Some blogs about pubs seem written by sober folk who never actually set foot in nasty pubs.
This post comes to you from the 20:11 Leeds – Sheffield train after 4 pints in 2 hours. I’m not proud, just pissed.
I resume my blog on Wednesday night in Hastings, as I head through the majestic Old Town for a third micropub of the night.
I love Hastings, I really do, but I couldn’t live there. Too far from the North.
The 1200 Postcards, a name that commemorates 1200 pubs visited by BRAPA in 2016-17, is open, but there’s again only one other customer. The attempt to save pubs is faltering, as the CAMRAs sit at home in their underpants moaning about apostrophes and pointless elections.
I have a pint of Tonbridge. They may be a Railway arch brewer but Tonbridge doesn’t have railway arches and their beer is gorgeous.
The micro looks exactly as you’d expect .
But the Guvnor and the other punter are just wonderfully irreverent and chatty, and if all micros were this good I wouldn’t need to drink Doom Bar in Spoons.
I make (checks notes) zero notes, proving that 1200 Postcards is a Proper Pub.
But ask me to explain why, and I just couldn’t.