BRAPA in .... TEENAGE LOCH-BOTTOMY : SING WHEN YOU'RE WINNOCH (Glasgow Pt 4/6)

Wednesday 22nd October 2025

A pleasant breakfast at last, at the third time of asking. Prepared by my own fair hand.

Nicely done scrambled eggs with REAL butter (Anchor, so not Scottish because they are based in dire Westbury, the greyest of all Wiltshire towns including Swindon, please don't argue).

Haggis from a tin cos it's nice and easy and I had a 'raised' microwave. Greasy and spicy. Great mouthfeel like an double imperial stout.

Two types of juice in a vague attempt to get some Vit C into my Scottish diet, having finished my blueberries the previous night.

And with Arctic coffees less prevalent this side of Kelso, a Starbucks Caramel BRAPiatto.

Just the right amount of terrific calorific content to line your stomach for six pints of uncertain Scottish real ale.

Six ticks under the heading of 'Greater Glasgow & the Clyde Valley' remained. Just two today, before I move onto Ayrshire for four more.

A local bus from Buchanan Street takes me north to the town of Kirkintilloch for the first of FOUR Wetherspoons on the agenda.

Known locally as the 'Kinky Pufter', the Kirky Puffer, Kirkintilloch (3093 / 5934) once allegedly embraced their nickname by having a Warhol-esque mural of Barrymore winking back at you, 'Awite!' This was until the Lubbock family complained that this was in poor taste. Urban myth? Like Avril Lavigne being dead or Steve Lynex being the first A.I.. footballer, it is hard to be sure. The Maxim Cashmere is off, so the barmaid quickly speaks into a microphone hidden in her jacket lapel, glancing up at the gantry, to get the barrel changed. Impressive. The MI6 of beer changing. Not quick enough for me though. Time to finally brave a pint of 'Effingut', a 'Spoons festival leftover flavoured with Indian spices. I'd been seeing it everywhere. Not as unpleasant as I was expecting, in fact temperature aside, I enjoyed it. I moaned at the time about these 'hard to shift overly elaborate' festival ales, but compared with their current crop of Christmas dirge I've recently been sampling in London, they were far superior. Atop a raised red leather bench, all is quiet until nearest drinker Boyle tells a new arrival called Big John (not the famous Stockport toilet blocker) a tale of how he walked into a glass door whilst visiting John Craven (not the Newsround / Countryfile legend) and ended up in A&E. The carpet is a determined 8/10, and I've found a quicker bus route back to Glasgae.

That's Boyle, behind McBurnie

Back in the city of hardened arteries, I shuffle on over to Central station, and take a train to another 'och', Lochwinnoch, so westerly it is practically Ayrshire.

The station is a fair auld yomp from the village centre, being situated much more conveniently for the RSPB site and I passed many a socially awkward twitcher, not to mention a brace of Curlew's and a distant Redshank which might've actually been a twig tied to a coke can as I speedily negotiated my way pubwards, avoiding the main road.

No mean feat when you're against the clock, as I was determined to get the next hourly train onto Saltcoats. A strict 25 mins in the pub required ......

.... a shame really as Brown Bull, Lochwinnoch (3094 / 5935) wins 'pub of the day' hands down. Wood panelled walls and beamed low ceiling quite delightful. Whisky's galore glinting back at you from behind the bar. But just like a library, to the point of being awkward, one of those where you feel like speaking out loud rather than whispering your ale order makes you somehow oikish and lacking respect. I order a delightful Chokka Blokka Mocha Stout, 4.8%, slips down well within the time limits. And only one unsavoury glare, from the old dude wearing a jumper from the 'Last Christmas' music video, reading a book about the most Protestant wading birds in the UK. He really was deliberately unfriendly. The wispy barmaid has a beer delivery incoming ..... surely this would louden things up, but no, it was somehow conducted in total silence despite the many return trips between cellar and van wheeling barrels in. 23 mins? Right, I'm rounding that up to 25. It'll take the pressure off my walk back.

Despite a little diversion so I have even less walking close to the busy road (there was a pavement but it was very narrow), I make the train easily and wend my way to my Saltcoats.

Now I was quite the Ayrshire & Arran ticking aficionado back in the hot June of 2016, but I've neglected it since and I was down to only five ticks. Time to claw it back.

Mobility Scooters never lie. Oooof, or is it oooosh, och, wheesh and help ma boab, Salt Cot, Saltcoats (3095 / 5936) was REAL LIFE. It's a real shame that my Orkney Man O' Hoy, so good down in Kenilworth, was so ropey, cos this was eccentric 'Spoons masterpiece. From the staircase condiments to the FOUR different old guys who ask me 'what's yer owl?' One guy is so impressed, he picks up Owlie McBurnie by the skull, taking him over to his mates table for a show 'n tell. And for a bonus point, the toilet was directly behind me, same level. I approve of any close proximity 'Spoons loo.

Next was Largs and a quick McGreggs steak bake is purchased to soak up some of that vinegary ale. I'd been here back in 2016 to tick a pretty shite bar called J G Sharps. It is the 'Spoons in this year though, my third of four today already ......

I wasn't expecting Paddle Steamer, Largs (3096 / 5937) to pull up many trees (raise many shipwrecks?) but I'm voting it Wetherspoons of the Holiday (WOTH). No mean feat considering how many needed ticking. A large window backs out to the sea and views out to Cumbrae (which I also did in 2016, in a thrilling thunderstorm) and there's also a centrepiece fire roaring away like a Scottish harridan who's lost her lotto ticket. A perky Laurel n Hardy double act serve me an excellent Dark Fruits (not THAT one), one complains that his knees are fooking fooked, but insists on me tasting the D.Fruits before committing to a full pint of what he perceives an untrustworthy drink. The carpet is a smooth, simplistic fully shagged 9/10 which you can roll around on if you felt the urge. Pubbub bounces with humanity, slightly lairy, yet it felt companionable, and smelt cleaner than the national average.

Next on the list, West Kilbride, hopefully no relation to East Kilbride home of enforced 'Spoons queueing if you read my previous blog, I wor fumin'. Never needed to come here in 2016, but underfoot it felt like a lot of coastal Ayrshire towns ......

It says a lot about how well I'd adapted to my surroundings that I immediately know Twa Dugs, West Kilbride (3097 / 5938) translates as 'two dogs'. Don't ask me why. Scotland innit? An advert for the Cat Protection League on a giant plasma when I arrive. Would Alanis call that ironic? Probably not. Locals and barmaid aren't impressed by my decoding of the local tongue, I'd half been expecting to be presented with a commemorative Scotland football shirt but all I got were kind sympathetic 'are you an English simpleton?' looks of despair. It was a frustrating pub to sit in too. Clean, smart, tidy, friendly enough, but lacking. Although the office ladies to my left were having a right auld after-work knees up, the pub (and I'm so close to calling it a 'bar') is bright, modern and antiseptic. The other highlight, if you can call it that, was hearing 'Smile' by The Supernaturals for the first time since Sunderland Uni 1997 when I bought the single in Solid Sounds for my dusty Panasonic ghettoblaster. I think one of the B-Sides was about Dumbarton's old ground Boghead Park.

With a gloam descending on West Scotland as gloams have a habit of doing, it was time to push for my sixth and final tick of the night. Irvine, where back in 2016 I'd been charmed by the Ship Inn. This one was a lot more handily situated, of course it was, it was a 'Spoons.

The butterfly enclosure style frontage didn't have me expecting much, but once again, Auld Brig, Irvine (3098 / 5939) provides a strong 'Spoons more along the Largs lines than Saltcoats. 'So strong, a teaspoon would stand up in it' I wrote at the time, which is six pint talk if ever I heard it. The Dark Island is a cracker, pint of the day. Redemption for Orkney. I'm just admiring the 8/10 carpets resemblance to the bottom of a Loch - not that I've plunged the depths too often - when two old gadgies ask me about my GBG, Owlie and how come my bag is so small. Rude! And a long story involving a wet day in Manchester and shoddy Mod workmanship. But they ask me to sit with them. Stuart and 'Papa' Jim, a man of the cloth from Oban with his own church. If he sees me in the 'Spoons up there, he'll buy me a pint. Hopefully I don't have to join his church. Wonder if he'll drive me to Kilmartin? 'Twas a nice drunken chat to end another fine day of Scottish pub ticking.

Early blog release tonight as I'm doing fun things not involving beer. But I'll be back for part 5 either Fri or more likely Sunday featuring more from Ayrshire, Glasgow city centre on a European football night, and two lovely ladies from my work.

Keep it pub, Si