Whatever was exposed, Joe, Joanne and little Joleisha-Amethyst Public in the buggy could be sure that the city’s planners and retail moguls had only one thing in mind for this prime, south-facing location: to turn it once again into Newcastle’s most delightful and vibrant inner city square, something to rival Madrid’s Plaza Mayor or the Old Town Square in Prague.

This month the Burglar’s Dog can exclusively disclose – to anyone who hasn’t already stood slack-jawed in astonishment at the panorama before them – that the site once occupied by the George and Dragon, and the quadrant’s only source of non-restaurant refreshment is... a Starbucks. Another one.

Well, whoop-di-fucking do. That’s just what the city needs. Why no bar? Is someone who is merely trying to enjoy a cool glass of beer in a European city style – the style we were told to aspire to when they knocked down all our history and replaced it with two-tone brick and shiny steel - now somehow regarded as a pig-mannered binge drinker at fault for all society’s ills?

All we wanted was a chance to sit in our own city’s centrepiece without enduring imbeciles that we only allow to live and breed because we need someone to mop up our piss and dribbles when the time comes. Just a handful of tables in a designated area, with competent, honest service and the opportunity to nip inside the pub itself when the rain starts slashing down or the pigeons get ower splattery.

Our choices now seem to be these: we can pay through the hooter and sit inside another faceless glass edifice with a carton of caffeine-charged slurry. Or we can take our chances perched on the fences outside, clutching a can of Irn Bru and trying not to catch the eye of any of the marauding – and I’ll not refer to them by using a fun name like “charvers” – shite. Or we can stand silently weeping as the nation’s gifted adolescents shriek as one, “Ohmygod!…like, ohmygod!…like, ohmyg…”

Let’s get one thing straight: the next fucking eyelinered chump or weekend Goth I hear ramming those three little words together in exclamation will get to meet their bloody god long before the day is done.

What does yet another coffee shop offer to the local populace, those poor disenfranchised souls whose wishes and opinions amount to nought in the stampede for cosmopolitan homogeny?

I’ll tell you: more wasted hours spent listening to identikit fuckheads, phone permanently glued to ear, locked in conversations so vital that they haven’t been able to hang up since the moment they left the house that morning.

More endless days suffering the witless blather of the student population, as they metrosexually discuss the next genius fashion mandate for the barren north of England’s permafrost weather conditions. Examples? Two years ago: the massive fur coat…with no sleeves. Last year: a ten-metre long scarf…with a skimpy T-shirt. And this sub-Baltic winter: the furry boots and woollen hat combination…with a fucking denim mini-skirt.

And add to that more and more discarded packaging, as contemptible spunksnots drop their fucking branded litter all over the War Memorial, just to underline their utter disdain for the fallen because they’re, like, so last season.

What was wrong with the last pub that was there? Was it not appreciated? Has "Two lagers, pet" been buried forever beneath "Can I get a chubby latté and a slice of Motherfuck Pie?"

Tell you what we’ll do: we’ll cast a nostalgic eye back over Old Eldon Square’s long lost public house, the George and Dragon, by giving you a remixed and remastered review of the place in its heyday. That might wake a few people up to what's missing.

Here goes. Hankies at the ready.


George & Dragon

Old Eldon Square, NE1 7YG

"Ewan McGregor gets caught short"

When they finally come to knock this place down, there'll be those who'll shed a tear at the loss of a fine traditional establishment. Don't let 'em fool you: it's a cackhole. I don't think this bar has seen a paintbrush in the twenty-odd years since it was built, and catching your reflection in the mirrored pillars (Good Pub Design Magazine, Dec 78) only serves to exaggerate those existential "What the fucking hell am I doing here?" moments. The customer profile is mostly sad, old gadgies staring into space, or middle-aged women taking advantage of the what-the-fuck-do-you-expect-for-three-quid cuisine served in the lower bar. To their credit, the long-suffering staff cope admirably with the post-match rush and still manage to stay awake during the quiet periods (average punter count: 11). Entertainment is standard - TV, bandits, jukebox, large screen for sport - but the real show is outside on the grass, with the Marilyn Manson and Cradle of Filth clones. Question: if you dressed to be individual, would you hang around with a load of people who looked just like you? No, you wouldn’t. But then that’s probably because you’re not an unfathomably stupid cunt like the bozos out there. The location of the bar, joining Old Eldon Square and the bus concourse, makes it an excellent short cut, but under no circumstances should you nip for a piss: the toilets are beyond disgusting. Remember the scene in Trainspotting, where Ewan McGregor gets caught short and loses his opium suppositories? No further questions, Your Honour.

For: Proximity to bus stops. Good as an after-match overspill from the half-decent and fully packed bars on Percy Street, mainly because…

Against: …it’s a rancid old man's dive, and the sodding toilets stink.

I haven't seen her in there for a while, but they used to have a barmaid who was the spitting dabs of celebrity shoplifter Béatrice Dalle, star of 1980s student-favourite French film, Betty Blue. This barmaid was more of an enticing proposition, though, since she shaved her armpits, something Mlle Dalle never got round to. Bloody foreigners.



I see. It was like that, was it?

Fuck. Doesn't sound too clever at all.

And I’ll tell you another thing, too: now that you can see her face on the internet at the click of a link, and not once a decade on the video screen whilst stroking your chin with one hand and your shaft with the other, you come to realise that that Béatrice Dalle woman was a fucking gap-toothed hound.

Christ, nostalgia makes you look like a right twat when put to the test.

Fuck, fuck, fucking hell.

FUCK.