BRAPA in .... IF YOU TOLERATE DISS, THEN YOUR CHILDREN WILL DRINK BECKS
Finally using the blog title that's been in my head for about the last five years .... although I've blabbed to half of you already on Twitter (sorry, X) so you're probably just yawning now.
Anyway, most of this blog is spent in Beccles & Thetford, not Diss. Look how blue that sky is. Ah, them were the days. I hated that 40 degree day last year but this weather 'holding pattern' they've been reporting on for ages has been a bit wet n gloomy hasn't it? No wonder all these poor BBC newsreaders keep getting taken badly.
Anyway. I'm not here to talk about the weather or current affairs. I'm here to remember pubs I visited a month ago whilst in a hazy mental state, so good luck with that!
On the outskirts of town, Butchers Arms, Beccles (2540 / 4435) was a green bricked gem to rival our quality quartet (Wenhaston, Laxfield, Rumburgh, Westfield) which had gone previously. Today's chauffeur Steve drops me off, and gets back to Westfield for some well deserved pints via a bit of grass cutting. And once I find the open door which was a struggle cos I'm dense, I'm greeted by an oval faced grinning barman, and a cluster of blokes with similar Cheshire cat expressions, who are talking about 'beer' with quite the passion! I could've lingered and joined in by asking how weird the beers in the 'Weird Beer' fridge were, but I need a bit of quiet downtime self-reflection after today's socialising and these all encompassing bench seats look inviting. It all felt a bit clubby, vast with a lowish ceiling, and the gentle mid-afternoon thrum of a very content place. And then nothing happened.
Walking in the direction of Beccles station, tucked down a side street full of shrubs and trees and pretty little flowers, I came to today's final tick .....
Dutch courage is probably wise when tackling a GBG club, so I was pleased to be five pints deep when I arrive at Caxton Club, Beccles (2541 / 4436) because I have no memory of struggle with any entrance door buzz ins, guestbooks, charity tins or difficult questions about just what my strange face was doing here. In fact, all I do remember is a very glorious maternally lady being all "awww hi dahlink" and serving me a pint of 'Swamp Rat' which might sound yucky, but it was up there with the Racehorse for my best conditioned pint of the day - foaming frothy lively bubbly bitter beer, like what you read about in Dickensian pub descriptions. It was beautiful, I even stuck it on Untappd and the brewery Parkway were thrilled with my OTT analysis! Sometimes regret joining Untappd, but occasionally, it isn't just an additional chore I could do without. I'm hungry as a badger now (is that a phrase?) so it is good this club has a long backside, where I can finally smuggle that DELICIOUS roast beef n horseradish sandwich gifted to me in Westfield. With England women cricket labouring to a slow painful defeat against the Aussies, the only human interaction I get is with a bloke who sticks his head around the corner, watches the next ball, groans, sighs, shouts "rubbish!" .... something he repeats at five minute interludes.
Not suitable for Cauli consumption, mate
Now, Beccles does have a third tick, and I COULD'VE managed it at a push but I suspected Beccles might become something of a transport interchange in the coming days, so I instead I make it a 'strategic leave' and head back to Thetford via Norwich, popping in to my new favourite local:
Just too good. That is part of the reason that this was to be my last Black Horse visit of the holiday despite yesterday's proclamations about coming here every night. Everything was as I'd left it. Barmaid, also on day two, nods in acknowledgement, the bar blockers in front of the ale pumps turn and do the same. I must look like a super Elton John fan because the moment I sit down in MY seat, his Glastonbury set starts. A few murmurs of discontent in the bar because they've switched over from Antiques Roadshow! I'm a bit tipsy now so proper get into it, I even go back to the bar and tell the bar blockers that despite me being a harsh punk, you have to respect the show he's putting on. But Si, no one asked! Terry the landlord remembers me too, admires my Adidas Gazelles, thinking they are a more expensive pair of shoes as he collects vintage types. He tells me if I pop in tomorrow, he'll introduce me to the local punks. Last orders is called early because it is Sunday in a sleepy market town. New barmaid is being a bit hesitant so is encouraged to ring the bell with more vigour and bellow 'LAST ORDERS' & 'TIME AT THE BAR'. Terry shouts over 'let me buy you a pint Simon'. What a gent! Not gonna say no. He says it's fine cos he's a limited company or something. Then a pink haired lady arrives. I ask her if she's one of the punks, but no, she's Jo from Rotherham and more into Slipknot. She can't believe it is last orders. This would never happen in her more specific Bolton upon Dearne. 'Bolton? I thought you said Rotherham?' the bar blockers ask her, fully confused like the north is some indecipherable fantasy land. "Why ask me the specifics if you don't wanna know!" she growls, and goes outside for an angry cigarette. As Candle in the Wind becomes Rocket Man, a local called John tells me he wants to show me his favourite pub in town cos he likes the landlady, even though she's very straight talking. I agree, but the pub is closed early too. He says not to worry, there's another pub around the corner he goes to when he's desperate cos it is a bit rough. I think it was called the Dragon, they had two ales on but they both are 'off' the second she tries to pull them, so I have a Guinness which is pretty decent. We go out to the smoking area, where John chats to a few yoofs and a nervy seeming lad who does stuff to Supermarket trollies. It's all pretty friendly though, I even go to the loo unescorted and make it back alive. Fun night!
So it is safe to say, pre-Diss, I have a bit of a hangover but brekkie (not the sheep) sorts me out, found a tiny jar of marmalade lurking which was a bonus:
Diss had the oldest population I've ever seen. I loiter in the graveyard til about 11:45am, and I'm sure the average age in here was younger.
Right, can't put it off any longer, hair of the dog required, let's get ticking .....
Monday morning pubbing, you can't beat it. A lady and Henry the Hoover are hard at it (hoovering I mean, that'd just be weird) when I enter Saracen's Head, Diss (2542 / 4437) so I have to do a bit more loitering, this time in the doorway, because she has her back turned and there's NOTHING worse than someone jumping out at you from behind when you're hoovering! Finally, she sees me so I smile, hurdle Henry's wire, and trip into the main hotel bar. There's already a customer, he is old, rich and miserable. The landlady almost smiles, and I order a Ghost Ship, which would've been glorious if it had been anything like chilled. Landlady shouts at Alexa to put some shit tunes on as the old man leaves, to be replaced by a Tesco delivery driver who wants a Guinness, his Monday morning routine. This is a glorious carpeted wood panelled room to sit and have a pint. Henry Hoover and cleaning lady wander through to a store cupboard, smiling intently (nice to see someone is!), I think they winked at Colin. There's a bucket full of Harpic and Toilet Duck close to me, not something I was PINING for (get it, pine etc? sorry). I guess she'll get onto that when she's done with Henry. All in all, promising start to day three, could've been great with better beer and happier people, plus that doll was a bit terrifying.
So there we have it, bit of a marathon but you made it. I'll reward you with no further toe update.
I'll endeavour to bang another blog out tomorrow because my back end of the week is weirdly sociable, and I need to tell you about a Diss pre-emptive, and a shut pub alert as we wend our way towards Bungay.
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