​NEWCASTLE PUBS

Remember Robinson’s, the sleek Bigg Market establishment, one of Newcastle’s first wine [whine perhaps] bars. The owner was always ahead of the curve in opening pubs, fortunately he also managed to get on the right plane ahead of anyone else. I wonder if, on his occasional understated trips to Britain he had noticed that his sleek cutting edge palace has followed Pubwatcher’s law of entropy. In fact it hasn’t as much followed the law as fallen right through it, continuing to descend into the bowels of hell.

 

A huge space filled with drunken troglodytes and hideously deformed members of the underclass. During my last visit I had the pleasure of watching a dwarf attempting to have sex with a cigarette machine. If they bred I suppose it might have cut out a stage in the evolutionary process as the shell suited continue to replace their DNA with Lambert and Butler’s finest.

 

Liquid seems to have a quasi masonic entry policy; do you have self made biro tatoos, made using compasses when you should have been listening to teacher telling you how to make sure that your benefit claim actually adds up. Are you pale, undernourished ? Are you a victim of feotal alcohol syndrome, or even better, are you encouraging it - welcome, come in, have a snakebite. Fight, be sick, listen to the ear splitting shite which prevents any conversation. This place might actually be an interesting exercise in language development. The underclass can’t hear each other so lets watch them developing a new type of sign language. The vocabulary is limited; fight, shag and stella would probably cover most needs.

 

Liquid is the very worst of the Bigg Market; the scum of the earth killing brain cells through booze and fighting. They should follow the lead of the Australians and line the whole place with tiles to make the piss, puke and brains easier to wash off.

 

One to avoid at all times