BRAPA .... EASTER SATURDAY SPECIAL : JESUS IS RESTING, NEWCASTLE-UNDER-LYME IS TESTING

Welcome to another photo-less blog and apologies again. Convinced myself the problem is at their end having tried all their troubleshooting steps. Awaiting 'support'. Fingers crossed!

Saturday 19th April 2025

Barely a soul is about at 11am on this Easter Saturday. I track down Daddy BRAPA at Stoke station and we take a bus to the more acceptable flavour of Newcastle (that's the former Sunderland student in me talking) for three chocolate egg-shaped ticks.

I think I've got a handle on Easter weekend drinking habits for most folk.... cane it on Good Friday, cold compress to head Saturday, cane it Easter Sunday, cold compress on head, cucumber sandwiches, marmite and cups of Earl Grey on the Monday before back to work on Tuesday. BRAPA cannot afford such downtime.

Arriving before noon, too early for pub opening, we snuck a quick half in at pre-emptive 'Spoons Arnold Machin. Above average Spoonsing, a full review if it ever makes a GBG, which it inevitably will.

N-u-Lyme feels a Rochdalesque mess of town planning gone wrong, tatty inner ring road, death defying subways, pretty churches wishing they were in the company of like-minded buildings and not concrete chunks of grey Hungry Horses.

Pub one, in this outer rim, felt a survivor of concentration camp style proportions......

<Me looking like a stuffed parrot outside the pub>

"Ooooh, Castle Mona", Newcastle-under-Lyme (3067 / 5552) as Craig McLachlan nearly sang, trying to become the new Kylie and Jason and the old Delta Goodrem & Natalie Imbruglia. The perfect example of how to execute a modern refit without losing 1% of old world charm. Forgetting today is Nat Bass day (I didn't feel it was as well publicised this year, not that I expected to see Sir Quinno lounging about the BBC Breakfast red sofa), I swerve it in favour of Salopian Oracle but I ain't disappointed, best Oracle since ITV teletext. Landlady is a good sport, patient with me when I 'lose' the toilets (twice) and grateful for Daddy B's kind pub words. Strong start. My third visit to N-u-Lyme, and the town is still producing gems. Heartening for the pub ticker.

<Pic of the wood panelling / bench seating / castle window motif>

Back into the heart of NuL for our final two ticks here, it is a decent centre once you escape the ring road. That I should clarify before anyone comes at me brandishing pitchforks.

Down a side street that may have been useful to J.T. Ripper had he resided up here and been a smashed avo bagel fan, we find pub two ....

<Mallard mural / Dad looking cheeky outside with hands behind his back>

Bulky bright multi-levelled coffee warehouse type, it might not sound the most enticing of ticks but we were unanimous in our approval of Mellards, Newcastle-under-Lyme (3068 / 5553). Greeted by a top class barman, who is shocked to learn we don't want coffee or a roasted veg halloumi panini. "It is a marathon, not a sprint!" he declares when I explain I'm aiming for lower percentage ales. Is 4.2% low in 2025? Dad swoops in for a couple of packets of red leicester mini cheddars to take the edge off, but Grey Trees ales are rarely this good even in their Glamorgan homeland, and certainly not up in The Valleys. A glance upwards to the top level, a young woman wearing a technicoloured dream quilt has fallen asleep in her flat white. Yep, she caned it yesterday.

<beers and mini cheddars resting on the bar>

But this early run of form was about to come to a crashing end .....

<Me outside looking like I'm gasping for air>

Smells of wee, very grey, quite chilly, with the noise of whooshing because it is situated on the edge of the ring road, I thought Crossways (Bottlecraft), Newcastle-under-Lyme (3069 / 5554) was a quite dreadful GBG entry despite the incredibly motivated barman - described by the GBG as 'enthusiastic', described by Daddy BRAPA as 'overwhelming'. You gotta respect his efforts. He's happy he's not working tomorrow, he warns us the Foxx beer is deliberately hazy, though murky day-glo Kia-Ora might be more accurate. Tastes good so best drink it blindfolded. A former lap dancing bar I'm told, I wonder if CAMRA liked it as much then?

<pic of the dehumidifier - my fave feature>

With no bus on the horizon, we begin the walk to a place that didn't exist until 2024 called Wolstanton. Jeez, so THIS is where posh outer Stoke is? Beautiful black n white timber framed houses, country clubs, glof buggies, cream cheese picnics, toddlers called Tarquin in shades, undulating green spaces. 'Stockbroker belt' says Dad. 'STOKEbroker belt!' I reply. It was a zinger. I wouldn't say anything funnier for the rest of April.

<Me behind some iron gates in front of pub, Dad's thumb print slightly obscures it - rushing cos we both need a wee>

Yup, we never did see a bus so walked to the Archer, Wolstanton (3070 / 5555) and it wasn't too far in truth. Hardly Elsted to Hooksway. The most northerly Hopback pub (of Summer Lightning fame) in the UK. Nice shape, traditional layout, comfy enough, so it is surprising just how unconvincing I find it. Let's explore why. Barmaid is wholly uncommunicative whilst serving, too busy chatting with the bar blocking regulars, who look suspicious and terrified in equal measures. Dad enjoys the guest beer Thunder Storm but to me it is increasingly vinegar. Is it possible for two pints pulled together to be so different? We order two lunch 'rolls' which definitely aren't cobs. Tiny soft white things with a gentle smearing of sandwich spread. Felt short changed. Hardly the doorstop lump of cheddar and half an onion which has your breath smelling for days, in crusty bread so wide, you need to detach your jaw snake-style to swallow it. Daddy BRAPA has seen enough and goes to catch a bus back to Stoke via N-u-Lyme. It had been a fun cameo. For me, onwards and upwards towards sunny Burslem.

<Photo of Dad at bar with hands in back pockets staring at his shoes>

I hang out an optimistic arm by St Margaret's church, not entirely sure I'm standing at a valid bus stop, and sure enough, twat driver ignores me. Thus completing a miserable Wolstanton debut.

I wander down to the definite bus stop at Morris Square and really should've whipped in a half at the Whippet, but didn't. Will I regret it in ticking years to come? Almost certainly.

But good things come to those who wait, and on days where Port Vale aren't at home, you can generally rely on Burslem (or Burslum as I always want to spell it) to do the business with beer as smooth as Martin Foyle's pate.

<Pub from outside not even looking that open>

Finally a pub jam-packed with folk. Gently brimmed to the gills. And the reason? It is bloody brilliant! Johny's Micro Pub, Burslem (3071 / 5556) is as traditional an old boozer in micro form as I've witnessed anywhere. And I've Kented the shit out of the last three years. Feels like being in someone's parlour. Those sepia tobacco mustard walls help, and Johny himself if that's his real name is a reet character. About time my pint drinking ways were recognised and half drinkers were sneered at. Tries to charge me £10.80 for the glass, joking I think(!) Not sure exactly why but I'd pointed out it was National Bass day and maybe he'd seen an opportunity! It is on terrific form. Not since my Bull's Head debut here in 2004 have I enjoyed Burslem quite so much. He even gets the BRAPA handshake on the way out, AND I got a shoulder stroke, not had one of them in a while!

<the locals drinking and having a larf in a mustardy backdrop>

And my Burslem joy wasn't over yet .... today's final tick was just around the corner......

<Pub giving nothing away from the outside>

A more 'unique' but equally pleasing atmosphere to Johny's, Olde Crown, Burslem (3072 / 5557) was like drinking in a jocular troglodyte cave with Vale leanings. Wholly welcoming, which surprised me on first glance. Everyone has a reusable Heron Foods bag. Everyone has an accent so Stokey that I couldn't tune in. When the guy with a tattooed face says something to me, I have to smile and nod. When someone instigates a singalong of the national anthem, I offer about five hummed bars out of my nose before giving up. The Jaipur is astonishing. Radiant. 5*. And the recent 'Spoons Jaipur explosion has seen me witness many beauties, but this was somehow a step beyond all of those, apart from maybe my Bognor Hatter's one which I'll be waxing lyrical about soon. Oh, and Chesterfield's Portland Hotel. That was superb too. Astonishing stuff all round, the perfect sixth pint pub when you don't really need a handle on reality.

<Foreground shows stunning pint, middle ground amazing local drinking duo, background Port Vale plaque on a possibly real brick wall with fake candle>

Thankfully, I had my wits about me enough to make my way back to Stafford via Stoke.

At this point, I was considering abandoning my Easter Sunday ticking for an early trip home to York, which seems ridiculous now I recall fantastic it was. Join me Tuesday for tales from Shropshire and the like.

Si