Thursday 25th April 2024
As incomprehensible to me as this unseasonal dollop of hailstones I'm currently experiencing is Salford itself.
Where does it start? Where does it end? Are the boundaries clearly defined? Or is it abstract? Like Telford, Stoke or Mondrian? I'm aware there's two mainline train stations, a Metro line Salford Quays where I was at this moment. And I once visited a dead-of-night spooky back-of-beyond Holt's house in a place called New Windsor which a gurning man told me was actually Salford.
I like Manchester. You know where you stand with Manchester.
And to think, had I spoken more passionately on the 'Freak or Unique' segment of TFI Friday , I could've been a student here back in '97. Never have I been so pleased to fail an interview. Daddy BRAPA (in the days when he was plain Bernard) camped out for me in a pub called the Lima on Peru Street. "No guns, no knives, no drugs" said the sign on the door as he 'enjoyed' a terrifying lager. Sunderland was Mevagissey by comparison.
Media City was today's destination, just as it had been six years ago when I'd been underwhelmed by the reluctant to open on time CraftBrew. This one looks like Milton Keynes Costa Coffee.
Dockyard, Salford Quays (2767 / 4927) was very CraftBrew, and I may've thought it was the same place under a different name if the building here had been less black and pointing skywards. Whoever designed the furniture here didn't think much about the human form, not only is the barmaid stood in a hole two metres below bar level, but the (mainly posing) tables assume people have seriously long bodies. We are coming towards the end of the lunchtime 'rush', and some self important blokes with lanyards & braces are swigging off their G&T's. This is like weekday Central London for scruffs. Three budding comedy writers sit close to my back and consider a George & Mildred reboot. The house beer is slightly tired, but wouldn't be the worst pint I'd have today. And why do the cushions have Herefordshire motifs? Ledbury this was not.
The best thing about this branch of the Manchester Metrolink is that it leads to Eccles. And once at Eccles, the sun is out. No Eccles ticks required, but I had one at Patricroft which let's be honest isn't a difficult walk. It immediately offers greater promise.
Stanley Arms, Patricroft (2768 / 4928) is a Joey Holt's street corner jewel, a heritage pub no less - the green tiled corridor leading to the bulky gents urinals is a thing of beauty, as is the layout, doors and etched windows. The pub bleeds all that I love about the old Greater Manchester pub scene, and if I see a door marked "Vault" (another GMR trait), BRAPA rules are I have to go through it. I'd made the right choice, the locals were here. Two barmaids. A grumpy old llama who serves me, she looks like she wants to chew up her dinner and spit it in my face. Younger friendlier one (her daughter?) gives me a reassuring smile and when I choose a the Mild (not the Mellow mild, just the standard one) she asks if I'm doing the mild trail? Although I tell her we're not (referring to Ozan Toucan who loves a black beer, if she or anyone else wondered) , she cuts out a little token for us. I sit in 'Pissheads Corner' next to a photo of Bobby George (not the same person as Boy George despite what Sister BRAPA thinks), I've got some bling on today too! A lady tells a 'humorous' story about a trip to the bingo and some rogue dabbers causing her to be stained red for 24 hours. A first GBG appearance since 2012, and it is of great reassurance that even ten years into my BRAPA challenge that I can still unearth gems like this.
The time is coming up to 3:30pm, my next tick over in Monton opens at 4pm, and it is a 26 minute walk according to Dr Google so I've timed it pretty well.
Granted, I have to speed up a bit crossing a motorway bridge as there's some scary lads doing what appears to be a drugs deal. "Are you sorted for E's and Whizz?" they ask. I tell them the only E that gets me high is ESB and I must now 'whizz' off to Monton if I'm to make 4pm opening.
Didn't happen obviously, else I'd probably not be here to write this.
I'm actually early into Monton, shutter still down so I find some grassland behind a housing estate for a sly piddle, returning to pub 4:05pm. The guy setting up outside doesn't seem pleased to see me. "Gimme 5-10 minutes!" he huffs, setting up a load of outdoor furniture despite the renewed rainfall, some under an awning I grant you, but by no means all.
I tell him I'll linger, though I'm tempted to say 'shouldn't you have been doing this at 3:50?' but I don't wanna be barred before I even enter.
Monton Tap, Monton (2769 / 4929) doesn't get my heart racing. You think he'd have given me the call wouldn't you? Alas, I have to wait for a regular called Chris to enter for me to realise. Chris is recovering from shingles. He moans on at least three separate occasions that he's got so much ironing to do, because he's had extra loads of washing due to scabs on his stomach oozing pus over the inside of his shirts. Ew! I keep a wide berth, and I am the king of over-sharing. The first beer I ask for goes off immediately, but the ever reliable Abbeydale Deception is a fine replacement and one of today's better kept ales. I was never expecting a Stanley Arms, but if you are gonna do a Micropub in the purest sense of the word (what might be cruelly referred to as 'on the cheap') minimum requirement at least is to get the basics right, and the opening time fiasco plus the Brightside going off meant it was impossible for me to look on the bright side! Bench seating is comfy to be fair. And once he shuts the door and gets the music going, it feels a whole lot nicer. A canny old bloke with a Man Utd baseball cap sits next to me. But I think this is a Man City pub cos I hear them saying Phil Foden's had his medals displayed nearby. Tempted to go the full Cloughie and say he needs to return 'em cos he's won them all by cheating, but again, I don't want to be barred before I've finished my beer, which I do shortly after.
Google Maps then does me a solid and sends me on a picturesque walk up to Swinton for my penultimate tick. Through a golf course, nice country path, dog walkers wishing me a cheerful good afternoon, and then sun is back out, this was one of today's happier moments and it didn't even come in a pub.
A bit like the sunshine, the good vibes wouldn't last long into my White Horse Hotel, Swinton (2770 / 4930) experience. A lack lustre roadside GK house, it would be open plan grimness if it wasn't for the superb wooden windowed partition offering some privacy in what becomes an almost separate room. And privacy was needed as I encountered one of my most hated characters who I had no interaction with in BRAPA history! You'd have to go all the way back to April 2016 and Mr Paint Stained Overalls of Wokingham Queen's Head fame to find such a despicable vile individual. No spatial awareness, throwing his weight around, unpredictable and overly physical, bar blocking, hugging a woman and shouting '17 jaegarbombs!' cos he didn't expect her to be here today, showing off to staff, he really was the worst type of human being, I could just tell. As they on toxic Football Twitter, get his hard drive checked. In the face of such pressure, the barmaid does a grand job of pulling my Tim Taylor Landlord with immaculate precision, sad to report it turned to vinegar in the second half cos it had offered early promise. But I'm just glad to get out alive.
Determined to get the 7pm train out of Victoria as I had work in the morning, I speed myself up with a taxi cheat to ensure I can get a 5th and final tick. Moorside train station is just a 25 minute walk, and it went straight through Salford, but every minute counted at this stage.
Good guy is our Dilawar, as we hit Salford, he points out that despite the sun streaming into the car, the sky is worryingly black just to our left. "Looks ominous!" I say, and soon giant hailstones are thudding on the windscreen, and I'm glad I manage to get a decent outdoor shot before running for cover ......
A first GBG entry since 2014 but a respectable 18th in total for King's Arms, Salford (2771 / 4931), and easily the best of today's entries since Patricroft. Those South London pubbers out there will know what I mean when I describe it as an Antic on steroids, the only downside to me was that I find the quirkiness a teensy bit forced. But great barmaid chat (weather obviously), I do a very animated impression of rain and hail bouncing down which someone should really have videoed as revenge for all my invasive photography in years gone by! Enjoyed the lounge lizard ambiance, spongy sofas, young colourful crowd, and my 'Chris the Orange Giant' beer drank exceedingly Donald Trump skin, in a good way. Great to end on a high, and only a 15 minute trek back to Victoria for the 7pm win!
See you all on Tuesday for the MONTH END REVIEW. Dunno why it is capitalised. Just the way April has been.
Si
