A sparse spartan ice block of a micro can still achieve a positive BRAPA review, providing the beer is 5/5 and the owner is as brilliant as Patrick was here at the Bard, Prescot (2603 / 4764), or to give it its full not at all pretentious name, 'Bard's Hamlet by Cask'. These bearded jolly young Shakespeare's huddled around the bar were exhibiting shaggy Shetland grazing goat behaviour, and weirdly all sounded North Welsh from a distance. This could be because my beer was from Mold or because I was thinking of another famous Patrick publican, from Bangor. Close up, everyone is more obviously scouse. Patrick is impressed with my 58% GBG progress, even though I've always considered myself the Bristol City of the pub ticking world, a perennial lower mid table candidate with lofty ambitions above my station. I was never in danger of removing coat, hat, scarf or gloves here, but you know what, against the odds I really enjoyed it and Patrick sends me away with a few pre-emptive foods for thought.
Bill's views on GBG ticking in Norfolk
Next up, I bond with a zimmer man (not Bob Dylan) because we both impatiently take the wrong bus to the top of Whiston when in fact we are trying to get to Rainhill. We change onto the next bus.
As long as I keep my discipline and don't linger, I can get my Rainhill tick and still make the 7pm train from Newton-le-Willows. C'mon!
Skew Bridge Alehouse, Rainhill (2604 / 4765)
"Hullo, hullo, hullo, what ho, hi, hullo!" I say, crashing into Merseyside's latest precinct micro like a modern day Bertie Wooster, having been buoyed by my Bard. Sadly, the patrons haven't read the Shakespearean / Wodehousian script and I'm greeted with an all round sigh of begrudging acceptance. "Oooh, Victoria Pale, we are not amused eh? Fabulous ho ho, only 3.5%, I'll have a pint of that please ho ho, what what!" I chirrup, just thankful I'm a one off visitor. This joint has a bit more depth and central heating than Bard but it chillier in other ways! Most of the customers are a mass of Irishmen, whose favourite subject is how everything in Ireland is better than England, but Liverpool gets a free pass. One tries to start a hearty pub singalong. "McAlpine's Fusiliers". Never been a favourite of mine, so I decline. Colin is spied by a couple across the room who look like BBC daytime quiz show regulars, so we say hi. A trip to the loo is enlightening because my phone tells me the next Merseyrail services are cancelled in both directions. Shite! As I return to the bar, the last of the Irish are leaving so I stop at daytime TV quiz table to tell them my transport woes. Mrs Quiz recommends me a pre-emptive called the Commercial which is doing great beer things and is up for 2025 selection, in case I'm bored of this place. I couldn't possibly comment.
I reach the imposing handsome Commercial Hotel by the station but stop dead in my tracks when my phone pings again to say even more Merseyrail services are cancelled. Damn! Will I ever get home?
I summons up an Uber to take my back to Newton-le-Willows as I need to be on the main line for York. Because he's only 4 minutes away, it is pointless even setting foot inside the Commercial. Watch it make the 2025 GBG, would be classic dumb BRAPA luck.
I don't like Uberman cos I thought we had an understanding he was to drop at my pub rather than the station cos I have 40 minutes to spare. But he pulls into the station and makes me change my journey on the App, jobsworth! I'd already tipped him too like a dope. Take note kids, never tip before your journey has finished.
Then he drops me on the wrong side of road doing a needless turning circle and I'm convinced he's the agent of a rival ticker. I dash across, just avoiding an oncoming Deliveroo bike. Firkin blurry 'ell!
Firkin, Newton-le-Willows (2605 / 4766)
'Every public transport cloud must have a pubby silver lining' to coin that well known BRAPA phrase. I'd had no intention of doing this meanie limited hours micro (Closed Mon-Wed, 5:30 Thu, 2pm Fri-Sun), but due to circs beyond my control, here I was! A bonus tick and a stunning pint of North Riding Bourbon & Vanilla Porter to boot. It is a vibrant leafy colourful local. Never any chance of me making the personal impact I had in the previous two, in fact I doubt I was noticed at all. Not that I felt shunned or unloved, it was a happy experience to stick your face in a plant around the corner, listen to local jibber jabber, charge up the phone, and be grateful there was a direct evening service to York. I also admired one of exposed tubular ceiling air ducts like what they used to escape through in Prisoner Cell Block H and get burned to death. Lovely.
So all seemed rosy in the garden BRAP as I gallop up the steps at NLW, six minutes til the train, only to hear an announcement "THIS SERVICE HAS BEEN CANCELLED!" I break the bad news to two lads who run up a couple of minutes later.
"They'll have to put us in a taxi to Manchester!" chirps the non Sri Lankan ex-student. I go for a wee in the corner (think it was the stress) and return to find them chatting to a station dude, who confirms a taxi has been sent for. Good job there's only three of us.
20 mins or so later, taxi arrives. A girl appears out of nowhere, jumps in the front, us three in the back. The ex-student was on the same course the current student is, so they chat lecturers, modules & stuff and I ramble half-coherently about BRAPA.
Seems a long ride but we make it, and me and our lass are dropped off first at Victoria. I buy a Greggs and a coffee, and 30 mins later, the train arrives for York. Back home 23:35, 2.5 hrs later than planned, big glass of water, brush teeth and straight to bed cos I have to be up for work at 7:15. Ugh!
But Merseyside is goin' well, only NINE pubs left. and I'll try to do most of them in Feb.
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