​NEWCASTLE PUBS

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 and ought to start the howl of a warning siren, but Jesus, this Gin had all of the bouquet of a glass filled by being dipped into the latrine. 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