clothing.  I'm diverted to a table on arrival, and then we have the old #2020 rigmarole of "I just want a pint" "what ales are on?" "let me check" .... long wait for drink .... "can I pay now?" "no, at the end is fine <big smile, exit stage left leaving me unable to protest>"  You could tell it was a really well run place but stifled.  "Is that a cauliflower?" ask a couple on a nearby table.  Well blow me down!  Strangers talking to me cross table in London.  "You liking this place then?" they ask me full of hope.  I choose to tell them the truth.  They sort of agree, but I also suspect they are thinking I'm being harsh.  The more talkative one is the bloke, intrigued by BRAPA.  But can I hear his questions?  No way!  Do I dare briefly sit at there table?  I don't want to, but it is the only way, and this is a London pub first for me.  He concedes he's softly spoken.  'And Scottish' I want to add, but don't.  Dundee to be precise.  I'm painfully aware his other half is losing interest, and wants me to buzz off, don't worry so do I,  but he keeps on with the questions til finally he notices too and gives me a sort of 'that's enough' sign, and I gratefully retreat back to my table with a swift goodbye and try not to make eye contact again!  Nice moment though, added an extra dimension rare for London ticking.  Now to remember to pay without running off first!

Our Scottish mate in foreground before I got chatting

Looking back though, I would declare the Swan my pub of the day.  I had the BRAPA bit between my teeth now, although it was now dark, I was determined to get my full six quota in before last orders, which can come quite suddenly on a Sunday night so I had to stay focussed .....

Up next, a short walk to the common, I encountered this thing  ......

First, I think there's a queue to be seated or reach the bar as people hover about in front of me just through the main entrance at Duke of Sussex, Acton Green (2113 / 3676) .  A perky young couple entering the pub just behind me, firmly wedged in the doorway, are equally non-plussed.  They realise before me what we've walked into.  BRAPA's first Baby Shower!  We're at the 'find out if it is a boy or a girl' pinnacle of the night.  I thought it was all fluid nowadays.  Future Mum n Dad stand atop a stage, relatives gathering around with camera phones out.  Some 'pub official / ceremony chieftain'  counts down 10, 9, 8, 7 .....  , I have time to guess 'girl', couple behind me guess 'boy', a balloon is popped, blue confetti billows out (blue for boy, pink for girl, are we still doing that in 2022?  #WokeSiWithoutIrony2022)  and Mum & Dad hug, kiss, there's tears all round and much cheering.  Can I have a bloody pint now?  After that, the main event over, the pub has a bit of a messy 'last night of the Somme/Proms' /kicking out atmosphere, party guests wandering around aimlessly, ties loosened, shirts unbuttoned.  There's still no seats!  Again, a nice mosaic floor and grand old wooden pillars make me wonder how pretty this pub could be in different circumstances.  Another London pub characteristic, one I haven't seen in a while, the water decanter filled with cucumber.  I pour myself a glass or two.  Closest I'll get to a free sandwich or party ring.  I perch at a table 'Kieran 7:15'.  It is 7:05.  He turns up 7:13.  "You Kieran?" I ask.   Sadly he is.  I don't have the heart to tell him I've got two more minutes technically speaking.  Time I shuffled along anyway!

Hasn't he grown .... already??

Chaos on entry

Wondering if Mr Flat Cap is a kindred spirit, just here for a drink

A few short stops on the District Line in the right direction take me to Ravenscourt Park.  Final pub of the day, final pub of my holiday, unless I have an ESB in Parcel Yard at 9am before the train tomorrow.  Don't tempt me!  (I didn't by the way, not #PubMan enough). 

Finally!  A totally empty pub winding down uneventfully for early Sunday closing time, I didn't know such a scene could be so joyous to me, but the previous pubs had just been that little bit too manic (as good as that is for BRAPA blog content).  Prince of Wales Townhouse, Hammersmith (2114 / 3677).  I've been in Big Smoke pubs before, think Surbiton has one?  And this had the same kind of decent but boring feel.  Their Underworld stout was superb, and I'd just been glad to see any handpumps, having been initially transfixed by a bonkers line of about 20 poorly aligned keg badges.  Talking of bonkers, the barmaid is a friendly sort, but seems a bit all over the place, like a bohemian from Count Duckula crashing through doors, tripping on things, shouting 'coo-ee, I'll get it (meaning my pint)'.  I take my drink to one of those back breaking low slung Chesterfield sofas, a candle protruding from a wax coated former blue gin bottle, a bit of shuffleboard for the kids, and the occasional lost beardo coming in for a swift half and a hushed conversation with a friend.  It somehow felt more London than any London pub today, and if that is Big Smoke's aim, they've achieved their goal.

I could finally reflect on a week well done.  54 ticks, 1 pre-emptive, 57.5 pints consumed, many miles walked, one county greened.  But I couldn't wait to get home!

Back to the present day, it should be #ThirstyThursday tomorrow but a combination of dentist, quest to further catch up on blogs, and an old work colleague wanting to meet in York for cocktails (doesn't he know me at all?) mean I'm postponing.  Hopefully back on the TT trail on 31st!  

Next blog most likely Sunday now as we head to Wolverhampton.

See you soon, Si