Ladies and gentlemen, The Burglar's Dog is proud to present, live, tonight, under one roof, The Gate.

It's a jumped-up leisure-mall, it's a cornucopia of sights and sounds, it's the circus-carny from hell.

You'll see all human torment. That's right, step right up. You'll see the seven-bellied woman in the leopard-skin blouse. You'll see the barman with three haircuts on the same head. You'll see slapdash genitalia on the windows of Mood: Yessir, I knew we'd getcha on that one.

Come and witness Tiger Tiger: Seven drinking areas and you're barred from every last one of 'em. Is that denim you're wearing, honey? Sorry sir, are those inexpensive shoes? Young or old, large or small, rich or poor, it don't matter to us, cos you ain't getting in.

Step into Hide and try a cool glass of Miller. No taste, no calories, no effect, and only two and a half quid a throw. You'll not find its likes anywhere else in the tri-county area.

You'll see Beyond's eight-grand telly with no sound. And that's right, my little chickadee, keep your coat on; we'll tip you the wink when it gets above baltic in there.

Come see the ostentatious latrines. Why, for these prices, sir, you can have your dick on a silver tray. See the barmaids with their heads in the clouds. We'll have them treat you like shite and you'll still be back for more. Air conditioning throughout.

You'll see mutton dressed as mutton. You'll see debutantes on ice. And don't forget to visit one of our swanky new restaurants; you could feed a family of six on the price of one of our hors d'oeuvres. A fiver for a sandwich: you smelled it, son, you bought it.

Step inside, madam. Of course that's Robbie-fucking-Williams singing in Mood. A piss-poor tribute act, you say? Come on now, would we lie to you? Watch Mick "Who?" Martin and his football talk-in. You thought nobody cared about YOUR opinions, sir? You ain't seen nothin' yet.

Hear some fuckwit nail all your favourite tunes to a thumping four-four beat. Hear bland lounge bar muzak till ya can't takes no more. And don't forget it's Ladies Night, just as long as you're not in a group. Or with friends. Or on your own.

You'll have cocktails that take longer to mix than they took to distill. You'll see the ghosts of the town's long-gone best music venue. Tell 'em Mayfair Schmayfair, and tell 'em we told you so. And Harry Hill-style shirts as far as the eye can see? Why surely, madam, you must be dreamin'.

You'll see the poor-man's idea of sophistication, you'll see what Gaudi did with a Friday morning hangover. And it's two bar staff to every thousand punters. Minimum-wage indifference guaranteed.

Take the escalator to the stars to see one of our talkin' pictures at the Oh-Dee-On. Sorry son, your IQ's too high. Why, Mr Plankton, step right in. We've got just the thing for you.

And if you have a heart condition, please be warned. You'll see Julie from Byker, the terracotta woman on heels. Don't be alarmed, now, boys and girls; it was smeared on this very morning by her nan with the tan.

Step a little closer ladies and gentlemen and don't be shy. Dig deep in your pockets for the three-quid pint. Toilets are smart and clean.

Credit facilities are available on surrender of everything you own plus your first-born child. Ask at the bar for details.

Ladies and gentlemen.

The Burglar's Dog is proud to present...