Tuesday 25th November 2025, 5:30pm
Welcome back, I was 23 pubs away from London glory (completing the Greater London section of the GBG, not the Greene King beer), and after Richmond where I left you last time, I reach the wrong Putney station and cross the Thames on foot for my fifth pub on day two.
#11. Eight Bells, Fulham (3161 / 6002)
Chelsea are at home in Europe, bouncer on the door. The least pleasant 'Hull City badge clockage' of the week occurs. Bouncer looks skeptical. "We ain't Barcelona .... look, we're no threat to Chelsea .... not yet anyway, hahaha" I venture, though they have just appointed an ex-manager I wouldn't swap for our current one. When I explain BRAPA, we strike up a compromise. I'll remove my offending jacket outside and freeze my nips off, tuck it under my arm, and keep badge out of view. My blue gloves are too sky blue to help. A busy pub, but a fine pub, how's this not been in the GBG before? 8.5/10 carpet, sexy wood panelling, and once I battle through the gormless ruffian oiks at the bar (not really, they are 21st century Blues), I find a table and stool. Posing, but beggars can't be choosers. St Peter's Organic drinks well though I find them a brewery folk tend to view through the old rose-tinted. I occasionally chant my improvised Chelsea song to blend in : 'John Bumstead ain't fackin' dead, Mike Fillery loves Aunt Hilary but where's tricky Eddie Niedzwiecki?' Oi oi. Back outside on the benches, I re-apply my jacket, wish the bouncer (still shit scared of his own shadow) a good night, and disappear around the corner to the Tube.
#12. Wibbas Down Inn, Wimbledon (3162 / 6003)
"SHAMBLES!" to quote Mr Bradley Dack a few Boxing Days ago. A behemoth of a Wetherspoons, when I exit from the far door 50 minutes later, I'm in a different postcode from the one I entered from. Ill-equipped to cope with its size, a BRAPA record is set for the longest gap between being served and receiving my pint. This includes table service 2020/21 lockdowns, music festivals and gigs. There's a standard range on plus Jaipur, but then I notice an above average number of guest ales stuck to a blackboard, so ask for one of them. The pub is busy but never more than one deep. Fellow punters keep apologising, worried they've pushed in front of me. I keep explaining my lack of beer situation loudly, and one of the three gormless lads serving explains that the pub has a SECOND bar (so faraway, you can't see it from here!) where the ale has to be brought from. Why didn't they just send me down there to get served? The wait goes on. I'd have walked out ages ago if this wasn't a tick. Even a pre-emptive I'd have deemed 'not worth it'. Finally, a stout called 'Kingdom' by Oakham is mine. Worth it? Well, no. No beer is. And yet this Spoons has plenty of apologists. "Great range of ales though" a couple of folk chirp. I'd rather a Ruddles and a one minute wait quite frankly. "Difficult if you don't know the protocol" another tries to sympathise. 'Protocol? Protocol? This is a Wetherspoons FFS!' It's only when I have my pint and go in search of a table that I realise the true scale of this place, jeez, tis like conjoined twins in 'Spoons form. Piss-take, but you wouldn't want it knocked down cos there'd just be a giant hole in the middle of Wimbledon and I presume the Wombles can't move in cos they emigrated to Oz in the 80's when Great Uncle Bulgaria got sent down for litter pedalling.
Wednesday 26th November 2025
Day three begins with 21 London pubs left to do. Completion looks simple on paper but Enfield's Botany Bay Cricket Club hours are a total unknown, and I had to hold over two or three SE London ticks for my Meewaw away day in December. Still, the aim was six more today to bring me down to 15.
Ticking didn't get going until 2pm. The morning is spent in High Wycombe on behalf of Daddy BRAPA, picking up a plate with a planet on it which he's bought on EBay. I manage to whip in the pre-emptive Falcon 'Spoons (decent actually) before meeting the seller's Mum at the station (Dad tells her I'll be the one with a panda in my pocket!), then trekking back to my Croydon hotel so I don't smash it six pints in.
After some lunch, I can finally get down to ticking.
#13. Sir Julian Huxley, Selsdon (3163 / 6004)
Kicking myself for not pre-emptively ticking this when I did that excellent Golden Arse micropub (stinks a bit) back in April, pretty much next door. I lacked that winning 'Spoons mentality back in those days. A short bus ride from Croydon made it geographically my closest tick of the week. A sensible 'Spoons with a wonderous 9.5/10 carpet, the horrors of Wimbledon are quickly expunged. Random lonely old hearts are dotted about the perimeter, furtively glancing at their neighbours before hiding behind a newspaper or mobile phone. The beer selection was made tougher when a dude leans in close and says "they're all noice .... get the cheapest!" but they all cost the same, before ordering himself a Doom. I go Santa Baby, £1.39, but it was the first of many Spoons 'Xmas specials' this week lacking any warming festive ooomph, or in fact anything remotely Christmas.
#14. Balham Bowls Club, Balham (3164 / 6005)
No sign of a bowling green, in fact I'm not even convinced it is a club as I'm allowed to waltz in, straight to the bar, no CAMRA card needed, no guestbook signing, no intercom buzzer. Fourth 'Hull City badge clockage' of the week. Chirpy young soul. "The Tigers are having a good season ..... my flatmate is a Sheff Wed fan so I'm qualified to say!" It was a line that probably made sense in his head. "Tough times for the Owls" I reply, keeping this use of club nicknames going. "Yeah, but really funny to rip the piss out of him!" he replies. I like this guy. This 'pub' photographs astonishingly well, the nods to the club of old, 100% wood panel coverage, and distinct areas had you all cooing on my social media re how nice it looked. But in reality, it has a frustratingly transient airy chilly atmosphere, as a consequence I never settled. I reckon there was an event setting up in the room behind mine, the number of people striding through with a purpose, tray of canapes or microphone. Our barman is back. Thinks I should have a mulled wine next if I'm gonna whine about the chill in the air, but I tell him 'sadly' I'm on a mission. I must add that the beer (Bandit by Gipsy Hill) was first class.
#15. Firefly, Balham (3165 / 6006)
'And now for something completely different!' begins the GBG entry, which meant it was gonna be a trial. The Thai food smells amazing, but Thai lads are partial to a rogue peanut, so it is a no from me. Miserable atmosphere. The bar area is stacked with morose Hophead drinkers thinking about Chiswick water. If I was the staff, I'd be paying them to smile or piss off. Surely an off-putting advert for someone coming in looking for cheerful Thai scran. I'm on a murky extra pale Redemption. Delicious. Which I barely ever say of Redemption. But with the exception of Salisbury's wonderful Rai d'Or and Villa's Barton Arms, Thai restaurant + real ale venue = maximum disappointment.
#16. Asparagus. Battersea (3166 / 6007)
A former Wetherspoons. It felt it in the worst possible way. Like Pub Dementors had been in and sucked out any life, brightness and cheap higher quality beer. The carpet the only joyous thing remaining, but I'm told this is going to be ripped out soon so I can only imagine how drab the place will be in the future. Sambrook's Blindside certainly blindsides me. Smells like turps, looks like the contents of a garden pond (I'm sure there's a tadpole swimming around but I can't see for the murk), but close you eyes and nip yer nose and you've got a perfectly serviceable pint. A young lass opposite with the countenance of Princess Anne is talking about London Premier League football teams (men's) with such intensity, her floundering boyfriend slyly Googles Arsenal's Wikipedia entry when she goes off to the loo. Great stuff, briefly took my mind off my pint.
#17. Whispering Moon, Wallington (3167 / 6008)
A lady with a panda wrist tattoo branded this Wetherspoons a 'shithole' in my next pub, but I'm not having that! This was manna from heaven after the Asparagus, even if that road crossing did require some serious navigation. 8.5/10 carpet, more low down seats than you'd find in 90% of 'Spoons, a 5.3% London Porter which just about delivers on its coffee claims, and in the loo, some concern from the local pissers for little Georgie, a Ronnie Corbett-esque character who hasn't eaten all day. At the sink washing hands together, he mutters that eating is overrated anyway. Whole experience was a whirlwind, but that's BRAPA fifth pint of the day syndrome.
#18. Dog House, Beddington (3168 / 6009)
There's a drunken finger print if ever I saw one! The 20-25 minute walk gave me time to reflect, if not sober up, that a late night micro in these parts was destined to be highly eventful or a damp squib. The steamy windows and volume of folk within tells me the former. All is smiles and 'hail fellow well met' as I approach the bar, realising I'm going to have to sit there for the duration. Barmaid Keeley, quiz master Ricky and nameless panda tattoo lady are all very welcoming, main man Phil even pops over for a fleeting hi. The Brew York Tonkoko is as good as I've ever had it in York. My favourite beer by them too. I made a tit of myself confusing 'Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You' by Glen Medeiros with 'Suddenly' by Angry Anderson. Sometimes too much vintage 'Neighbours' knowledge can do you in, but I redeem myself (probably) with a gentle rendition of 'Up Where We Belong' and yes I did sing the Jennifer Warnes bit. Cocker's too gravelly. With the offer of a glass of water for the road (as if Keeley thought I was pissed!), I'm directed to a Croydon bus stop. Most love I felt all week, a cracker!
Thursday 27th November 2025
My reward for not being killed on the night bus to Croydon was a first ever pub tick in Charlton, home of this cute League One team on loan to the Championship so they get to play giants like us.
The sensible thing to do was to hold on until we go to the Valley in April but I'm far too impatient, probably ruling myself out of watching that game now - think I'll do some Kent instead. I hear Tonbridge and Folkestone are nice in the late spring.
15 London GBG pubs remain, so six today would bring me down to single figures. I'll tell you about the first three today, and the next three in Part 3. Got it? Got it!
Before Charlton, a slightly trickier one tucked away down a hill from Woolwich Arse.
#19. Lord Herbert, Plumstead Common (3169 / 6010)
A chunky cream and charcoal street corner inn you can't miss, tripping the London tightrope fantastic between fancy modern relevance, and down to earth boozer. It pulls it off nicely. I'd recommend the raised area where you can sink into the red benches. Our affable host exudes a charm that says 'I care about real ale' in a part of London that in my experience can be a desert. The HPA drinks really well, and after some Wye Valley love, he's surprised when I admit I'm no Butty Bach fan, the guest his locals most often request. Glorified Doom Bar innit? Assuming this was a late substitution for last year's entry around here which I never ticked. It had a closed by April - a micropub that went bust overstretching itself trying to add a deli onto it, reading between the lines on Facebook.
#20. Bugle Horn, Charlton (3170 / 6011)
Yer classic 'wildcard' GBG entrant, the likes of which never got a look-in during that 2012-22 era when the micropub boom really lived rent free in CAMRA's furry little heads. Cheap n cheesy, I feel confident enough to tell our barman displaying open body language that he's got a bit of Christmas tree in his shaggy beard. "Won't be the last time over the course of the next month mate!" he predicts with a grimace and a wink. A bald returning smoker than shivers, points towards Ivor Panda and says "Kind of weather your pal would like" and I'm confused because I didn't know panda's necessarily preferred cold to warm, but now I think about it, they probably do. China's chilly, and they have fur, innit? Pedigree is a beer I don't see in London often, 'tis a touch warm here but that Marston's snatch was present. Whatever that means. A sweary version of a Destiny's Child perks the locals up even more. There are two separate doors to/from the toilet which must be a rarity. On the bar sits a blind Sooty. This really was the most 'blind Sooty' pub of my entire week. If you know, you know.
#21. British Oak, Blackheath Standard (3171 / 6012)
We end part two with this dangerous imposing Inventory triple-tiered former Courage beauty. I accidentally shun the public bar in favour of an empty saloon bar to the right. Very wild west and a wicked internal wind tumbleweeds its way around the delicious wood panels. Our barmaid is painfully mousey, despite my best efforts when ordering a bruising pint of 'Double Ghost', the premium version of Adnams Ghost Ship. Normal Ghost Ship is strong enough for me thank you! I force myself to nurse it. I can hear the distant yelps of locals from the other side, no adjoining door (you'd have to go back outside) so I've really cut myself off from all hope of human interaction. There's a brief moment of drama when a screw falls out of something important and a cockney workman in hi-vis has to drafted in from Rotherhithe at short notice to push it back into place.
If you read every word of that, I salute you.
See you hopefully on Tuesday at the slightly earlier time of 7pm for our final part. I'd like to say I'm catching up but I'm still 54 pubs behind, FML!!
Keep it pub, Si
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