Nineteen pubs were ticked on a long weekend darn sarf - Kent (9), London (5), Leicestershire (4), Nottinghamshire (1).
Over the next three days, I'll attempt to count them down from worst to best in some sort of vague ranking order, so let's kick off with this horror ......
19. Fountain of Ale, Sittingbourne
Having found it shut early for the night at 9:45pm the previous day, I was already taking a dim view of this station-side pub in the disappointing town of Sittingbourne. Lively tonight, like a dysfunctional youth club, B.O. sweaty gurning twentysomethings seem hellbent on making an impression on me, before falling over each other playing darts. The one ale on, Master Brew, tastes like Uhu glue. Barmaid seems quite proud when I ask about yesterday's early closure. "Yeah, I think that was me locking up!" she reminisces with a triumphant look of power flickering across her face. Just when I didn't think I could dislike it more. For balance, was nice to see yoofs havin' a good pub time even if I was cowering in a corner, and the bar area isn't without a hint of quality. But this was evokes East Hull docks in truth. I love the 2024 GBGs commitment to rougher readier boozers, but there's a line between worthy ones and shitholes.
18. Crown Inn, Finglesham
This rural Kent GBG regular is well clear of the Fountain, with a fantastic barman, perky and personable helping me with both loo directions and WiFi code. We even had time to laugh at a forgetful delivery man, who I hope didn't actually have a neurological condition or I'm going to hell. A dishwatery pint of Adam Henson's Rare Breed, or 'Cuntryfile' as only I call it, had me wondering if the Hophead would've been a better choice. The pub had nooks and crannies but was an identikit dining shambles, and with an angry Brian Butterfield glaring at me over his mystery meat and bonbonbonbons, my highlight here was wielding the green Staedtler and being photographed by the 'Ham Sandwich' sign nearby by a farm lady in wellies.
17. Railway. Rainham
Nothing to hate about this 10am 'Spoons, it just wasn't the 'happy' experience it might've been. Sun streaming in, and a great carpet had me feeling like I was in the Borneo jungle with Attenborough, but with more condiments. Friendly twitchy barman serves me an acceptable pint of Gadd's 'She Sells Seashells' which I inevitably trip over. Not literally. A loud lady is telling her tolerant friend about her kids' morning routine. Charlie's toothbrush seems the biggest pain point. From the far end, I'm being glared at by a sinister fake Jaz from the Traitors. Relieved when he falls asleep at his table, but the staff are less happy and wake him up. He rushes over for a coffee refill, and then resumes his glaring. So I leave.
16. Ship, Tower Hill
A rose between modern depressing thorns, this up & down boozer of much history and quality is part of the Central London GBG crop rotation system (I did mean 'crop' didn't I?) A first appearance since 2012 is a slight red flag. The City toffs are high on testosterone but short on brains and spatial awareness, and I have to step between them to reach the bar. Thankfully, they depart for their stocks and bonds shortly after leaving a litany of three quarter drunk Guinness's behind. Space is limited down here, but I guess that's half the charm, right? Sailor's hats hang from the ceiling and the death defying staircases look exciting. Barman is a good lad, but the London Pride isn't up to scratch, and the place just feels a bit grubby, deserving of more care and respect.
15. Alma, Painters Forstal
In deepest darkest North Kent, I needed the pub chauffeuring heroics of gold medal #PubMan of the week Richard Pitcher to reach this one (Daddy BRAPA took silver, Axholme Rob bronze, if you were wondering). This weatherboarded village inn had a South Essex aura, the tiny front bar is excellent but so limited, one darts match fills the entire space, and sadly that's what happened so we're relegated to the restauranty back room, where food smelt amazing. My pork cylinders I'd been nibbling all day obviously weren't cutting it! The Master Brew was kept very well I thought, sadly it isn't a beer I enjoy even when it is 100%. My northern tastebuds maybe? Regular readers will know what Sussex Best does to me. Barmaid really needs to make effort re welcoming strangers at such a remote location, but to be fair, she's a lot cheerier on the way out. Glad to see the back of me? Not a bad pub by any means, but ranked #15 cos the standard was high overall.
14. Wheel Inn, Branston
The lowest ranked Daddy BRAPArer in this line-up, it is important we are clear that I recognise the quality, professionalism and effort that goes into this isolated North Leics brickie. Standard of the ale eclipses all we've seen so far, 3.4% Merino Juicy Pale by Salt is a thing of beauty. Sadly, the pub is a 'greatest shits' of everything I despise. Space so limited, bulging lycra clad twyclists on posing stools, stone floor blocked by dogs, all with the faces of former West Hammers - first I nearly step on Whippet Pardew and when Doberman Frank Lampard Snr lumbers across my path, I have to pat him like a small horse. When this isn't going on, a toddler with yellow booties has been let off the leash by a lackadaisical Twummy and I'm nearly treading on her at regular intervals. And EVERY table is kitted out with knives and forks. It is a small place but with this amazing fire going, and one small corner table a mass of magazines, it felt a wasted opportunity to shoehorn the odd drinkers spot. Barmaid's proper spirited, I love it when I'm moaning about the Gents being in the 'wrong place' and she shouts 'don't blame me, I didn't put them there!' I respect this place a lot, but I don't have to like it!
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