Dear

Cheers for your comments.

Listen, you cock. Do you honestly, truthfully think we even care about what goes on in Newcastle's pubs, let alone consider ourselves experts on them? Do you seriously imagine we're trying to provide some sort of tourist service here, to muscle in on TimeOut's territory? Are you such a cheap bastard that you thought you'd do your research on two-bit web sites like ours instead of buying a proper guide book?

The facts about drinking in Newcastle are really quite simple: you're going to get served swill, you're going to be soundly ripped off and, at the end of the night, someone is going to try to kick your teeth out.

None of the crap we write about on here makes the fucking least bit of difference to us. We only do this to practice writing in sentences, man. You remember sentences, don't you? Punctuation, maybe? Spelling? No? Plus, you've got to understand: swearing on the internet is far, far cheaper than paying some hippy cunt therapist fifty quid an hour to blame our aggression on a denied seaside choc-ice when we were four.

What the hell did you expect from us, for crying out loud? We can't believe that anyone, taking into consideration just how big the site is and how many pubs there are in the town, would expect any sort of accuracy in factual information. Ask yourself this: how fucking tragic would you have to be to go around bars with a clipboard - when you're supposed to be getting drunk and having a laugh - making notes of the frigging happy hours? Our aim with the site is, and has always been, to ignore trivial matters like who, what, why, when, where and how, and just get on with being as cantankerous as is humanly possible the morning after.

Who cares what the decor's like? Who gives a rat's ass about mezzanine levels and gilded mirrors? And do you really think we should visit each bar in turn once a week to check on the current quality of the pint, like a bunch of fucking deviant trainspotters? What's your next suggestion going to be, mate? An in-depth report on the toilet facilities, or something? Get a fucking hold of yourself, will you?

You say you came to Newcastle for a mate's birthday. Putting to one side our collective disbelief that you actually have any friends, who the fuck do you think you are, complaining about the way things are done here? Big city life a bit of a shock to you, Billyrayjimbob? You fucking yokels are always trying it on with us, for Christ's sake. I bet you're that sad cunt we saw in the Old George last week, baring his arse at four in the afternoon. Would you do that in your own hillybilly town, fucko? No, you wouldn't. And why? Because they'd bugger you, kill you, bugger you again and then eat you, that's why.

And as for being out of touch, what are you trying to say there, eh? You'd like to see a list of resident DJs on our site, is that it? Put it this way, Danny fucking Rampling: if you are, like to watch, can tolerate or even spell "a DJ" then you are, quite clearly and indelibly, a tool of the first fucking water. History will record you with the mirth associated with practioners of the Charleston, you po-faced knob. Elitist white labels and exclusive mixes? Who's telling who to get a fucking life?

And another thing: what do you mean by "not qualified"? Wouldn't you agree that it is our complete disregard that makes us the ideal candidates for writing this stuff? Isn't it this absolute contempt for our subject that ensures we'll see through the thin tissue of respectability that veils the drinking scene? Or are you one of those do-goody-good wet liberals who wants every job to be a happy clappy vocation and not a chore; the sort of pea-brained thumb-sucker who's surprised when somebody with an "interest" in working with children ends up with his hands down their pants? Pull yourself together, you ridiculous little man. We do this because if we didn't, some other fuckers would make an even bigger fist of it than we have.

And just in case you're struggling to grasp everything we've said so far, here's a little summary of our philosophy: We hate every bar, every person and every single second in this rain-sodden craphole city. There. We've said it. Happy now?

Look, you know why we really do this? Really really really? Cos we lost a bet with a fucking leprechaun, that's why. Now piss off and stop bothering us.

Thanks for your support.

Mark and John
Editors
www.theburglarsdog.co.uk





























Oh, stop bloody crying, will you?