Touch me, I'm sick

I haven't been at all well lately. No, seriously: I've been proper poorly. What with the pleurisy, the pulmonary embolism, and the heavy cold, I've had a right old time of it these past few weeks.

Consequently I haven't been out and about doing my usual in-depth research over the past few weeks, and so the second part of the guided walk promised last month – the "gadgies, radgies and onion bhajis" instalment – just isn't going to materialise for a while yet.

Let's face it; it was a shit idea anyway.

However, though my body may have been incapacitated, my mind has been hard at work, furiously making mental notes in between episodes of drugged-up delirium and the sounds of our lass stotting about the house, giving me no sympathy whatsoever.

And, whilst lying in my pit hallucinating, I tried to take away some of the pain with a positive attitude and daydreams of what would await me on my return to Newcastle's world-famous nightlife. After all, the doc said the emphysema wouldn't be permanent, and better days would be just around the corner.

There now follows a list of my Top Ten pub-related dreams, furiously typed as soon as I felt well enough to put fingers to keyboard, along with the realities that greeted me on my first Saturday night on the town. I think you know what's coming.

Dream Reality

A pre-pint stroll along the city's main shopping thoroughfare, passing pavement cafés where people of all races, religions, sexualities or circumstances come together in a colourful celebration of individuality.

A Starbucks-sponsored melting pot of dreary little twats from all corners of the globe, all denying their own cultures for fear of being branded racist, all wearing the same identikit clobber and all talking the same endless shite over a fucking "Lar-tay". And it's "Please may I have…" not "I'll take…", you wretched whores.

A cool beer in a relaxed environment, with smooth DJ sounds and comfortable sofas. The pint may be a tad more expensive than in a run-of-the-mill pub, but – hey! – nobody minds paying just that little bit extra for luxury.

Being charged six quid for a pint and a half of pissy lager in Apartment. Six pounds. Or 8.4 euros. Or 33 Polish Zlotych. 40.9 Malaysian Ringgits. That's SIX FUCKING POUNDS STERLING. For Carling.

Alright lads? Aye, tuberculosis, they reckon. Touch and go there for a while, like, but I'm over the worst. Gotta go in for a check-up next Monday, and then I can get signed off. Good to see you again, anyway. Oh, and cheers for the card; much appreciated. My round is it? Three pints of Foster's, please, and a packet of dry roa…

You what? You want a pint of Magners? Isn't that cider? Eh? You haven't drunk cider since I saw you spew your fucking guts up all over Steve's mam's drive after that party. At least you had an excuse then: you were fifteen and you thought you were clever. What's the reason for drinking it now, apart from some cunt on the telly telling you to? Because it's "over ice"? I've been at death's door and you turn into a tool in my absence? You'll get lager and you'll fucking like it, mate.

A refreshing pilsner, one that fulfils the promises made by those mouth-watering television adverts. I can almost feel the bubbles foxtrotting across my tongue and the sweet chill inside as the first mouthful slips down to my stomach.

Warm, acrid, flat piddle in a smelly glass, with a whopping great dollop of Angel Delight in lieu of a proper head, and a complimentary fuckerccino sprinkle of fag ash on top of that. There is an additional surcharge for the crumbs.

Cutting edge design. Bold interior statements. The harmonious coupling of old and new. A brave foray into the world of modern architecture, dragging the drinking venue kicking and screaming into the 21st Century.

A pompous monstrosity that looks like the set of Deal or No Deal, but with a tenth of the charm and twice as many grinning gimps. Or worse, a heap of blackened shit with a few tragic glitterballs above the bar, "Nite Club" above the door, and ideas far above its station. And yes, you're spot on. I do mean that fucking awful Box place.

After a fortnight in bed feeling like Old Father Time, what could be better than a swift sojourn to a student bar, wherein to catch up on news of current bands, hear the latest sounds, and to blow frantically on the embers of your dying youth?

The motherfucking Kaiser Chiefs from morning 'til night. Some arsehole bellowing "not very pretty I tell thee" in your ear when you're trying to get served. And a specky little bint in the corner silently weeping because she too has "never been this far away from home". I don't suppose anyone's got Cho Seung-Hui's mobile number, have they?

…and while we're on the subject of music, how gladdening is it to see the local scene, full of mutual respect and altruism, where every one of those top-class artistes is all too willing to give their contemporaries a leg up on the ladder of success? Merseybeat, Seattle and the burgeoning Montreal circuit are as nothing compared to the brotherhood and amity of the North East's up-and-coming acts.

"BOOMsong? Cunts. Leave me in their MySpace Friends pending box, would they? Leave ME fucking hanging? Right. Their poster's coming down, and mine's going up in its place. There: That's The Way Uh-Huh Uh-Huh I Like It! The future of music. The greatest band of all time. Ł2.50 at the Frog and Fuckpig. This time next year: Wembley Stadium. They'll see…" [5 minute interval] … "That's The Way Uh-Huh Uh-Huh I Like It!? Wankers. Diss me on that forum, would they? Call US a fucking poor man's Franz Ferdinand? Right. Their poster's coming down, and ours is going up instead. There: The Jade Goodies. The future of music. The greatest band of all time. Ł3 at the…"

The heady mix of perfumes and scents, combined with the aroma of premium lagers and the tang of fine wines. The bouquet that makes the heart flutter with excitement on stepping through the portals of licensed premises wherever you may be.

A weasel-faced dickhead proving that all 40,000 tabs he smuggled past customs were for his own personal use, puffing on each and every one an inch from your face, frantically trying to use them up before the 1st of July deadline.

Talk of cabbages and kings, with bouts of meaningful conversation between hoots of laughter, your true and trusted friends sharing woes and your triumphs. You've always been there for each other, and nothing could come in the way of your now-legendary camaraderie.

"Jesus, man, that's terrible news. I always thought tha… [Heeeeey Baby! Ooh! Aah! I wanna…] Hellooow! Alreet Daz? Aye, I'm in the Three Bulls. What? Aye, it’s a Nokia… Nar, man. He's got a Motorola... Aye… Ha ha ha! Hello Moto! Ha ha…! Aye, reet. See ye later". Sorry, you were saying. Your lass says she's thinking of putting in for a divor… [Heeeeey Baby! Ooh! Aah! I wanna…] Alreet Baz? Aye, I'm in the Three Bulls. What? Aye, Nokia… Nar, man. He's got a Sagem…" (repeat ad infinitum until the batteries die or forehead crushes bridge of nose and "superslim" handset is wedged into open wound)

A no-nonsense pint in one of the city's more down-at-heel hostelries. After all, time spent flat on your back in your sickbed leaves you contemplating your mortality and wondering just who will clean up your mess and place pennies on your eyes when the curtain falls for the last time. It won't be the offspring of the clever dick classes who think breeding is for fools, that's for certain. No, it will be the charming progeny of these pale-faced mums and fathers-at-leisure, who are busy bringing forth the next generation, lavishing on them all the love and attention they require, teaching them right from wrong and the values of a civilised society. Their children will be nourished with only the healthiest foods from popular High Street bakeries, and will grow to know the meaning of hard graft, and the self-respect that comes from honest day's work selling, perhaps, electrical goods with full guarantees and known provenance, or portable telephones with the SIMs included. These are the REAL people of our glorious nation, and people in whose hands our future is safe. As are our wallets.

Shite.

I'll tell you what, though: this book makes fucking excellent sickbed reading. Buy one now for the malingerer in your life.

Dream	Reality
A pre-pint stroll along the city's main shopping thoroughfare, passing pavement cafés where people of all races, religions, sexualities or circumstances come together in a colourful celebration of individuality.	A Starbucks-sponsored melting pot of dreary little twats from all corners of the globe, all denying their own cultures for fear of being branded racist, all wearing the same identikit clobber and all talking the same endless shite over a fucking "Lar-tay". And it's "Please may I have…" not "I'll take…", you wretched whores.
A cool beer in a relaxed environment, with smooth DJ sounds and comfortable sofas. The pint may be a tad more expensive than in a run-of-the-mill pub, but – hey! – nobody minds paying just that little bit extra for luxury.	Being charged six quid for a pint and a half of pissy lager in Apartment. Six pounds. Or 8.4 euros. Or 33 Polish Zlotych. 40.9 Malaysian Ringgits. That's SIX FUCKING POUNDS STERLING. For Carling.
Alright lads? Aye, tuberculosis, they reckon. Touch and go there for a while, like, but I'm over the worst. Gotta go in for a check-up next Monday, and then I can get signed off. Good to see you again, anyway. Oh, and cheers for the card; much appreciated. My round is it? Three pints of Foster's, please, and a packet of dry roa…	You what? You want a pint of Magners? Isn't that cider? Eh? You haven't drunk cider since I saw you spew your fucking guts up all over Steve's mam's drive after that party. At least you had an excuse then: you were fifteen and you thought you were clever. What's the reason for drinking it now, apart from some cunt on the telly telling you to? Because it's "over ice"? I've been at death's door and you turn into a tool in my absence? You'll get lager and you'll fucking like it, mate.
A refreshing pilsner, one that fulfils the promises made by those mouth-watering television adverts. I can almost feel the bubbles foxtrotting across my tongue and the sweet chill inside as the first mouthful slips down to my stomach.	Warm, acrid, flat piddle in a smelly glass, with a whopping great dollop of Angel Delight in lieu of a proper head, and a complimentary fuckerccino sprinkle of fag ash on top of that. There is an additional surcharge for the crumbs.
Cutting edge design. Bold interior statements. The harmonious coupling of old and new. A brave foray into the world of modern architecture, dragging the drinking venue kicking and screaming into the 21st Century.	A pompous monstrosity that looks like the set of Deal or No Deal, but with a tenth of the charm and twice as many grinning gimps. Or worse, a heap of blackened shit with a few tragic glitterballs above the bar, "Nite Club" above the door, and ideas far above its station. And yes, you're spot on. I do mean that fucking awful Box place.
After a fortnight in bed feeling like Old Father Time, what could be better than a swift sojourn to a student bar, wherein to catch up on news of current bands, hear the latest sounds, and to blow frantically on the embers of your dying youth?	The motherfucking Kaiser Chiefs from morning 'til night. Some arsehole bellowing "not very pretty I tell thee" in your ear when you're trying to get served. And a specky little bint in the corner silently weeping because she too has "never been this far away from home". I don't suppose anyone's got Cho Seung-Hui's mobile number, have they?
…and while we're on the subject of music, how gladdening is it to see the local scene, full of mutual respect and altruism, where every one of those top-class artistes is all too willing to give their contemporaries a leg up on the ladder of success? Merseybeat, Seattle and the burgeoning Montreal circuit are as nothing compared to the brotherhood and amity of the North East's up-and-coming acts.	"BOOMsong? Cunts. Leave me in their MySpace Friends pending box, would they? Leave ME fucking hanging? Right. Their poster's coming down, and mine's going up in its place. There: That's The Way Uh-Huh Uh-Huh I Like It! The future of music. The greatest band of all time. Ł2.50 at the Frog and Fuckpig. This time next year: Wembley Stadium. They'll see…" [5 minute interval] … "That's The Way Uh-Huh Uh-Huh I Like It!? Wankers. Diss me on that forum, would they? Call US a fucking poor man's Franz Ferdinand? Right. Their poster's coming down, and ours is going up instead. There: The Jade Goodies. The future of music. The greatest band of all time. Ł3 at the…"
The heady mix of perfumes and scents, combined with the aroma of premium lagers and the tang of fine wines. The bouquet that makes the heart flutter with excitement on stepping through the portals of licensed premises wherever you may be.	A weasel-faced dickhead proving that all 40,000 tabs he smuggled past customs were for his own personal use, puffing on each and every one an inch from your face, frantically trying to use them up before the 1st of July deadline.
Talk of cabbages and kings, with bouts of meaningful conversation between hoots of laughter, your true and trusted friends sharing woes and your triumphs. You've always been there for each other, and nothing could come in the way of your now-legendary camaraderie.	"Jesus, man, that's terrible news. I always thought tha… [Heeeeey Baby! Ooh! Aah! I wanna…] Hellooow! Alreet Daz? Aye, I'm in the Three Bulls. What? Aye, it’s a Nokia… Nar, man. He's got a Motorola... Aye… Ha ha ha! Hello Moto! Ha ha…! Aye, reet. See ye later". Sorry, you were saying. Your lass says she's thinking of putting in for a divor… [Heeeeey Baby! Ooh! Aah! I wanna…] Alreet Baz? Aye, I'm in the Three Bulls. What? Aye, Nokia… Nar, man. He's got a Sagem…" (repeat ad infinitum until the batteries die or forehead crushes bridge of nose and "superslim" handset is wedged into open wound)
A no-nonsense pint in one of the city's more down-at-heel hostelries. After all, time spent flat on your back in your sickbed leaves you contemplating your mortality and wondering just who will clean up your mess and place pennies on your eyes when the curtain falls for the last time. It won't be the offspring of the clever dick classes who think breeding is for fools, that's for certain. No, it will be the charming progeny of these pale-faced mums and fathers-at-leisure, who are busy bringing forth the next generation, lavishing on them all the love and attention they require, teaching them right from wrong and the values of a civilised society. Their children will be nourished with only the healthiest foods from popular High Street bakeries, and will grow to know the meaning of hard graft, and the self-respect that comes from honest day's work selling, perhaps, electrical goods with full guarantees and known provenance, or portable telephones with the SIMs included. These are the REAL people of our glorious nation, and people in whose hands our future is safe. As are our wallets.	Shite.