BRAPA in .... AIRLOCK, IBSTOCK & TWO CROAKING BARRELS

Saturday 15th August 2026

If I drew a basic graph representing today's pub/beer quality versus time, it would be linear.

You know what, I will! I've got the day off as I'm resting my liver post-Somerset on this driest of #ThirstyThursdays.

Leicester by train was our original plan. Four ticks and a nailed on Bass only pre-emptive promised a great day. Maybe a cheeky bus trip to somewhere on the outskirts too? I hear Wigston is beautiful this time of year, I could even contact all the local #PubMen (Quinno, Broody) in case they were free to join.

But East Midlands Railway were doing something weird, so a Daddy BRAPA car day was decided upon. In that case, I may as well get to more obscure ticks than Leicester itself, but some of the south/easterly ones don't open til 3/4pm, tsk.

Would Dad be willing to go out west, kissing the northern fringes of Warwicks in the process? Yes he would. Because he's ace - and wants to win BRAPA Personality of the Year for a fifth consecutive time. An 11am opener made it an easier sell.

This was it. In a village famous for bricks, of which it had many.

Ramshackled gnarly gritty battler, Waggon & Horses, Ibstock (3580 / 6371) is my kinda pub. An ancient waif on two sticks had snuck in at 10:59am, said "yes please!" , sat in a snug to the left and waited for the barman to bring his Bass across the central corridor to him. We sweep around the back to the main bar and can feel angry eyeballs boring into the back of our heads - about six locals have arrived just behind us. 11:03am and the pub feels full. One of those situations - pay, grab your Bass, step away from the bar and get outta the way! The guy who'd given Dad the filthiest look menacingly puts his lager on our table, disappears for 20 minutes, returns and Dad later overhears him telling the others "....it's one of my bail conditions" I'm glad this wasn't my first ever pub tick or I might've run out sobbing and taken on a more wholesome hobby like butterfly collecting. Thankfully, one of the lads has the Clangers theme as his ringtone which eases the tension. The longest chat is about red cabbage. The landlord, in his apt Helloween top, has seen my GBG and recommends the pub at Whitwick, but I've been. Nice chat though. Our crim looks like he wants me gone. Time for a quick explore of the back rooms. And the piled up newspaper's on the staircase. Memorable.

Our anti-clockwise route takes us into Warwickshire for a tick I'd been 'meaning' to get to all year. I'd made Warwickshire my pet project for the 2026 Good Beer Guide and ended up just three short. All of which maintained their places in the book for 2027, of course they bloody did!

Thankfully, so did this.

Let's recognise some great photography from Daddy BRAPA, as he discovers 'landscape' which allows him to get a good section of the thatch, plus a handsome octagonal cross which is both 1897 Jubilee and medieval because that's how they roll in Austrey. Bird in Hand (3581 / 6372) would be our final truly good pub experience today. Just as well we didn't know that at the time. Plenty of fun ales on, NOT that that kind of thing impresses me, but Austrey was sometimes called Alestry back in t'day so it makes sense. The Oakham coffee porter pulverised me - I never really recovered, in the best possible way. There were times later on (pub five) when Dad had to tell me to keep my voice down because I'm talking too loudly #FirstSignOfDrunkness . Dad loves his zero Thatcher's on a day he was determined to mix up his non alc. options. The pub is a loungey lowdown bucket of comfort, and I make a tit of myself on the way out by telling the barmaid to have a great day even though she's working and backtracking and find myself thinking 'just shut up Si'.

What's in the fridge Daddy B?

Just south of here, still in Warwicks (I'd have walked had this been a solo bus/train day), we reach pub three, all huge and stand alone.

The first sign that today was going to become 'a bit weird' was here at the Office at Warton, Warton (3582 / 6373). Seemingly a sleepy old village, so for your sole boozer to be an open plan sports bar didn't feel in sync. The locals must agree because it is empty aside from us. And any pub that embeds the place name into the pub name is always 8.777% worse - and that's a #BRAPAFact. The barmaid is dizzy disorganisation of the highest order. Endearing, but it's like she's been dragged in off the street for a shift with no prior training. She wants to get Bolton v Preston on the box (strange cos Notts Co. v Leicester is on the other side and far more local) but cannot get it working. Step forward knight in shining armour Daddy BRAPA. He knows this type of remote control. After much effort, the conclusion is "something isn't switched on somewhere else". This valuable information is fed back, and she finally returns triumphant from a far away screen. The Church End was a malty meaty struggle, rare for them.

Heroic effort from DB as barmaid swoons

Back in car, Dad says "flippin' eck, let's get ourselves back into Leicestershire!" but I warn him that in my experience, Warwicks is the superior pub/beer county so don't get too excited. It'd prove an accurate prediction. A bit like Knorr, I've got the know-how.

GBG club's rarely disappoint, but when an awkward, stilted chat via the intercom is necessary to gain entry, I find the pessimism intensifies. The old lass rattling around inside the empty Burbage & District Constitutional Club, Burbage (3583 / 6374) asks if we're members, and when I mention CAMRA she replies that she probably shouldn't be serving us then, but she will anyway! Someone didn't get the memo. It gets worse. Dad, still determined to mix up his non alc. drinks has spied a coffee machine, but when he asks, she harrumphs "I 'spose so, but it means I'll have to do the washing up!" Nice to be made to feel welcome isn't it?! My Ghost Ship is fizzy swolllox, to put the shitty cherry on the top of this Burbage cake. In happier news, the carpet is an 8.75, place is prime plush comfort, and large enough to find areas to hide out of view from the bar, if you want to smuggle a snack or slag off a rubbish host.

Time for pub five, pretty close to Burbage ......

I guess my graph isn't quite as linear as I first thought, because as drab Everard's as it was, Heathcote Arms, Croft (3584 / 6375) wasn't a total dead loss like the club. A semi-attractive sleepy old inn (although it looks like there's been efforts made to destroy any character which feels quite Everardy), there's actually a few punters in which makes me realise this is the first time I've seen anyone drinking in a pub since Ibstock, and that's quite worrying on a sunny summer's Saturday. The barmaid is lacksidaisical, Dad dislikes his zero Heineken, and my pint of Seahorse served in a rubbish glass is so tired, Maya Jama could make it yawn. Quinno says I should always go Tiger between May-September, which doesn't say much for Everard's, but I'll try and remember for future ref.

With my pub spirit pretty much crushed by now, I wasn't in the mood for any nonsense from our last 'pub', on a busy main road outside place named after two former Hull City cult heroes Curtis and Tom .....

So to find a restaurant masquerading as a pub in the shape of Wheatsheaf, Woodhouse Eaves (3585 / 6376) was pretty annoying I can tell you. There isn't a single table not bedecked with knives, forks, napkins and wine glasses. Even more frustrating when you look at the shape of the building, old wood, 8/10 carpet in parts, stained glass screen, it could be a very good pub, but it chooses not to be. Dad criticises my ale choice, a bulky Adnams Broadside, but the one saving grace is that this the most enjoyable pint since Austrey all those hours ago. Sitting outside is our only option but a strange conglomeration of cyclists, walkers, stags and hens invade the covered patio area causing us to move to the windy right. Brrrr, ugh I'm so done with today! But I supped the Broadside quite quickly to silence my detractors.

But don't worry, Tunnock's rubs everything better .....

I lost Dad in Tibshelf services in a moment that neither of us could explain without some form of 'time slip' occurring. So that was some fun Danny Robbins shit on the way home

In conclusion, Leics remains the most disappointing BRAPA county in the East Mids unless you factor in Lincs which you can't really cos its a six-fingered behemoth all of its own.

See you next time, when I'll tell you about a (very slightly) higher quality day in rural Cheshire. Traitors time, who will yawn?

KIP, Si