Saturday 27th December 2025, 3:30pm
With Brighton safely tucked under the BRAPA belt, I decide that I have time to visit two more East Sussex pub ticks before heading back to King's Cross for my regulation ESB.
Newhaven isn't a town I've visited before, no need until now but I felt immediately at home due to the echoes of West Ayrshire, Bridlington and Whitley Bay in the winter. Angry skinhead seagulls, a stiff icy breeze, no one alive between the ages of 20-70, and ancient mobility scooter pissheads at the bus stop hacking up phlegm.
A first GBG appearance since 1993 and only a second in total (thanks Jim!), Bridge Inn, Newhaven (3213 / 6054) sounds like it has been shut a long time, but has been re-opened by Harvey's after what the Good Beer Guide calls a 'long and difficult' refurbishment. The stench of modernisation hits you, and you have to wonder how much pubbier (i.e. better) it was back in '93. There's more atmosphere on the moon, but the bored barmaid has just enough wits about her to understand my 'pint of Mother-in-law" order. Half Sussex Best, half Old Ale for you uninitiated. A dude called Bobby Mango taught me that. One thing you can't refurbish is the clientele who've been coming in for centuries. Driving them out hasn't worked! Totally at odds with the interior, two of the most pissed guys I've seen in a pub all year are staggering about the main bar. Shakey haircut and fags hanging from mouths. The friendly one keeps talking to me, but within seconds of me telling him where I'm from and why I'm here, he's forgotten and asks again. Happens three times. Most frustrating! The only other customer's are a Mum and a toddler just to add to the strangely disconcerting nature of this pub.
As I've hit the Harvey's, it is only right to make my final stop Lewes. Despite a zillion visits since the dawning of BRAPA, it finds a new/old pub to stick in the GBG every year just to confound me.
This time, it is the turn of a very encouraging looking re-entrant from only two years ago, so no idea why I haven't done it ..... I must've given myself a year off Lewes!
I like. In fact, I like it more than a lot of Lewes pubs. Swan Inn, Lewes (3214 / 6055) has a low-lit calming olde worlde atmosphere perfect for my FPOTDS (fifth pub of the day syndrome). Sleep could come very easily, especially if I choose the 7.5% Christmas Special. But a voice in the darker recesses reminds me that (a) the Mother-in-Law has already knocked me out, and (b) ESB does look likely later on. So Sisters Table Beer it is. You gotta say this for Harvey's, they love a good female relation. 3.4%, but nowhere near as satisfying as the Christmas would've been. Maybe I could've gone half n half here too. Mad Auntie? A bloke with a big sack and a highbrow wife keeps saying hello, and with the fire in, smell of mulled cider hanging in the air, wood panelling and gentle swing music, this might be my new favourite Harvey's pub of all time.
I declare on five ticks for the day, and head back to London. Twirl and can of San Pelli to keep the wolf from the door ......
I needn't have worried, back in the Parcel Yard, the ESB is off anyway. I choose a Hophead, which still has its moments but isn't the beer of 20 years ago (jeez I felt old writing that) and this particular variety tastes like lemony cat piss. And I know a pint of lemony cat piss when I drink it. You gotta wonder what's floating around in that Chiswick water. I listen to the new tracks by Angel Du$t, apologise to a man for leaning back on him, and dream I'm in Blackpool.
The Swan at Lewes was my final tick of 2025, and I limp into 2026 a physical wreck, what with my Viaduct Tongue, Enfield Hand, not to mention Mushroom Groin which I don't like to talk about unless someone asks.
Still, NYE is fun, the year end blog goes down as well as the Brass Castle, then I watch Hull City's annual home defeat to Stoke, all set for my first tick of 2026 two days later.
Saturday 3rd January 2026
Birmingham Moor Street to Stratford-Upon-Avon kicks off the new year, a sunny but freezing morning.
I'm there early so tick off the pre-emptive 'Spoons whilst I wait for a bus. The Golden Bee, I quite like as it is housed in a large lumpy Tudor building and the staff seem relatively switched on. Reminds me of the one in Maldon Essex if you've had the misfortune to go to that stinkhole town full of miseryguts.
The Bee lacks 'buzz' (thanks) on this early Jan morn, but a dorky American tourist and a barman bond over South Carolina which moved anyone who witnessed it to horrible tears. The carpet contained a hidden message which I couldn't read like a bad colour-blindness test.
An old lady fumes at bad local buses .... "they do what they want, when they want!" so I grin and say I'm from York and she looks confused.
But all aboard the Alcester Special where I ticked two pubs 26th Oct 2019, one of which has now annoyingly burnt down but don't look at me, I was definitely back in York when it happened. Two new ones today.
Further off-centre by a matter of yards, 2026 BRAPA begins at the Holly Bush Inn, Alcester (3215 / 6056). On the National Inventory (like yer Mum), but that's no guarantee of a 'classic'. True enough, 'tis an unpretentious two roomer, square and perfectly formed at least in the empty front bar where I choose to sit. An Everards House, presided over by two functional but lugubrious lanky lads, who are more interested in watching Forest v Villa with the old duffers in the back bar than welcoming me in. The Tiger drinks better than a lot of Everard's slop as we'll see in my final pub, I never did locate the loo, and I left feeling it was all a bit lack lustre for a pub so outwardly 'nice'.
A short walk to more central and familiar Alcester. I see the Turk's Head which I did last time, and I'm reminded the burnt down one was called the Three Tuns ..... I guess sometimes, churn is unavoidable!
Look, the mobility scooter ALWAYS knows. The second I walk in the joint at Royal Oak, Alcester (3216 / 6057), it is immediately streets ahead of the Holly Bush. A glorious fire is roaring away to the left, old folk are laughing in a circle, drinking and chattering, and there's a tray of fluffy cobs on the horizon. And before I even reach the bar, two welcoming barmaids are saying 'hiiiiiiii!' They love my hat. "Authentic wool from Iceland, the country not the shop" I tell them and I reckon they are about 8/10 tickled by my forced gag. I ask how come one of them has a giant coat on but she's been outside getting coal or some other important pub work. 'Don't burn your pub down lolz' is what I wanna say, but I don't know if 2021 is #TooSoon SAME beer issue I had in St Albans in the run up to Chrimbo. Right, get this, Wye Valley HPA, tasting strangely of Titanic Plum Porter. I should've asked, but betcha it was on this pump recently! I mean, I don't mind as I love TtPP, but it ain't good news if you are a Mick Citra or an Ian 'BeyondThePale' Sutton who despise the stuff. Anyway, I'm incredibly impressed by the pub regardless. It was all downhill from here.
Back on the bus into Stratford, I press the button somewhere near where the Three Witches pub used to stand (I have a beermat for it, so actually researched its location last time I was here despite torrential rain!).
From here, I take a right and skid down to the icy peaceful neighbouring village of Shottery for pub three. It is near Anne Hathaway's house, famous for marrying Shakespeare and starring in the 'so good it is bad' Ella Enchanted which isn't really a #PubMan movie, but give it a try!
I wouldn't say something is rotten in the state of Shottery but the Bell (3217 / 6058) certainly won't be troubling the BRAPA Pub of the Year compilers (me) on 31/12/26 when I'm sat with a can of Hazy Space Juice and a plate of beige snacks, watching Vic Reeves make a twat of himself of Jools Holland's Hootenanny at 11:30pm. Poorly plotted on Google Maps, but thankfully a large building, this rambling sticky disjointed GK house ain't the ideal pub toilet to change my bandages on 'mushroom groin' because the lock didn't fully work in the cubicle, but it had to be done, wound still oozing. Also had a much needed poo whilst I was there, literally touching cloth on the approach. #TMI In happier news, it was here where I drink my 100th pint of Tim Taylor Landlord. A strange pint in that it began tepid, but came to life in the second half as though Sergei Jakirovic had given it a b0llocking half way down. The wallpaper was challenging, the staff vaguely welcoming, but unless you're ticker or a Warwickshire based pub meal enthusiast, I wouldn't be rushing here.
No time to linger, as I have two pubs to tick back in Stratford before I start thinking about my train back to New Street. This was first. Like the Three Witches, I own an ancient (Flowers?) beermat for this pub too.
Here's the pub now, prefered the old logo .....
Riverside ponce hole, safe to say the interior of Dirty Duck, Stratford-upon-Avon (3218 / 6059) has been altered extensively since that unscrupulous individual nicked the beermat which I now own. Considering it wasn't particularly busy (there must be a case for 3rd Jan being the quietest Saturday of the year?), seating is particularly hard to come-by, and it isn't a small pub. With nothing doing in the darker, more atmospheric front bar, I'm resigned to the back area which is a glorified conservatory which never makes for a great BRAP. The house beer is bang average, clarty but drinkable (the GK Fireside went off just as I ordered it). Imagine a GK IPA / Abbot half n half. 'Dirty Uncle?' The highlight is an awkward first date next to me, so awkward they both turn and start talking to me about the weather and Owlie McBurnie. This pub just provides me with more evidence that Warwickshire just isn't gonna excite me in the same was Worcs and West Midlands so far has. But early days.
One to go then, here it is ......
If Gary Davies and Anthea Turner presented a weekly music show live from Everard's Brewery, you'd have to call it 'Top of the Slops'. As much as I'd enjoyed my Tiger earlier (and even that's not a given), their guest ales are paved with questionable intentions. A rich dark ale with a Day of the Dead theme seemed a solid choice. It wasn't kept at all badly, but it was sloppier than a pizza man called Giuseppe. Slipper than a man called Stevie G. Slappier than the Tango Man. Ok, I'll stop now. One of those ales that mar your entire pub experience. I'd already called it the Bell by mistake. It is actually the Bull, Stratford-upon-Avon (3219 / 6060). A nice man called Paul 'ManofthePlain' pointed it out on TwXtter, and not in a horrid way that online folk normally do when I get the pub name wrong. It was also Paul that made me realise that if you take away the bad beer and random pile of logs, it's a cosy friendly inn of low beams and decent pissers.
As per usual, despite leaving Stratford at a reasonable hour, I have no extra pub time in Brum before my train home, but then again I had booked myself on 6pm instead of 7pm because 'Past Si' was a money-saving skinflint. Quick hot chocolate for the train, but not Leon this time, too expensive.
That meant that I felt justified in a late York Tap two pinter. Keep a safe distance from the loos and nip your nose and its a top place. The Coley's Mild and Weekend Project went down well. A drunk friendly Geordie called Chris wanted a selfie ....
But I got scared so hid in a booth and admired a rooflight after that but it made me dizzy.
That's that, and hey aren't I catching up well?
I'll tell you about Notts next time out, which will be Wednesday, I've already written 60% of it.
Thanks for reading, Si
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