Pubs, people, pints. Not necessarily in that order. But a simple formula for BRAPA success.
Achieve a 3/5 in each category and you're laughing.
Problem is, my London pub history tells me it goes something like this:
Pubs 3/5
People 2/5
Pints 2/5
So how pleased was I to be able to report something more like:
Pubs 4/5
People 4/5
Pints 3/5
.... after my recent 33 pub tick-a-thon in mostly SW, but with a chunk of W. and even some bonus C. thrown in for good measure.
Even these first eight didn't commit any cardinal sins, there's no Dumfries & Galloway beer vitriol. No Wiltshire staff wrongs. Just that some pubs are a bit too 'London' if you know what I mean ....
A pub with so many previous incarnations, all of which are presumably as successful as this current vehicle(!) that even those local to SW4 on my TwXtter struggled to identify it. The most telling factor is that I'm the only customer on a sunny late weekday afternoon, busy location in the old town, in a pub which for the most part is a posing table clad stark wood and metal monstrosity. Beer-wise, 'shit Gwent' is probably the most accurate description. HPA pump turned around, the Butty Bach tastes like no Butty Bach ever witnessed (not that I'm a fan of Doom Bar's sweet but generally well regarded western cousin), and the 'ever-changing' guest ale the GBG promised had obviously got locked in a changing room with its pants down.
Foresters Arms, Hampton Wick
Because I've visited many genuine great W London pubs with 'Hampton' in the name (Jolly Coopers, Roebuck etc.), this self-styled 'boutique' pub (i.e. charge an absolute fortune to stay overnight) was a bland anti-climactic flop. This was my final tick with ole' mate John from Hitchin, and I'm glad he's here to keep me distracted, reminiscing on the state of the British pop charts in 1975 just before punk came along to save us. Had we turned left instead of right, we may have found a vaguely pubbier environment. But let's not victim blame. Surrey Hills Shere Drop is a beer I've delighted in previously but it tasted distinctly un-Sherey here, more like sherry. In fact, when we'd walked in, a small blackboard was strategically positioned obscuring all three handpumps, in perhaps the most Edinburgh & Lothians move I've ever seen in a London pub. Only Colin's emergency Mini Cheddars could save us now. At least a nice American laptop lady chomping on chips helps us make sense of local train times to keep this pub off the bottom.
I never have much luck in Hanwell, my fifth tick here in BRAPA history. And the worst pint of the week, a fizzy farty mess from By the Horns meant that run continued. Shame really, as despite being stereotypically open-plan-London, thrilling partitions, soothing wood panelling and gleaming mirrors showed off its heritage nicely, always reassuring when pubs haven't been too overtly tinkered with. However, much like Hull City, just because you can trace the origins to 1904, it doesn't mean you'll automatically enjoy it. I sit underneath the TV showing the cricket, and a business man opposite is constantly astonished through mouthfuls of ham, egg & chips as England take wicket after wicket. "No one tells me nuffink!" whines a barman who thinks he's a bit of a comedian, as his colleagues discuss some new initiative. Well kept cask beer or something.
Tucked away in well-heeled backstreets close to the river and a decent trek from Hammersmith station, if we were playing London pub bingo, you'd be screaming 'full house!' less than two minutes into your visit here. After throwing Christmas party bookings in my face, I'm chinged £6.60 for one of the fizziest Proper Jobs I've experienced. Shame, I normally love this beer. 90% of customers are young professionals draining the pub Wi-fi. Working from home? Yeah, right! Staff are cutesie fragile, but everyone seems to know what they're doing, and I had grudging respect for this place in the same way I had respect for Ipswich Town last season. Symptomatic of the high standard of my holiday that pubs like this find themselves so low down my rankings.
It was supposed to be the celebratory BRAPA moment of the week .... my final tick in SW London. And then I see the above sign. Yes, for a third time already in the 2025 GBG (only the Eurythmics have appeard more), a 'wake' threatens to stymie me. Selfish in my opinion to book out an entire PUBlic house for private means .... that's a hill I'm willing to die on, and when I've died on said hill and my family have reserved a room in York's Fox Inn, ignore any silly private signs, push my Mum out of the way, and get yerself in for a pint and a free sausage roll. "It is wot BRAPA would've wanted". Anyway, I'm about to walk away despondent when the above legend, departing at this very moment, remarks "try your luck gents (I was with Hitchin John and Colin), you might be ok, it is winding down now". So we try. Our Fullers airbrushed staff seem unconvinced as I plead my cause in a hushed semi-respectful tone. Finally, boss barman relents. He was going to make us sit outside, which would've been fine, but then he pulls a wooden door across the two areas, so we are separated from any lingering mourners. The Pride drinks well, and even a local urchin manages to sneak in, he should be thanking me. It all makes for a rather tepid pub experience, how much of a good time are we allowed to have? Even John is subdued, Colin stays in the bag. Main bonus is the loos are around this side. And main thing is, I got my tick.
Tucked away in the difficult backstreets next to Putney Common, my initial impression is "oh no, not another identikit London pub" with its Christmas begging, clompy wooden floor, leafy water dispenser, far too many blackboards, lost tourists in identical jackets wondering how British pubs work, and beer served from a dimpled handled glass. But observe closer, and there's an amusing undercurrent here. Our host and his bald polished head glints off the sun and tells me that whilst the Pride might be off, cheer up son cos the Sambrook Junction is actually decent. A sinister chef peers through the plates, and when he catches my eye, his eyeball glimmers wickedly like Transfer in Willy Fog. A bloke at the bar might look like a total wrong 'un, but look closer, he's watching kittens playing with ducklings on YouTube. And to top it off, we have Kirsty. This statuesque Scottish goth lady who seems quite taken with Colin, and is interested to hear his Black Country accent. "Alroite Kirsty bab!" She was thrilled. A pub that looked so boring on first glance, but was low-key hilarity.
Apt monkey expression when I arrive at the C&A, because there's this bloke outside (the man from C&A?) who is all over the place, ranting and raving at anyone in sight, windmilling his arms, and the staff are on the scene trying to move him on, placate him, I don't know what. "They should leave him alone, he's harmless!" this chap mutters to me, and I confess I'm not local so I wouldn't know but shame he isn't 'armless (I'm funny like that). After receiving my frothiest pint of the week, we sit together and I must like and trust the bloke because I let him do the highlighting. Only problem is, despite not being particularly late in the day, this is the drunkest I felt in a pub all week so apologies to the Crown & Anchor if the gaps in my memory are having you lower down the rankings than you deserve.
We stay in Brixton for the final pub of part one, but in a totally different SW post code which begs the question "how bloody big is Brixton?" I actually limped up from Tulse Hill station on the Sunday morning, 'fresh' from Norwich the day before, and immediately got myself wedged in the entrance door - and only got laughed at a tiny bit when I deserved a full on guffaw. Nice guv'nor, Banter re opening wine bottles was genuine and natural, and the Boltmaker drank really well. Plantpot right next to me, but I didn't have to 'Taylor' it. Yes, it was in this very first pub that I decided "London is going to be luckier this time". Few too many twilds and young twarents for this pub to finish higher, and insanely London on the old bingo card, but there was enough here to commend.
So in conclusion, with the possible exception of the Apollo, I reckon you could visit any of these and have an okay experience. Just don't do them all in the same day!
Apologies for the lateness of this blog release, had an after work 'nap' and didn't wake up til after 7pm. I'm now wide awake and bet I can't sleep for ages, grrrr.
See you tomorrow for eight more, where the pubs will get slightly more interesting but with a few touches of frustration.
Bye for now, Si
Your trip to the Apollo was EXACTLY the same as mine, reassuringly. I think it would definitely be in my Top 3 worst GBG visits of all time and the only one worse was a Brewers Fayre in Glenrothes.