The Free Trade
It's exactly, precisely what real pub should be. With the immortal slogan 'drink beer, smoke fags' the Free Trade Inn is just about the finest drinking establishment on the Quayside. Well not actually on the Quayside. rather it's hidden at the end of a path last used by the Emperor Hadrian when he was trying to avoid pissing in front of the troops. The Free Trade is the ultimate in pub design, brilliantly conceived to keep away the wank and toss fest customers who used to pollute the Slug and Lettuce .
Actually design really isn't the right expression, it's closer to 'fuck it, we can't be bothered, we're still selling beer and refurbs attract cunts'.
Open the rusting door and you'll see vestiges of S and N's old black and red paint job. Look at the tables and you'll actually still see the Classic Blue star which used to grace the Toon's shirts on the odd year when they were good. Go to the bogs and fuuuuccccckkkkk - you'll see turds still floating left by the vikings [you can tell by the shape I'm told] and graffiti in latin left by passing a passing legion visiting before the last refurb; "Mentulam Caco" looking about I reckon they missed !
But it's got everything a decent pub should have; just enough music to have a conversation, a fairly low twat count, decent beer well kept and staff who know a bit about the products. Of course post New Labour's fag ban this pub like every other was fucked over. No more fags in 20s at realistic prices from behind the bar [as opposed to fags in 16s at ball crushing prices from machines in the corner]. Instead the inside will be emptied and the whole place will be hidden in a pall of blue smoke as the poor fuckers catch pneumonia and freeze to death filling up the NHS - but at least they're not smoking deaths Tony ! Actually the smoke ban might be a good thing, it could hide this treasure from being polluted by the usual Quayside pond life. Instead they might see it emerging Brigadoon like from a Lambert and Butler coloured cloud once every year or so. Reminding the odd quayside drinker who can read that there's more to like than a pint of diesel and a kebab.