Back at Taylor Towers we let BRAPA score our tea-making and showed him the plaque commemorating his previous visit.
Being a nice chap he’d bought me a present that I unwrapped immediately, being anti-Christmas.
Wow. Bass ashtray and beer mat. Stolen from Bridlington, no doubt.
Mrs RM told work to “Do one” for the afternoon (easier when you’re self-employed) and joined us on the train into Cambridge, where an uncertain number of BRAPA ticks awaited.
A similar walk to the one we did with the Southworths back in the Summer, except today it was freezing and wet. Simon wasn’t coping well.
Starting with the Calverley Brewery Tap, a prized tick due to Thr-Sat opening. Mrs RM does the honours while Si eavesdrops on conversations about fanzines. Of course.
I’d promised them pizza from the food truck outside the Calverley, but of course that was shut. I’d promised them pizza is the theme for this post.
With 20 minutes till Tick No. 2 we (OK, Mrs RM) made the rash decision to revisit the Cambridge Blue. I’ve either lost or deleted my notes, if I took any, but you’ll get the idea.
Yes, I bought Mrs RM a half of Tally Ho. Only a half, but.
This is when it started to go wrong, as I eyed up the dregs of the Maredsous someone had left.
And then trotted back to the bar for a Cornish Xmas beer that we shared amongst us in a Christmas way. I rated it a 4.5, but you probably guessed that.
Anyway, we could have stayed there all day, and should have stayed for food, but Simon had another tick, the Blue’s sister pub round the corner.
I’d promised them pizza, a Blue Moon specialty, but of course (?) they weren’t doing pizza as there was a music all-dayer on, so we just had strong keg beer and admired the hats
And by then we’d missed our train, and Simon had an hour to wait, and the Alex was on the way, and, and.
Great beer and burgers, and chips which Simon happily nicked. Then he realised his last train left in ten minutes, so we sprinted for the station, leaving Mrs RM in our wake.
I got there first, bought Si his ticket to connect with Ely, and turned to hand it over. But he’d disappeared into the night, just making his connection.
“Simon !, Simon !” I shouted in the ticket hall, pathetically, like Alan Partridge meets BRAPA or something.
And that was the last train that left night, due to drones on the line that night. I suggested to Mrs RM we walk home. She told me to do one.