turd-polish copy

newcastle pubs

as much fun as Syphilis..


They're shit and they know they are........

bigg market

Heironymous Bosch meets syphilis. The Bigg Market sells more drink per square metre than any other area in Britain. Explore its kebab strewn, vomit filled nooks and crannys [and that's just the female drinkers]. Then ask yourself.... who the fuck in their right mind would come here

the beehive. claudia schiffer with a cock

Just imagine it, you’re in a bit of a dive wondering what you re doing there, when suddenly you look across the room and see Claudia Schiffer. She’s looking wonderful. She beckons you over and soon you’re getting on rather well. A peck, a kiss and it’s back to your place. You’re about to get down to business when suddenly, trapped in her Versace knickers you find...... a great big hairy cock. Not good really, something of a disappointment in fact.

Well that s exactly what you find in the Bigg Market. The Beehive should be wonderful, a real bar, unaltered from its late Victorian state. Lined with Burmantoft tiles which make it feel like a miniature Centurion. You walk through the door itching, positively sweating to get your hands on a fine glass of cask ale. But then, just like finding a nob in Claudia’s pants it hits you. This pub is shit, not just bad, not just the usual Bigg Market tat, no it’s a hideously rough fight-fest. Now you might argue that the [crap] bottled beer at 99p should be the drinking equivalent of a bulge in the jeans, but we only see what we want to see and it’s not 'til you get your lips round the bottle that you realise that you could be in for a fairly serious kicking.

Now I’m a brave soul and last night I was in the mood for a G and T. Fucking hell, the price should have been a warning, but I risked it. Britvic tonic also puts you on the back foot, but Jesus, this Gin had all of the bouquet of a glass filled by being dipped into the cistern. Cack cack cack. Couldn’t drink it, couldn’t get out quickly enough, almost ran into the Duke of Wellington.

Memo to Fitzgeralds - please buy this place, please keep the current scummy customers out and please please get some proper fucking gin

The Duke of Wellington - actually rather good.

Earlier in this blog I was careless enough to include a brief and thoroughly uncomplimentary mention of this fine bar in a review of the scumfest that is the Beehive. I humbly apologise, I was scared shitless, as anyone venturing into the Beehive without a facefull of tattoos would be.

This was the closest thing to the Crown Posada without being the Crown Posada. Fine beers, local customers. Where it was was a well turned out version of the Free Trade Inn in the centre of town. However the refurb and the wildly inconsistent beer stock means it's just.. another pub. Follwingthe refurb' there are bogs you re not totally terrified to piss in, though the aroma and eccentric plumbing means I'll not be having a sandwich straight after a piss.

A no fuckwits policy on the part of the bar staff means that the scariest troglodytes who crawl in from the Bigg Market are given short shrift and dispatched to Popworld for a Fosters.

No longer are we blessed with eccentric service where on ordering a Budweiser, cane the reply 'Do you want the American shit or the real thing', or even better 'Pint of John Smiths please' and the memorable riposte 'what the fuck for' ? For that, try the Crown.


I think it was Mencken who described Las Vegas as looking like heaven to someone who couldn’t read. That explain the attraction of the hideous Popworld to the illiterate dross who spend their evenings spewing in the fabled Bigg Market. I suspect that a quick literacy test of an average customer might well give a combined reading age and IQ below their shoe size. C’mon you’d have to be brain damaged to venture into this midden. It’s has all of the charm of walking through a pinball machine with a hangover.

Not even a warm up bar for the charmless cavern that is Blu Bambu [though the spelling suggests some involvement, the functionally illiterate deliberately mis-spelling the name so as not to frighten off customers with posh correct spelling]. This rancid flea pit only serves as a warm up for a fight on the bus home - no fear of taxis for this establishment’s customers, or possibly a quick shag over a litter bin.

A DJ desperately trying to ensure that the customers are ‘having fun’[sic] blasts out crap dance singles at volumes which could be used to cut holes in granite - hopefully the granite skulls of the potato headed underclass that mingles with out of town hen parties. Hen parties filled with braying hags, crammed into dresses which give them all of the charm of a see through sack filled with anvils. At least they’ll be taking something of Newcastle home with them; syphilis, some bodily fluids and another Shazza to join the collection of brats bred from fifteen different fathers.

Now usually even the most vile temple to Bacchus will usually have the odd seat so that it’s customers can plonk their fat chip filled arses onto something to take the load off their brains as they drain another pint of diesel. Not here, this is vertical drinking at its worst, the sort of shithole that might, just might be used by a crypto fascist labour home office minister to make sure that we all have to sit in highchairs and use ration cards before we drink. Bugger that, lets hope that it gets the same treatment as the fabled Amigos on Mosely Street. Matches anyone ?

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