Buffalo Joes [sic] R.I.P.

Closed at last, closed at last, I thank the Lord it's closed at last - with apologies to Dr Martin Luther King, but in fairness he'd have realised it was a shithole too

 

As you’ll realise there’s little to praise in most of Newcastle’s pub scene so surely Gateshead, Britain’s answer to Florence and Rome must have something better. In your fucking dreams ! Buffalo Joe’s is rancid, all of the fun of a party in Kerry Katona’s chip shop with customers who make old fish trousers herself seem like the Duchess of Westminster. Well that’s the girls, pasty faced trollops too geriatric to join the jail bait queuing up for Baja Beach Club [the sort of place surfers against sewerage might do well to visit].

 

Now the male customers of Buffalo Joe’s are cut from a different lump of shite. Imagine yourself as a businessman trapped in the overpriced Travel Lodge that is the Hilton. You’ve heard of the fabled Quayside totty and, erection at the ready you pull on your special pulling crimpeline yellowed Y fronts, your synthetic fibre pants and your tank top. Oh the talent, you can’t wait, ooops, messy Y fronts already, good thing you have a spare pair. Buffalo Joe’s is full of sad businessmen expecting to walk into the Tyneside equivalent of a free Thai brothel, make your selection, spring for a half a sweet cider and you’re into their trousers like a charver into the benefits office.

 

Well not exactly, the only spread legs you might see in this excuse for a stable are wrapped around the bucking bronco. Of course you can drool over the big titted, swim suitted, small brained bar maid bimbos who are there to extract as much money as possible from expense account twats. Great career move ladies, next step is an advert in the back pages of the Sunday Sport.

 

The management asks; ‘Where else on the Quayside can you leave your jeans and trainers on Monday to Saturday and not get turned away?’ I can answer that; anywhere. Now apparently ‘Not content with converting an existing building and compromising an ideal, Buffalo Joes was purpose built & raised from the ground. What once seemed like a tiny car park has been amazingly transformed into a venue that can comfortably hold almost a thousand revellers. Well bugger me that was money well spent, converting a car park into a fucking toilet filled with hags, slags and desperate suits all on the pull. Ain’t development cracking.

 

Of course weekends are something else, the suitted twats from the Hilton have gone back to their semis in Surbiton and they're replaced by something even worse..... stag and hen parties. Now most pubs will tolerate this dross, but this walk in toilet encourages the mixing of checkout girls who read Mills and Boon with their lips moving, with lager louts wearing last year's Ben Sherman shirts out of their pants. Like juvenile Father Jacks with three things in mind; drink, gorls [sic], feck [sic] . Oh there is a forseeable fourth - sick [sic]. Best thing they could do with this lot is run a ramp directly into the Tyne. Anyone caught in the bogs is immediately encased in concrete and ejected out to keep the permanently decrepit High Level Bridge from landing on the taxi queue in front of the Red House; in fact no, fuck it, let the drunken multitude get crushed !

 

Oh and something else, I assume that the twats that run this temple to mediocrity were too busy drinking buckfast wine at a bus stop to manage to attend the English lesson on the use of the apostrophe.... It’s used to indicate possession you cretins; as in Buffalo Joe’s - unless of course there was more than one Joe [or, god help us bars like this]. I’m off to get a spray can and correct the signage. In fact no bollocks to that, it’s gold paint and assassination using gold paint method patented in Goldfinger