BRAPA in .... HOVE BREWSDAY : BEER NOT AS FLAT AS A PANCAKE (PART 1/2)

Saturday 31st May 2025

Gawd bless those close-season Saturday LNER trips daaahhnn saaarrf.

Zero threat of encountering a carriage full of Geordies or Mackems on their 15th Peroni at 7am, songs about Lee Howey and his awful brother.

Look, we can even stretch out across an unreserved table '4' .... it would never happen in December .....

Even Colin the Cauliflower was out of semi-retirement for this one. Daddy BRAPA was back to full health. My bid for Arctic coffee sponsorship rumbles on.

All was well with the world as we saunter across sunny London and nearly contrive to miss our connecting Hove train because we'd been far too relaxed / complacent. Going up the wrong escalators and misreading the platform number had us running diagonally across Victoria station like Martine McCutcheon in that episode of Spooks. Made it, with two minutes to spare!

I decided that East Sussex needed some BRAPA attention after my recent West Sussex swoop. Besides, Paul G was unavailable to drive us around Kent, my London is almost done, and the prospect of Milton Keynes just wasn't quite thrilling enough.

Portslade is the stop where we actually 'alight'. As we wait for pub one to open, Dad admires the handsome building above. Google tells me it is gym in a brewery. Do they still brew? Do they strain sweaty spandex into giant vats to recreate that authentic Harvey's Sussex Best taste?

So many questions, but the church clock at nearby St Nicolas' bongs 12 times, and we finally come to the conclusion that had we pushed the pub door ten mins earlier, we'd have been in and served because the left hand side is full of rotund bearded men in sandals, pints in hand .....

Stag's Head, Portslade (3152 / 5637) is a promising wet-led start to what'd prove a huge step up from last week's Tameside Terror, on both the pub and beer front. Cheerful guv very hail-fellow-well-met. A chicken thigh of a bloke from t'other side' with hairy shoulders protruding from his vest pops his head around the door to tell us there's a nice outdoor area if we'd prefer. We hadn't asked, but a 7/10 BRAPA cameo nevertheless. Carpet an 8 incidentally. Rising Giant by Long Man, a 'real red' drinks superbly, and I'm not a huge Long Man lover. A pub so gosh darn southern, they couldn't even be arsed to get a proper pump clip for the Timmy Taylor Boltmaker, oi oi. Dad starts humming along to what he thinks is 'Under Pressure' but I break it to him that it's Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby. He's very unimpressed, he hasn't even heard of the 1990 Eminem, Bob Van Winkle. I'm astonished.

The Vanilla Ice chat lasts all the way to pub two somehow, I guess it was only a ten minute walk but that's still 9.5 mins too long on the Vanilla Ice subject .....

Arguably a step up from pub one, Stanley Arms, Portslade (3153 / 5638) really was a side-streeter of some repute. Barman resplendent in his 'Wookie Mistake' tee shirt (I bet he wishes people a Happy Star Wars day on May 4th) really grabs us by the balls (not literally) with a keen display of customer service and BRAPA enthusiasm. He works at our next pub too, and says he'll draw us a map so we can walk the shortest route between the two. Not since the Bell at Aldworth when a dotty old woman took me behind the bar have I had a map drawn for me in the name of BRAPA! Dad's gone for a plus 5%+ beer, and speaking of legendary drinkers, a photo on the wall shows Jimmy Greaves drinking in here. I see this a lot. Jim or Dick Turpin, who ticked more pubs? The Man City garb feels random .... I wonder if it was up when they lost 2-1 at York when I was at Uni? Real good pub this, not unlike Plymouth's Fortescue. As we return our glasses and leave, we get directions, but sadly no actual hand drawn map.

Scary skinhead with an even scarier clean shaven dog assures us we are ok to nip down the side of his house, the shortcut we've been given. Otherwise, the route given doesn't seem to be any quicker than what Google Maps is telling me ....... was it all worth it?

Dad dressed with the Foghorn in mind

Foghorn, Hove (3154 / 5639) and yes, I said Hove, not Portslade. Look above, street sign says so. GBG says so. They can't both be wrong. This despite the pub being closer to Portslade station than the two Portslade pubs. A mist is lingering over 'Hove' today so a foghorn is apt. The modern micro stylings were a surprise, I can't lie. Bald heads in three quarter length shorts jostle for position at the bar as today's grumpiest barman serves up pint of the day 'Nonchalant Shark', murk city! Dad, back from a Big John-esque loo stop had asked for an orange juice here, but when he sees and sips my pint, declares "Exactly my type of thing these days!" (such a hipster) and rushes up to get himself a half. "I should warn you, it is very hazy" says Mr Grump-pot. I'd not been warned about that! #EverydayAgeismInBeer #WokeSi2025 was fuming, I tell thee. The next customer ekes the last of the Burning Sky Plateau from the barrel, and attempts a 'LAST OF THE PLATEAU' gag which is so awful, it silences this lively pub. Dad admires the sign reading "SHUT HAPPENS", I think he wants one for his outhouse. A possible deterrent to Mummy BRAPA from interrupting him when he's having his shortbread and coffee and listening to the Test Match when he should be gardening?

And that is Dad's orange juice next to my pint! Mad I have to clarify. Beer in 2025, eh?!

We'd reached the halfway stage of our adventure, and it was time to catch a bus into deepest Hove for what would be my #PubOfTheDay

I'll tell you about that and the other two on Friday, plus a cheeky 7th back in London.

Thanks for reading & keep it pub,

Si