BRAPA in .... IDEN HAVE A GREEN (ABBA VOYAGE, CHARLTON & 'SOUTH' KENT)

Saturday 25th April 2026

The 6:10am York-King's Cross train might involve a 5am alarm, but at least it guarantees zero chance of a Madri-swilling Geordie / Mackem invasion , and the opportunity to spread yourself, your Daddy, Owlie, GBG, Croissant and Arctic coffee across a 4-seater.

Charlton away, but I'd had a better offer. Old mate Paul G. had offered to drive us around south Kent (although he's keen to tell me what whilst Kent has an N,E and W. , it actually doesn't have an S!)

Daddy BRAPA decides to go to the game instead, which has since been moved to a lunchtime kick off as we continue to try and eff up our 'unassailable since November' playoff position. A 2-2 draw at League One Leicester (LOL - I'm not laughing honest, it is a genuine acronym) in midweek hadn't been at all useful.

But before you call him a more loyal fan than me (although he is), he's booked a ticket for ABBA Voyage this afternoon (longer term readers will know ABBA is his fave 'band' despite my efforts to wean him onto punk rock), and if the football was bad, he was willing to leave the game early to ensure he makes the start of the afternoon show.

We had plenty of time to kill before our respective engagements, so head west to Paddington basin to tick a pre-emptive Wetherspoons in the shape of Sir Alexander Fleming, the penicillin lad.

It's pretty decent, some comfort, breezy, too new. The place is crawling with self-satisfied Southampton fans in sunglasses and away shirts, on their way to Wembley to play Man City in an F.A. Cup semi final.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Ever since we won at St Mary's in January, they've swept all before them, league and cup, and had now overtaken us, nailed on playoff place. Utter juggernaut.

I wonder what their secret to success is? Would we ever find out?

Decent photo eh? Just call me William Salt.

Anyways, I wish Daddy B. a happy & lucky day and we agree to meet up later for a hopefully celebratory pint of Parcel Yard Fullers ESB. He orders a small breakfast and I make my way to Ashford International. Yippee(!)

Paul is parked up when I arrive, and we briefly lament the closure of 'Matches' bar, an Ashford GBG tick I never got to. A crummy sports bar it might've been, but always busy and popular, and Paul rants at yet another example of tone-deaf decision making by the dreadful destructive local council.

I make some sympathetic vowel sounds to show that (a) I'm listening and (b) I care about Kent.

There is something very Benenden about Woodchurch, where we find pub #1 on our agenda, the Six Bells (3403 / 6243). I realise how far I've come since early BRAPA. Back in 2014 when anyone asked when I planned to tackle Kent, I'd reply "I'm hoping extreme coastal erosion will set in like in Withernsea and it'll drop below sea-level and float away to France so I don't have to worry about it". Now, it is one of my fondest counties and I can make nuanced village comparisons, often managing to slag off over-rated Tenterden in the process. Besides, the thought of Paul, Pauline Sharp and Richard Pitcher drowning saddens me, not to mention the lovely Mrs Paul G, Tracy. Cracking pub, perhaps my favourite today. Our solid guv growls' CASH IS KING' , low beams, creaky floorboards and next door an equally appealing looking pub the Bonny Cravat which #PubMan Will Hawkes gets excited about. If THAT gets in the next GBG, I riot. Delicious pint of 3.3% 'Flush' from Rye's toilet-centric Waterworks. I get Paul a can of full fat Coke. Says his insides are a bit fragile after a trip to Faversham's delicious new Thai place on the Friday evening, and he hopes the corrosive properties of Coca-Cola will have the desired effect. 'Flush' may've been apt, and Harvey's Sussex Best would work better still, but of course he's driving and saving his drink for later.

Time for our most lengthy drive before my bladder fills up beyond repair, a proper outlier even for 'south Kent' ....

I enjoyed the Dolphin. Lydd (3404 / 6244 ) A step back in time, in same way a Portland, Isle of Man and Hartlepool Headland are. Rugged salty seadog relics line the bar, comfortable in their own isolation from civilised society in much the same way that Australians are comfortable in their own racism. Paul recalls how he wowed the locals on his last visit with an amazing photo he took (I've seen it so can testify) of a rainbow, looking out towards Dungeness. Shame about the plastic bag of dog shit in the foreground, but I guess it adds a brutalist element. The Tonbridge Coppernob is drinking as meatily as the £1 meat raffle being advertised on the walls. Sussex Best tries to tempt us once more, Paul is still on the Coke. But was it working? He was thus far keeping his cards close to his chest and his buttocks clenched tighter (probably).

Over in SE London, we'd equalised on the stroke of half time but Dad tells me it is woeful and he's off to ABBA Voyage ALREADY, and I'm pleased for him. Empowering. Or something. Why should I be the only one having all the fun?!

Paul plays me an ABBA deep-cut from his now iconic 555,468 song strong car playlist which I can't remember the name of cos it is very deeply cut, and talking of deep cuts, our third tick is arguably more obscure than Lydd.

Paul has a big heart (not medically I don't think) and an equally big brain, and knows a LOT about Kent's rich history, so when he's puzzled about how come the ferryless, slightly inland Ferry Inn, Stone-in-Oxney (3405 / 6245) is named as such. 'Don't ask me mate' is the only answer I can muster. Today's weakest pub, a twee dining hole, it has some age about its walls but the overwhelming smells of garlic ribs in my right nostril with a lingering pine needle scent in the left was a sensation I never quite overcame. Goacher's are a great brewer, I'd like to think even you northern oiks would agree with that, but this house beer is floppy as sin. Paul tells me about a Charlton fan who had his honeymoon here in February 1978, campervan in the carpark opposite. I marvel as I imagine the bleakness, moustaches, woolly jumpers sideburns and impending divorce proceedings.

Speaking of Charlton (Paul is related to their reserve striker Matty Godden just to rub it in further), I notice we've lost 2-1. Disgraceful. And Wrexham's win has pushed us out of the playoffs for the first time since November. One game left. And we never beat Norwich, who we play at home last. Thank Christ I'll be deep in Aberdeenshire by then.

How have we effed it up so badly? Still, at least Daddy B will have no regrets about ABBAing. And the media will get their Disney fairytale, unless Derby pip them at the post as they're still in it too.

I need a (better) pint to cheer me up!

And I get it at the Woodcock Inn, Iden Green (3406 / 6246) in the shape of Tonbridge Traditional. Best beer today. Quintessentially 'throwback Kent' in style. As is the pub. You could tick the features off a Kent pub bingo card. Impossibly narrow country lanes with grass in the middle and high thick hedges. Weatherboarded. A ceiling so low beamed, even a short arse like me is in danger of banging their head. 15th century farmhands who growl 'there's a nice garden if you wanna sit outside!' which sounds more like a warning against invading their privacy than anything helpful. Elfin barmaid's who look like sprites or pixies who have crawled out of tree hollows. Paul likes the look of the Tonbridge pint glasses but because he's made of the right fibre (ooh, don't mention fibre to him today!) he asks the staff if he can purchase one rather than slipping in into his handbag like one of those bloody women would! They try to give it him for free, but he at least wants to give a £1 donation. He sends me a photo of him having a can of Tonbridge out of it later on. But it got smashed shortly afterwards by someone with a history of glass smashing.

This was you might remember, my Untappd limerick era. It looks like I checked this beer in whilst contemplating the second FA Cup semi-final between L**ds and Chelsea .....

I didn't wanna leave Daddy B. hanging on his lonesome in London for too long, so I ask Paul if we can err on the side of caution and finish with one of my remaining Tonbridge duo, which looks almost as Kent as the Woodcock .....

First time I've needed a Tonbridge return trip since the Covid-era produced the fantastic Nelson and several other sturdy booze holes, Olde Chequers Inn (3407 / 6247) is refreshingly uncompromising. A malnourished old bird with tobacco stained skin and a virtual fag hanging out of the side of her mouth seems unimpressed that we've interrupted her from doing bugger all in the front bar, and coughs dangerously as I order a Harvey's Sussex Best. Perhaps not the best choice for me when I've got a train ride back into London, but I'd seen it in so many pubs today, it had finally worn me down, and I suffer no ill effects. Problem with 'south Kent' it is so southern, it is practically East Sussex. If ever a gruesome gibbet at a pub entrance felt apt, it was here.

So farewell and thanks to Paul, until next time (I'd help him make his debut at a couple of my locals, the Swan and Slip Inn a fortnight later when he was up in York for his birthday), but back in the present, I make my way to Charing Cross and then take the Tube north.

Dad tells me it is chaos around King's Cross for some trainy reason, so I suggest he wander down to Euston where my Tube's coming in and we can controversially swap my favoured Parcel Yard for the okay Doric Arch (just this once).

I reach the top of the stairs just as he's ordering my ESB. You cannot teach synchronisation like that! I tell the staff, but they don't seem very impressed.

We sit underneath the TV showing Southampton v Man City, it feels like the day has come full circle since Paddington all those hours ago. Dad really enjoyed A.Voyage, we have a brief Hull City moan ("oh well, the Championship is more fun anyway!"), then I notice a guy I'm sure I recognise. Ian 'Beyond the Pale' Sutton of Blackburn fame. What'd he be doing here? I need to be sure so I ask Dad to simmer down so I can hear his accent to tell if he's saying "is thurr a corrrr in the corrr porrrkk?" etc. And he is!

So I say hello and he's hanging around with some ground ticking Everton fans wearing Villa shirts for some reason. There's a roar. Saints go in front late on! WOT A TEAM. HOW DO THEY DO IT? But not for long. 2-1 to Manchester Hunter by the time we leave.

Back at KX, I can't remember the details but the train chaos carries on so we just hop aboard something and it seems we've made the right decision, and that's that.

Join me hopefully tomorrow for the beginning of my 'Scottish countdown' from my recent Aberdeenshire holiday. The seven worst pubs. You'll enjoy that.

Keep it pub, Si