BRAPA in .... A RARE ROCH-FAIL (AND 3 OTHER TALES OF GREATER MANC WOE)

I have a soft spot for Rochdale. That should be made clear from the outset, else nothing good will come of this blog.

1999 and the Cemetery Hotel was the destination. Discovered by chance, My first Good Beer Guide was 2 years away. Marvellous pub. But then a load of Tiger hooligans trashed it, and the guv'nor banned Hull City fans for life. I was sad. So was Daddy B. We aren't hooligans, but we were tarred, I tell you, tarred. But not feathered. Then we lost 3-0 on Sky. It was awful.

But dry your eyes mates, Rochdale kept giving from that moment onwards. That pub across the park in the rain where I had the best Game & Guinness pie ever. That incredibly old fashioned pub at a busy road junction with an ancient couple in charge, roast beef sandwiches, ancient photos, pre-war music. Magical. And in more recent times, POTY The Baum, wowww! Flying Horse, superb. Even that Bombay Brew, okay so the cask was shit and we end up on bottled lager but what lovely people and nice food. Yes, 'Dale delivers time after time after time.

Until today that is. What a sorry shithole D'Ale House, Rochdale (2652 / 4813) is. Unsmiliest guy ever in charge, he looked positively pissed off to have me on his premises. Three locals at the bar grunt and barely move. Ignorant. To be fair, barman had me pegged as a CAMRA member straight away, like the most proper pegged ever, even Prince William would be blushing. Discount, so fair play, though I struggle to find my CAMRA card just to ramp the awkwardness up another notch. Beer pretty decent too, from that old stalwart Phoenix, a tasty porter. I should count myself lucky, my old mate Quinno had a beer nightmare on his recent visit here to the point it got awkward taking so many back. The place is chilly, lacking character and of most prominence is a wet floor cone and faint smell of cleaning products, yet it still feels sticky. The loos are a Central London style vertical drop, so that was 'something', but jeez, Micro + Rochdale = I'd been expecting so so so much more.

Over at the nearby bus station, it is time to get out onto the Bury Road as far as Bamford, important to get this one ticked today or it'll become an outlier.

I get talking to two old lads, very casually off to the football considering it is 3:05pm. They don't even know who 'Dale are playing and have to check! I say cheerio to the undynamic duo at Spotland (or Wilbutts Lane if you ever played Championship Manager '93) and we chug along to Bamford.

'Careful what you wish for!' I hate people who use that phrase, usually pious, wise-after-the-event boring cunts who have never made a decision in their life. Basically, in the modern parlance, bottling their own existence. (This is turning into a therapeutic blog!) But whilst Hare & Hounds, Bamford (2653 / 4814) offers initial promise with an atmospheric Thwaitesy stone clad interior, it is desperately foodie, and 'lovely and warm' can become 'stifling and stuffy'' very quickly when everyone around you has their faces in the nosebag. But it is the beer that really jars. This Brown Ale, Stephenson, is undrinkable on account of being put on too soon. That weird chemically apple taste. But I (rightly or wrongly, probably wrongly) refuse to return it on account of having no faith in the young staff to recognise a beer issue outside of 'vinegar'. Sure I'd get short shrift with a "but that's what it's supposed to taste like!" reaction, so I simply order half a Gold. Fizzy, farty, but at least I can swallow it down. My other trip to Bamford two years back also yielded questionable fizzy ale. I'm glad to get out, shame I couldn't get a D'Ale House quality Phoenix Porter to take out, and drink it here.

Even Jemma Donavan couldn't make it okay

The bus continues to chug in a Bury-ish direction, rain pissing down now as it tends to do up here. But it all adds to the feeling you've been in a scrap of a day, and boy, this afternoon was one hulluva scrap.

I WhatsApp Dad, now 'safely' in the Huddersfield away end, to tell him he's missing nowt pub wise. I vaguely contemplate a bus to Ramsbottom or Greenmount, but as a sneaky raindrop slivers down my back, I decide a Manc bound tram is the wisest idea, hopping off for a couple of ticks on the way. Sunny 12 noon Halifax felt a world away.

But what wasn't a wise idea was my failure to realise that the Radcliffe pub is a 28 minute walk from the Metro stop.

Oh well, I'm committed now so there's no choice but to crack on. Despite my soggy state, it didn't feel too bad of a trek, and opening my mouth meant I could gargle rainwater to alleviate some of Bamford's dogshit beer.

New Inn, Radcliffe (2654 / 4815) was, at face value, the most promising pub of this challenging afternoon, with its circular symmetrical bench seated area facing the bar, bubbling fire beneath a Soccer Saturday screen telling me Hull City were 1-0 up with ten to play. I squash in beside the locals, the 'welcome' is disappointingly muted, as is the carpet, for what seems your archetypal main road Greater Manc boozer. Still, that powerhouse of an ale, Windermere Pale by Hawkshead, is a darn sight better than what has gone before, though not a patch quality-wise on many other Windermere's I've imbibed down the years. I'm willing for full time to flash up in our game, all the other matches are. Then, like a knife through the heart, it flashes up Huddersfield 1-1 Hull City (90+2). The locals studiously ignore my anguished theatrics. But to my amazement, it almost immediately flashes up Huddersfield 1-2 Hull City (90+4). I want to do a lap of honour, but I'm a bit boxed in. So I tell the couple closest to me. "We don't like football, not at all, not interested" they tell me (jeez, way to kill my buzz guys!) and are just about to add that the mere sight of a football fan makes them convulse and start screaming, when a lady they know crashes through the door. She's WELL ANNOYING, cooing and whooping and telling everyone she's here to get the party started. She instructs the bar staff to put some music on and turn it up! ANNOYING. Her plus point, she orders the football miseries to move to another seat at the back of the pub. Good riddance to those buzz killers. The loo decor tries for a late not very WokeSi2024 morale booster, but even that felt a bit hollow. Bus to catch.

The rain is easing off a touch, but my miserable afternoon (despite Hull City's heroic contribution) continues as the bus fails to show. I look at live bus times. There isn't even a bus travelling in this direction. FFS. Taxi goes hurtling past, so I manage to grab it.

Our mate Mohammed is loving my 'football haters killing my Hull City buzz' tale and makes a very good point. If they were massive Tiddlywinks fans and their team Radcliffe Borough TWC had just won the World Championship Finals against Burnage Casuals, he suspects I'm the kind of guy who would be pleased on their behalf. You ain't wrong Mo. Deserves his tip for that alone. Even if he struggles to find my final pub of the day.

I manage to do the BRAPA side shuffle, an old technique I picked up in East Bedfordshire, and it works just as well as it had in Dunton and Wrestlingworth, and the pub appears on the left hand side of an obscure precinct.

I suspect I take the name Keg, Cask & Bottle, Prestwich (2655 / 4816) rather too literally as I approach the bar with some urgency, as though Bertie Wooster has dialled 999, and exclaim "Urrrm, yes, hullo, I select CASK. You do have cask, yes, what?" Part of my panic is the incredibly complex beer ordering clipboard system, not what you want on pint seven. Headache inducing. But this is a chilled out breezy jolly place where everyone is wearing chunky knitwear, and geeky quirky youthful vibes dominate, so I remove my coat to reveal the now iconic stripy woollen cardigan and put Ivor Panda on the table in a desperate attempt to fit in. But I'm a poor chameleon. My Fyne Highlander is only my second truly loveable pint of the day (first was in Grayston Unity), but an ESB at 4.8%? Pah, taking the Mick a bit there, ain't ya Fyne?! Just when I thought I could finally relax with an uneventful drinkable pint, more bad luck strikes on this most trying of days. Rainwater has got inside my phone, I'm on 1% battery, it refuses to charge for fear of damaging itself! Then it dies altogether so I'm sat there trying to dry it off every which way I can, panicking it won't ever return to health, and I'll be stranded in Prestwich for eternity. Thankfully, it recovers ten mins later, but still isn't charging up effectively. Then I notice the cable on my portable charger is frayed! Seriously, could anything else go wrong? I neck this shamefully easy to drink ESB, and get myself back to Prestwich Metro, praying I don't get struck my lightning or a falling meteor!

Thankfully, there's a Victoria to York train nicely timed so there we go, it isn't all bad, although there's this messy group of drunk Middlesbrough girls at L**ds (why always Boro?) The crying drunkest one who fell over and muddied her dress, Holly, reckons I'm actually called David and I've just forgotten. She may be right, I may be crazy.

Phew, a real tough day but it is all a step in the right direction of GBG completion (providing at least one of the afore mentioned pubs ends up in my overall completed GBG circa 2043, which on this evidence seems unlikely).

Si