BRAPA ..... DOG BOTHERERS & GOD BOTHERERS : DURHAM / DERBYS SPECIAL

Friday 3rd July 2026

There are lessons you must learn in life as a pub ticker, many of them from the school of hard knocks in the North East.

Never sniff a Geordie's finger, you don't know where it's been.

Don't stroke the station cat with the Ocelot markings, it's probably feral with giant claws and fangs .....

And don't trust any real ale served in a Coors glass .....

Newton Aycliffe twice in anyone's life is twice too many.

I'm following up my November 2019 Turbinia debut with this year's Steam Machine (3525 / 6315), my third last tick in County Durham.

I left the station across weird undulating grassy mounds, through the zig-zag of pathways, passing grim grey housing, not a soul in sight. Last time I wondered where the 'centre' is? Does it even have a centre? Nisa Local, does that count? A new town (hence Newton) built in 1947, it is the same age as Daddy BRAPA. It lacks the great man's charisma and intelligence.

This year I didn't have to worry about any 'centre' because my tick was at the bottom of an industrial estate. I say hello to a street food van whilst snapping the below .....

With opening hours of Fri & Sat from 3pm only and absolutely zero pretence of selling cask ale ("five live tank dispense beers, four craft keg and a range of bottled beers" to quote the GBG), I think this is one of those GBG ticks you can describe as "absolute CAMRA cinema". It wins me over to an extent. Canny as fook, both staff and punters. And the key factor, rare for a brewery tap, they've built a snug back bar with a piano and 8.5/10 plush rugs. A nice spot to sit and drink. Furthermore, their Nordic Export Stout is bloody good - like Haaland elbowing you in the face whilst he's wearing his nappy. But the 'Friday night factor' (not a time I'd normally choose to tick) is evident and it gets a bit squashy. A lass eats a huge dirty burger in my ear 'ole so I go a wandering, and my half of Flemish red alleviates my lingering Somerset phlegm. My beermat collecting Lancastrian mate Ian asks me to enquire, and the main man is a top fella but tells me they've never produced their own beermats, 'tis only hobbyists have created them, and gets me some postcards as a consolation! But Ian says he has proof they do and are 'lying bastards' but the main man didn't strike me as a lying bastard so who knows! With 'Ephedrine Machine' by Sloppy Seconds playing on a loop in my head, 'tis time to make my way back to the station and hope my next NA ticks is another 7 years away.

This is where I meet THAT evil cat ..... I even told it I love cats but if you know cats, cats don't care about you unless you're feeding them. Local squirrels in the case of this monster, it even tried to chin a curious dog .....

Our trains gets stuck in the Heighington area for ages (bang goes my early night!) and I don't think I've once been on the Bishop Auckland route with a delay / cancellation. It is truly the worst outside of that one on the Devon-Cornwall border that gets away it cos 'pretty scenery'.

So suddenly I'm against the clock going into Darlo', with Mummy BRAPA sending me live updates from Australia v Egypt , Daddy BRAPA is like "get yourself home, I want you on good form for South Derbys tmw!" but sorry old dude, no pub ticker ever achieved glory by playing it safe. Go and grab your Horlicks and don't worry about me, 'Spoons is calling.

Darlo 'Spoons on a Friday night was, on paper at least, asking for trouble. But William Stead, Darlington (3526 / 6316) was as dead as a doornail. Is it possible to be both relieved and disappointed? Because that's my range of emotions. Okay, so there is one drunkard at the bar gurgling, forcing staff to hide in the kitchen, but that's just nature's way of redressing the Darlo balance. The women's toilets are busier than the bar as group after group of 18 yr old party girls keep rushing in, apologising, using the loos as a changing room, apologising and rushing out again presumably destined for somewhere hipper and happeninger. This happened three times! Outside of trying to decipher the secret message hidden in the carpet (8/10), all very gentle. Not quite sure why my Rhu-Bar-Beer has been served in a Corrs glass, I'm sure that ain't part of the 'Spoons training, but never mind.

I think it says 'still no High Offley Si,? You utter loser'

Time for a swift pre-emptive half which is achieving top beer scores on CAMRA .....

Somehow situated between recent GBG newbies 'House of Hop' (drab but reasonable) and Vesuvio (drab and painful), the incredibly narrow Other Side, Darlington has a modicum of age and character but by gum it is limited. And tellingly, devoid of actual customers. The landlady instructs her Grebo teenage son William to heave himself up away from his mate, Nirvana and Beavis & Butthead impressions to serve me, which he does with about as much enthusiasm as you can imagine! Despite some murmurings of the need to pull the Durham Dark Angel through, it never really transpires. End result is a weird concoction of yummy chocolate and foul vinegar. And my second Corrs glass in a row, did Darlo receive a job lot? On the way back from a pee, our landlady is in a flap because she's heard that England v Mexico might be moved to 7pm, but she doesn't know if that means Sunday night or Monday night. I assure her it'll mean Sunday night. She tells me her friend has texted her the same, but she's still not convinced. And that was that. I'd say unlikely it'll make a future GBG, but recent Darlo wildcard entrants give me hope for the Other Side. Watch this space!

Saturday 4th July 2026

Fast forward twelve hours and Daddy BRAPA winces as I confess that I stayed up to watch the L**ds of world football (A**entina) fluke their way to extra time victory against 'plucky' Cape Verde (sorry, Cabo Verde #WokeSi2026).

So I'm not at my freshest when we reach Sheffield, and then Derby, for this 4-tick train Saturday in the south of the county.

To be honest, I've still not recovered from Somerset over a week ago. Getting too old for these 9-day epics!

It is a measure of Derby as a town (I know it is technically a 'city' but let's not take the piss here) that when you hang around on a park bench outside the bus station, it isn't alkis or druggies who approach you, but well meaning god botherers.

Dad thinks that if he remains still and silent and lets me do all the talking, he can avoid any interrogation. He's wrong!

Anyway, we send them away contented but bemused. In conclusion - no we don't believe in a god as such, but we might believe in something, not sure what, but we're happy and healthy and we love pubs and are nice people so isn't that the most important thing?

Our bus south to Willington is delayed because the driver announces he's broken his mirror, so has to go to the 'Repair Shop' (not the Jay 'sorry Madam, my penis slipped' Blades one) and we're amazed how quickly he's back at the stop.

Passing Findern where Emily's Mum once forced my to down a tower of profiteroles after Derby Beer Festival in 33 degree heat, we FINALLY hit our first pub .....

Six weeks ago and I've already largely forgotten the Green Man, Willington (3527 / 6317). Smart, clean, chainy, wooden boxy. That's without cheating and looking at my notes. Less of a sports bar than it looks from outside. The Bass was poor. Super sweet, claggy and fizzy. Imagine being a South Derbyshire pub and getting Bass wrong? Should be 10 yr GBG expulsion. My beer was also poor in 2024's more characterful local entry, The Dragon, leading me to rename the town Swillington. Sadly, the new name has reduced local house prices by 20%, bad news for my mate Steve H who lives here and used to give me Grand Central freebies. He didn't stop for that reason, just so we're clear, he started working for GWR instead. GWR trains don't go through York, boo. Daddy B bought two packets of ready salted to take the edge off, revealing that his St Austell Tribute tastes much the same as my Bass. A local strops off outside because we're sat in 'his seat'. Such a Derbyshire behaviour trait. Dad remarks on the good levels of air quality. And that's it.

Uber cheat required to get us onto a parallel bus route (which we'd barely use) more suited to today's other ticks. Driver Muhammed reckons everyone is Swadlincote is a racist but everyone in Repton is a kind soul.

"If Mr Tumnus wandered into our room now and sat down with a pint, I wouldn't be in the least bit surprised" commented Daddy BRAPA halfway through our Chequers, Ticknall (3528 / 6318) experience as he tries to make sense of it all. He didn't actually say Mr Tumnus as he's no Narnia nerd like me, but his description fit perfectly. We'd escaped to the relative safety of an empty back room in this fusty stone rambling arse parlour pot weasel, a pub that teases 'Five Ways Case is Altered', 'Hanley Castle Three Kings' and even a smidgen of 'North Star Steventon' flushed down the loo with 'Ibstock Waggon & Horses' but ultimately delivers something more rural Dympsy Dartmoor meets Alan Partridge Norfolk Broads hinterlands. The outdoor loos are prime 1990's Bootham Crescent, but I had to run the gauntlet past the Wild Westy silent starers. There's a bit of Bass banter as we enter, the barmaids are telling the local lads that they 'lack balls' for swerving it so I'm like 'I'll prove I'm ballsy by going for it' but the locals are already halfway outside, barmaids suddenly become unresponsive and the chat stops painfully dead! Second dubious Bass in a row too, warm soup, a bloke on my X had been in an hour earlier and said I should've gone Leatherbritches which was good, grr. A great pub, if sight is your only sense (and Tumnus doesn't appear).

My O/S App comes to the rescue next, providing a route across fields towards Calke (pronounced cork, like pork) for tick #3 right out in t'sticks. Dad later reveals it was a highlight of his day, and it perked me up from my tiredness / lingering Somerset snot, no end.

A weird women hovers near a stile, and I overhear her expressing disappointment to her dog that we didn't have a potential playmate for it. I think she needs to get a life.

As we come out onto the lane, we spy some elderly walkers we're sure are destined for the pub so we up our pace to ensure we're in first as they look like utter bar ditherers. Made it!

Before we'd quite made it

Huge credit to Tollgate Brewery, Milking Parlour, Calke (3529 / 6319) is a fantastic farm conversion. I wish all brewery taps showed this level of imagination, ingenuity and sheer chutzpah, then I'd actually enjoy visiting them as much as mi' old mate Maltmeister seems to. Outdoors is chock-a-block, barely a bench available. Build it and they will come! None of them behave in a way that suggests they've ever entered a pub in their lives before, how charming(!) There's a small queue, but the narrowness of bar/building entrance means it CAN be forgiven (there's nowhere to go), although I do manage to get a little dig in at the two blokes in front , not to be awful, just to refocus them on the job in hand i.e. getting served, cos they were looking a bit sketchy. We're the only people wise enough to sit inside, bliss, and the beer knocks the socks off those two dodgy Bassies. Dad clears his throat ... "cough, cough, I'm going to tell you something. This place. CAMRA pub of the year 2027, I'm telling you now!" Well that's told you Tamworth Tap! But how can you not have WiFi in a signal free zone like this? Point off! We need a second Uber cheat being a long way from the main road and Dad is in the hot seat. The staff encourage him to stand in the middle of the carpark where he can get one bar of signal. He returns triumphant a few minutes later. "I couldn't remember the name of the 'Spoons so I put the location in as the job centre" he reveals. Wot a lad.

Dad's stereotyping 'Spoons snobbery was well placed. Once back within range, I check a map of Swadders (that's Swadlincote for those ITK) and the job centre is indeed very close by.

In fact, as our taxi drops us at the end of the precinct, we look up and see that it goes Jobcentre - Cancer Research UK - Nationwide - 'Spoons. A fine quartet, Dad says it is quite beautiful. I ask him if he thinks he's getting a bit carried away.

As a junior model railway enthusiast, how could Dad forget the name Sir Nigel Gresley, Swadlincote (3530 / 6320). The clean homely environs, good natured locals and buzzy toothgap barmaid are more than we'd dare to expect after those earlier 'racism' claims, although I'm not an Asian Si I'll grant you. Excellent beer too in the shape of Rudgate Ruby Mild - a heavily discounted 'Special' so I'd not been expecting it to pull up any trees. She fears I won't get my CAMRA discount in these already discounted circs, but her colleague, bassist Stringbean from Pugwall, does some magic on the tills and hey presto, the pint costs me 51p or something ridiculous. A guy puts his bottle of Fanta on the floor to offset the 8/10 carpet and Dad declares this one of our leading 'Spoons of the 25/26 campaign. I'm just delighted to finally make my Swad debut after years of hearing about it. Although if I'd ever ask about the real ale scene here, locals would guffaw in the same way as they do when I mention Corby.

We were back within shitting distance of Burton from where we could get our train home - our Derbyshire Wayfarers still valid despite now being in Staffs.

Time to quickly roll into the Roebuck for a swift one (so that's how Bass is supposed to taste, I'd almost forgotten!). A pub that always offers great value but I'm kicking myself because Dad had been here loads but never done the Devonshire so should've taken him there.

It had been a cracking day which had really gained momentum in the second half, and six across the weekend a decent haul as I knew July was gonna be skinny on the ticking front.

Join me next time (tmw but more likely Wed) when we'll see what delights lay in store on a swltering day in West-Mid Surrey.

Keep it pub, Si