BRAPA .... YOU AND ME AT TWO & SIX / POST HARDCORE DRINKING IN SHEFF & DERBYS

Saturday 11th April 2026

Considering by mindset going into today was "I've barely recovered from my Bicester Easter break, only three or four pub ticks on the agenda today so let's have a quiet one", it is astonishing and quite appalling that I end up drinking 10 (TEN) pints.

I'm hoping this blog will prove that it wasn't my fault, I was merely a victim of circumstance / led astray by Daddy BRAPA. But we will see.

Sheffield Utd away. Could we revive our ailing playoff push against the out of form Blades or would we slip ever nearer that 7th place of doom with Wrexham and Derby hot on our heels?

Dad was off to the game but my plan was to finish South Yorkshire with the great man, and then head down to North Derbyshire for two or three solo ticks before returning home about 7ish.

The most peaceful York-Sheffield service in Christendom swerves the likes of L**ds and Donny for more beautiful places like Pontefract Fuckhill and Meadowhell, and we barely see another passenger.

We are in ridiculously early. So consider a second coffee. You see, trying to be good. But Sheffield station doesn't seem to have a warm indoor place where you can sit comfortably.

'Sheffield Tap will probably be open' comments Dad reluctantly. I acquiesce with a reluctant nod. We reluctantly trot over.

See how reluctant he looks

Two indoor bouncers are deferential. The brunette barmaid is a quirky and chatty sweetheart. I decide to have a half. Restraint. She commends my choice mainly because the pump clip has a leathered texture like the suitcase it is supposed to represent. The main bar room already stinks of Hull Tigers so we head to the larger side area, nice and quiet. Good half, properly nursed, because I'm being GOOD. Dad spies his mate 'the Manchester Tiger' who always seems to pop up in the same pubs as us, from Nuneaton to Chorley. Must have good taste. He goes over for a chat. But the clock is approaching 11am. Time to get moving. I have pre-emptive intentions.

Our walk from station to Sheff centre is badly timed. A bunch of Hull City nobbers have arrived off a train just at this moment, and are walking alongside us chanting "Sheffield's a shithole, I wanna go home" which seems silly as they've only just arrived. "Go home if you want, we won't care" I mutter under my breath so only Dad can hear.

They all disappear into some poxy bar selling shots for a £1 or something. Soon we arrive at evil Thornbridge's new vehicle, and hopefully nailed on pre-emptive, The Fargate. An exciting one for Dad because it used to be the Yorkshire Bank, and he visited it 'on insepection' during his glittering career.

As the cathedral bells bong and 11am ticks around, the Southern Supporters arrive on the scene and station themselves just outside the front door so we ain't even gonna get served first now! Grrr. I nod and smile at the ones I recognise. Paul, Paul and probably Paul.

The interior is something of a damp squib, well if you visited it in its YB heyday. For all the high ceilings and wood panelling, it has been blanded out. Dad confirming it was far more ornate and dare I say 'pubby' when it was YB! Bankers Cat in L**ds remains my favourite of theirs. This is a bit more Colmore dare I say it.

A second quirky chatty brunette has some 'bantz' with me. All staff are very excellent. No staff discount for former bank staff like us though. A pint of Jaipur (it'd be rude not not) is immaculate. A throwback to when every Spoons did it last summer. I'm not a fan of the layout either. Disjointed, a bit chilly and like York's Market Cat, the smell of burnt pizza becomes overwhelming after a while.

I talk myself into another beer I'd spied, a 7.7% Imperial Stout. "You didn't NEED to get that" chides Dad. 'Need' no. 'Want' yes. Subtle difference old boy. Just a half though. See, I WAS trying to be good.

Noon was approaching, so we made the short walk to my one remaining South Yorkshire tick in the 2026 Guide and just like my drinking aims today, I'd shown great restraint in hanging onto this tick all the way through til April. A more impatient ticker based in this same city (I won't name him) could never.

Impressively above average micro (I'd expect nothing less from a Sheffield GBG entry), Two & Six Micropub, Sheffield (3386 / 6226) rockets into Dad's top ten micros ever, he tells me. I'd like to see the list but I'd imagine its all in his head. Like McBurnie. The Pentrich was so fluffy, it looked like a banked Bass from Stockton. But hazy obviously, AS IF Pentrich could brew anything see through!! 5* quality. "Lined glass so full pint measure!" snips landlady, just in case I was gonna go all southern on her. 'I want a full pint of liquid, no head' Utter wrong 'uns. She's a top lass too. Agrees with everything I say so she's obviously made of the right stuff. Dad gets a huge bag of sharer crisps. I'm feeling the booze already and I think that 7.7% Imperial half might have something to do with it, so it is good to have something to soak it up.

Time to say farewell to Daddy BRAPA and wish him luck for the game ahead. He has plans to go to the Bath Hotel, that cute blue square little backstreet pub. My next train to Chesterfield is cancelled, so Dad sees me onto a bus.

It is hot and I feel woozy and start drifting off to sleep. When I wake up I'm dying for the loo but we've bombed past Dronfield and on a direct route into the town of the crooked sprites. Past the football ground, a few Tranmere fans are wandering around looking confused about life but sadly no sign of fellow pub ticker Leon.

I cross the road and enter post-emptive Wetherspoons Spa Lane Vaults. Just a half of the sort of aptly named 3Faze by Falstaff because I'm trying to be good. It is ok, bit fizzy. The carpet is a swimmy 8. It is a bit of a scrotehole. I much prefered the Portland when I went t'other year. My two long wees was the highlight.

Having recovered to some extent, I get myself out to this place called Old Tupton which is (a) open and (b) a rare North Derbyshire tick I still need.

Uneventful wooden enjoyable is how I'd sum up Tupton Tap, Old Tupton (3387 / 6227) if I was in charge of the CAMRA edition of WhatThreeWords. Or 'Keg Products Undrinkable'. Looking back (over my shoulder), I guess this was the first chance I'd had to relax today. A barman, we'll call him Mike, delivers the best Derbyshire vowels of the day, the Mechanics of getting your mouth around such sounds is hard to fathom. Durham Magus and Paul Simon are a dreamy concoction which add to my sense of relaxation, and with the news coming through the Owlie McBurnie's namesake has given us the lead at Bramall Lane, I give him a little fly around the pub. Don't worry, no one was watching because two rival dogs had just met .....

Controversially expensive Uber next, to cut out the Chesterfield middle man. It takes me to Matlock for a new tick which was almost 2019's MoCa Bar but not quite, according to a normally reliable local source. Not Henderson's. (that was a joke, and is a relish anyway so shut up).

Great Uber chat. He's Romanian and impressed with my knowledge of their homeland, which is solely based on that 1990 World Cup ridiculous ring binder sticker album.

I reel them off. Popescu, Hagi, Petrescu, Lack-a-tooth (or something). I even mention one he doesn't know, Dorin Mateut but it could be my pronunciation. He throws in Nadia Comaneci. I ask if she was an unused sub. I don't think he gets my humour.

The Remarkable Hare, Matlock (3388 / 6228) absolutely stinks of Matlock. Totally unremarkable, ironically, but if you could paint a new GBG Matlock entry in your mind's eye with zero imagination, this is your place. Look, I didn't dislike it. Foody. Twiddly. Packed full of exclusively 55-65 year old Prosecco day trippers from West Yorkshire with ruddy complexions. Weird low lamps make it look like my Citra North Riding is under police interrogation. Guilty of being brilliant m'lud. Hull City have been 1-0 up for ages, when will this game end? A group lean into my table to take a group selfie and apologise. I offer to take it. They seem thrilled and surprised (cheek!) that it hasn't come out blurry. On their way out, one of the blokes decides to fist bump me. Then I realise he has a L**ds Utd badge on his sweatshirt. I rush to the loo to bleach my knuckles and look up Peak buses. Quick last check of score ...... oh, we've suddenly lost 2-1. The curse of the L**ds knuckle. Gets you every time. We're missing the playoffs aren't we?

I should really go to Bakewell from here, but there are more buses going Derby-wards. This wasn't in my plan. I drop Daddy B. a commiserations WhatsApp from atop the wheel arch of the bus.

'Must not fall asleep, must not fall asleep' I tell myself forcing my eyes open. Head is a bit swimmy by now. Five and a half pint by my calculations. NOT terrible. Look I have been trying to be good, I KEEP telling you. You do believe me don't you?

Inevitably I nearly miss the stop, bus absolutely bombs around this (not quite) hairpin bend in (not quite) middle of nowhere so seems a strange place to put a pub. King William, Milford (3389 / 6229) is heaving, I wasn't expecting this when I pushed the door. As you'd expect, the Milfs of Milford are in, on the prosecco, but their grown up kids are also here, on the Rosie's Pig and Bass. Craving a dark beer, I go for a 'Dark Tactics'. Seems apt from what I'm hearing about the last 15 mins of our game. The bloke on the pumpclip even looks like Chris Wilder in a nightgown, laughing at me. Terrifying. The pub snack range is elite, best I've seen in a pub all year. Only Pickled Onion Monster Munch away from Greatest of All Time. Pub really buzzes with life. In & out of the GBG like a yo-yo, amazed I've not been before. Local competition might be the reason it isn't a regular? That's what Axholme Rob reckons, and how could you doubt the word of a Lincs man? I start reading a CAMRA mag and get a few looks, feels like the kinda gaff where admitting you can read makes you a sissy. Top boozer, best today.

Despite my wobbliness, I manage to make the bus stop and soon I'm wandering around Derby in a haze, not for the first time in my life.

Ah yes that's right, I DO have a pub to tick here, but it isn't very walkable. I did once have it vaguely pointed out to me from a junction by Derby Rich in a 'there's a new micropub down there but it ain't very good so no chance of it making the GBG' kinda way, but Derby CAMRA is as guilty as anywhere for getting all gooey groined at the prospect of a dull newbie .......

I try and hold myself together in an attempt at sober nonchalance at the bar, just long enough to order the Bass I swerved in the last pub. Hoppy Place, Chaddesden, Derby (3390 / 6230) is as unremarkable as a Matlock Hare, though in its defence, my faculties weren't fully in play. I sense a touch of cliquey American Werewolf in Londonness about the clientele / staff, not Palk Arms Hennock levels, but it lingered throughout, just background, but enough to make me pleased my mind and body were separated by now. But that's when something weird started to happen. Bass has such an iconic reputation, and this version was chalky but felt incredibly life giving. By jove, I do believe I was drinking myself sober!

Should've probably gone for a 3 Chef's Kebab next door, but I start walking, and walking a bit more, and think I eventually pick up a bus to take me back to Derby station. Amazingly, I still hadn't lost my Derbyshire Wayfarer Bus + Train, and even more amazingly, have the wherewithal to realise I only need to buy a Sheff-York ticket cos I'm valid Derby-Sheff.

Sheffield Tap revisit whilst I wait for my train home? Despite feeling sober again, I limit myself to just a half of their Tapped Mojo. After all, I AM trying to be good. Brings me up to eight pints. Choo choo.

The Tap doesn't have the magic of 10am. No Daddy BRAPA. No nice brunette with leather suitcase chat. Even the bouncers have gone home. Plus it is a bit stickier and grimier by now which is why I'd always choose the Rutland if I had the time available.

Quick coffee for the train, back in York I'm thinking 'wouldn't a late night KFC be nice?' but I'm not quite hungry enough. Feeling amazingly clear headed and sprightly, I head for York Tap. 10pm but still plenty of folk in, which is a relief because it has a habit of winding down / calling last orders quite abruptly, even on a Saturday.

A honeycomb waffle ice cream stout by Daddy BRAPA faves Wilde Child is a glorious pudding beer I deserve for my efforts today. I put my headphone in and listen to punk rock, oh and 'I Love Your Smile' by Shanice. A man makes me jump. He apologises and says 'I'm just grabbing a beermat'. Even though every table in the joint has beermats. Dork! Are the beermats on my table extra good? Anyway, I wish him a pleasant evening and sort of mean it.

Then I try and make a tower out of the beermats, frustrated because it doesn't work very well with circular ones.

I start singing Kylie's part of 'Especially For You' when that barmaid I only ever see at 22:30 on a Saturday interrupts my dulcet tones to inform me they've just called time at the bar if I want anything else.

I'm still not quite hungry enough for KFC, so rush up and for some weird reason choose Tim Taylor Landlord, but it is bloody glorious, like the best TTL I've had in 2026 so far. I'm the second last person to leave (a blonde shouty lady who can't stand up is wondering where the door is). Feeling happy, hungry and slightly merry again, I trip down to KFC, then home and watch my favourite episode of 'The Thick of It'.

I wake up at 12 noon on Sunday, do my Untappd checkins, realise I drank 10 pints, feeling seedy and uttterly ashamed, and have a headache all day, but looking back now, I did apply restraint at many key points during the day. Otherwise we could've been talking Alan Winfield levels of pintage. Now that would have been interesting.

K.I.P. , Si x