retiredmartin

July 2023. Birmingham.

One down, three Brum GBG ticks to go. A paltry effort compared to Simon’s half-dozen in the Black Country that day, but those four were at opposite ends of the city, and the next one was a full 40 minutes away in Bournville.

I spent my entire 10 minutes in the Ale Hub on the West Midlands Railways website trying to find a day ticket to get a cheap deal but the Day Ranger cost thirty-two (£32) quid, for which I’d expect a house in Brownhills, not just a trip there.

There’s two certainties about rail travel in the West Midlands.

You WILL find a hen group from Sutton Coldfield (at least three generations) in your carriage, mysteriously headed for a night out in Bromsgrove New Street.

And you WILL find people on the platform more drunk than you are.

On the walk back to Four Oaks I overtake a couple of beaded youths, one lugging a slab* of Stella.

“Scuse me, mate. Do you know where number 68 is… ?“

I go to check my phone but the punchline beats me.

“…It’s a brothel !“. Collapses in laughter, bumps into hen party.

The train pulls up. A group of folk stand staring blankly at it for 2 seconds before a bloke holding a can of Diamond White jumps from his seat and shout “Press the f*****g button“. I push through and press the f*****g button.

40 minutes later, after a journey during which I admire the contempt with which the (pre-recorded) train announcer spits out “Gravelly Hill”, we arrive at Bournville.

Bournville is probably the Four Oaks of the Brum south, except it’s got cheap 1kg bars of Cadbury Dairy Milk and a canal and breweries.

I made a mental note to visit Attic, inviting entrance and all, if I had 3 minutes spare on the way back from my tick.

I was here in Stirchley last year for Peter Allen‘s funeral, and it seemed even busier than 18 months ago, and they still haven’t coaxed that Gorilla down.

Some nice street art,

and some brutalist apartments on my route.

My target is a Taproom. Obviously; all new entries in Brum are either Black Country pubs, micros or Taps.

Good to see the opening hours so clearly set on a wall at the top of the street, isn’t it ?

Ooh, and hot dogs !

My joy turns quickly to bewilderment.

I spent hours, HOURS !, checking opening times on Google and Facebook and other Pub Men’s Whats App messages, and I somehow missed this one. The opening times on Facebook says OPEN NOW, which it clearly isn’t.

I go in anyway, and at the bar am asked whether I’m part of the child’s birthday party. A youthful BRAPA might pull off the lie, but I look so dishevelled I confess I’m not.

The apologetic and helpful chap can’t sell me a draught, but he does sell me a can from the fridge, and I’m taking that as a tick even though I know others won’t.

Despite multiple signs warning me about street drinking I neck that can of Bitter Brummie by the canal waiting for the train, and you know what, it’s gorgeous, all the more so for being illicit.

And before someone chides Birmingham Brewing Co, let’s be clear. They can open when and to whom they want, and good for them making money offering community function spaces.

But when a GBG entry is only open weekends to start with and then not open on a July Saturday you have to wonder about the purpose of the Good Beer Guide.

*24 cans. Is that a “slab” ?