I'll show you mine if you show me yours

Ha ha ha! Tell them I'm a FAT cunt, "actually"

HAPPY NEW YEAR from the Burglar's Dog. Unless our publishers tonto press have been telling us porkies, then we expect there'll be a fair few people who unwrapped the Burglar's Dog book on Christmas morning to arse-scratching indifference.

We wish to extend a warm hand to those of you who are now wondering what the fuck this shit is all about, and to use this month's feature as an opportunity to give a little back to our readers, old and new. A chance, if you will, to say Thank You by plastering YOUR face all over the computer screen.

We'd like to compile a celebratory Rogues' Gallery of our readers, and we're asking you to send us a picture of yourself with the Burglar's Dog book before you join the queue in Waterstone's to take the fucker back.

It can be anything you like: just as long as we can see the book in the photo, we'll be like pigs in clover. Portraits or candids; laughter or tears; clutched proudly to bosoms or shat on from a great height: we want them all. Young or old; fugly or fit; barking or sane: all are welcome. And if you want to flip us the bird or give us the Vs, then that's just dandy.

What's that? Santy didn't come to you this year? Then this link should sort you out:

The Burglar's Dog Alternative Guide to Drinking in Newcastle upon Tyne is the publishing sensation of the year, and its fame grows exponentially by the second. Simply hold your cursor over the pictures to see the heart-felt messages from just a few of our readers, happily pictured with the best book they've read in years.

More added daily!

Alreet? How's it hangin'? I am 'her with the tits'. Not pictured: my mate - 'with the tits'. I see you are still having no luck getting in the Basement.
Newc...Newcast..Newcastle? Uh, upon? I nearly died laughing Dominus sanctus cuntus bubblus
Amazon, Ł6.79. Deal or No Deal? Give it to me, DOGGY style! And then beast me kidneys. Who the FUCK are you calling a werepig, you blubbery cunt? Now here's Trai with the weather.
I'm a fucking hand, man. What sort of quote do you expect me to give in MY condition? That's right, Gary. Boom! will be disappointed with that. The boozers of the righteous shall run free with the blood of the infidels.
One's son is a 'jug-eared, mumbling loon', is he? Orf with their heads. I'm fucking FANTASTIC in arse-kicking contests, as a matter of fact. Here, Dec: it says here that you go to the same barber as Steve McClaren.
...but I LIKE Tiger Tiger. Strewth, cobber. I made MY living from ripping the piss out of dumb creatures, and look what happened to me... Make Rafferty's History
Putain! C'est le chien de cambrioleur! I just can't get it out of my head. Nor me knickers. DOG of Thunder! Arf arf!
...and Peter Rabbit called after him, 'Shut your fucking yap, you wheezy old cunt'. This. Pub. Is. Six. Months. Old. It. Must. Be. Upgraded. Bag o' bones, but still out of your league, roundboy.
Hey, hey, come on now! Look at my hand! You've made me look like Jeremy Beadle! What did I do to deserve that? No one in the building may look Mr Green in the eye. See me? Not prima donna, but fierce. Fierce! FIERCE!
Ah, here, Neville, man. Are them lot not booooored with tekking the piss ootta me yet? Damn it, Jones. I look NOWT like your bird. Come any closer and your plums will be on spikes. THESE spikes. Buy tickets for my gigs, kiddies. I'm so rock 'n' roll, it's touch and go whether I'll turn up. Sheesh, and I've only been pulling that stunt for three fucking years solid...
You can piss off. If Knightley knocked you back, there's NO WAY you're wapping it up ME. I'll just make a note of that: 'The Dog has Brucie in the office Dead Pool...' I just called to say, Fuck you.
Hi, I'm TV's Barry Scott off of Cillit Bang! And I'm NOT GAY! How can I be, when Lisa Simpson's giving me HEAD? Reel around the fountain / shove me 'neath the patio / I'll take it now-ow-ow. Ssschlllpphh. How the fuck did I get roped into thissssschlllpphh?
Lift that book to cover your mush, monkey boy. Just remember whose norks are paying whose bills. This is a clear threat to the American way of life. And it makes me moist. Aar 'ey. Y'd berra not be sticking me on here cos you haven't got the 'Balls' to do one of the drag act from the Black Garter.
Solipsism. n. the act of disappearing up one's own puckered arsehole. I have in my hand a parcel of poop. Me on the picture (that used to be) in Tilleys: goddess. Me at all other times: hooooooond.
I'll promote the book, yeah. It can't make me sink any lower than fronting Cunt's Karaoke on BBC1. 'The fires raged at 2800 degrees fahrenheit, hot enough to melt the steel frame of the towers. Hours later, Atta's in-flight reading material was found, unscathed, in a street near Ground Zero'. Source: FBI Weekly. Shit the bed. If that daft 'Apocalypto' film stiffs, nobody will know who the fuck I am.
I'd like to quote from my new Little Red Book. 'Boom!? More like SHITE!...' You like that?! Here's another... Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. 5.1 x 7.8 inches doesn't come close to hiding my shame.
Mmm...salty! I look like a right cunt now, don't I? How the fuck am I going to get a refund on a bent book? 'World's Sexiest Woman'? Should I tell 'em I'm just Craig Bellamy in drag?
Eh? How is it my turn in the spotlight AGAIN? Look, I'm telling you: I wouldn't hurt a fly. Much. Close Apartment down? I'd NUKE the decadent fuckers. And then I'd NUKE THEM AGAIN. Oh course, if you'd been any good with Paintshop Pro, you'd have replaced the microphone with a 12-inch cock. Ooh! I said 'cock'! Phone the BBC and get me another Ł4million a year for doing FUCK ALL.
If you need to explain who I am to those heathens and rednecks, I'm gonna come over and teach 'em what for. Uh-huurgh-UH. Gotta pocket full o' shells. They shaved my bloody eyebrows off. That was original, wasn't it? That's the last fucking stag night I talk to, I'll tell you what. Just Yates's and Yel to tick off, and then I'm done. You can see my WHAT?! My clunge? What's a 'clunge'...?
I said I wanted MY dog back, not some stupid fucking book. This is da BOMB, muthafucka! None of that 'thee' or 'thou' shit, homie. Fuckin' word! Now remember, son. In the Bigg Market, speak softly and carry a big stick. And a Kalashnikov.
I can see it all from up here, and I'm telling you it's far, far worse than the book says. I am so going to hang around the hippy green all day Saturday. Weekend Gothdom, like, kicks ass. He-hey! Turned out shite again.
I'm rattling the bones of the heir to the throne, but I'll never give up my Doggy. I am a stunning older woman. And THIS is an old dog. Understand the difference now? I say, old bean. The Tora Bora branch of Waterstone's is exceedingly well stocked.
Bush. Blair. The IMF. And the Slug & Lettuce. End globalisation. Before it ends you. Oh, great, Justin. We're token haggis munchers AND token bufftaes. This book's the most fun you can have without naked Vietnamese children. And I should know.
That is SO a good question, actually. Why DON'T I shut the fuck up on a Friday morning? Hi, um, yes, um... sorry. Uh, I bought this here last weekend and, uh, I don't think it's, um, suitable. The receipt's in my bag. Won't be a sec. Bestseller it might be, but I'm still going to hold it like it's a tramp's dick.
DO pay attention, 007. That thing's loaded. People think I'm thick, but I've swapped half the LA Galaxy money for ALL the Dog royalties. I can't lose. I'll follow my David anywhere: Real Madrid, LA Galaxy, Wigan reserves. Do you want to hear my new demo?
Oh, yeah. Very fucking clever. Well, at least you didn't crack any 'armless jokes. I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour... ...and foggy around dawn. That's the weather summary. Right, now stick your thumb up me arse.
What Sian Lloyd said, but wiggle it about. Another day, another gratuitous bap shot. Oh DO pipe down. I'll be sixteen soon enough.
I think you'll find you're sticking it in the wrong hole, Mister. But I like it! 6 to 8 weeks?! Amazon.argentina ist ein pile of scheisse! In the future everyone will be a cunt for 15 minutes.
This is a clear plot by the British Secret Service. And the Royal Family. And the F-to-the-B-to-the-motherfucking-I. 'Newcastle's own sweet Michelle Bass. Classier things have fallen out my ass.' - William Wordsworth, 1770-1850 Not amused? We nearly pissed waself.
It's argumentative. And it's got the face on. But at least it didn't have some cunt behind the scenes writing all its songs for it. What's it to be then, boys? My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps? Or this? Check it out. Now then, now then, now then. Mention me dead mother and I'll sue. Uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-hurgh.
Breaking news: Heidi (centre) to leave the Sugababes. Her replacement is shown immediately to the right of this picture. Keisha (left): ''Me and the other one wanted someone more our stamp''. Calm down, dear. I'm only a shit-thick, pompous, dropped pie-faced, irritating, smug, freeloading waste of sperm and eggs. I can see you pounding out a 20-stroke rally over me, you dirty boy. Whack, whack, whack, OUT! Advantage Miss Sharapova. And you know what's worse? I can see you glancing at Winner's photo while you're doing it.
Now, children. I'm your new teacher on some shite on BBC1. Today I'm gonna learn ya ya letters. A is for Alpha. B is for Bravo. C is for Charlie... back in a mo, kids. Just gotta powder my nose. Want me to nosh you, big boy? I'll leave you pissing like a watering can and crying for your mam. Fuck you, Cheryl Tweedy. There's only room for one brainless Geordie gobshite in this town.
Hi, everybody! I'm Professor Pissflaps. And I'm not THAT fucking ropey from the side. Spokeswoman for her generation. And a waste of a fanny and pubes. Viva Revolution. It's better than fucking Perdu and Apartment, anyway.
Oh baby when I dance like thiiiis, don't you know I break me tits. I've been off the turps for ten whole years. And there's 300 pages of reasons why right here. Fucking students. If it's not traffic cones and kebabs, it's cack like this.
Owld Stevie: The man. The legend. Hi. I'm the gila monster from the Duke of Northumberland review and, as you can see, I'm not much of a monster at all, am I? A decent PR company; that's all you need to make a name for yourself these days. And I'm living proof. Ł6.59? I'll take a million copies. Will they make me less of a pug-faced, stroppy cunt with a shit, shit, shitty-shit beard?
''Touch my bum,'' you're saying? Funny, cos my last one used to say that, too. Is that it, then? You've finally decided on Newcastle's shittest celebrity, and it's ME, right? You're going for D: ''The Forth is full of irredeemable cunts''. Is that your final answer?
Oi lads, are you sure this is the right instruction manual? I've got a feeling we're going to fuck this up... There are nine million shite songs in my act. That's a fact, it's a thing you can't deny. Like the fact that I'm a scratter 'til I die. The moon landings were faked? Get the fuck outta here! Next you'll be telling me this picture is fake, too.
Stop thinking that. I'm just as God made me. To me... ...to you. To me... Here, Paul: this is just like when we spit roasted that groupie in Skegness. D'ye remember?
Creepy staircase? Aye. Idiots in frock coats? Aye. Virgins? Most definitely. This'll be Trillians, then...[Thanks to Chris Wilson at cmwcreations.com for this one] Jesus said love one another. He didn't say love the Hancock. 'appee tittee furks, ze Burglar's Dog.
Terrorists, rapists, murderers: let 'em all go. The REAL criminal is the reprobate who wrote this. Well, I'm rather disappointed with Mr Reid's decision, actually. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet to read, without those damned foxy kids popping up on my computer screen. And today - like every Saturday morning - I'll be making your pink souffle rise to the occasion.
Och, aye. Take the pish outtae me the NOO. Ah didnae notice ye laughing when ma wee bare erse was oan the Houses o' Parliament. I did all 154 in an afternoon, and I still made it back in time for my shit chat show. Whey, ah tries to git into that Tiger Tiger. Telt us me gansey wasn't posh enough!
And Jesus turned to Peter and said: ''Fuck me! You don't get many of them to the pound!'' Ah, aye: bloody typical. ''Stick Kevin Whately on at the end''. Eternal afterthought, that's me. For fifteen years you have worshipped me from a distance. And after reading this book I am ready to return your worship. Your lass oot Wednesday neet, aye?
Oh, you sweet thing. I'm touched, really. You used me as a that'll-do when you wrote the original website intro, and here I am as a that'll-do on a shite feature six years later. Have a drink on meeee (dowdly-dow-dow-dow-dow) but not in Perdu (dowdly-dow-dow-dow-dow) Look into my eyes. Do I look to you like I want you to continue with this stupidity? This. Ends. Now.

Want to join them?!

Fancy getting involved with this feature instead of just ignoring it like you do with all the fucking rest?!

Then send your snaps to rogues@theburglarsdog.co.uk as quick as you can!

We'll add them to the gallery as soon as those incompetent boobs at Orange Wanadon't make their "New! Improved!" service even 10% as reliable as their old and inferior. SMALL images (i.e. under 50KB) would be a great help, since we're stuck in dial-up land until the fucking broadband is fixed.

Meanwhile, here's another gentle hint about where you should spend that Ł6.79 + P&P you got off Grandma for Christmas: