People say to us, they say: "Dear The Burglar's Dog. We love you and your site, but we've suddenly gone blind, dyslexic and illiterate. Even though we know you've got a review for every bar, complete with a little map with a pointer on it showing the exact location almost to the square inch of the boozer, please could you tell us where the pubs are? Thanx."
Incredible, eh? Newcastle: a city that's legendary for its drinking, where you can't walk more than twenty yards in any direction without coming across a pub or at least having some bleached-blonde bint in a cowboy hat stuffing a leaflet in your face. How can it be that folks are still stumped when it comes to a night on the lash?
Well, it's simple. People today just can't be bothered with anything more detailed than a grab-bag-iPod-soundbite. If it doesn't fit on a Nokia screen then it simply doesn't exist, not even if it's as frank, as colourful and as well-punctuated as The Burglar's Dog.
That's why, for one month only, we're going to play by the rules, make it easy for the tourists, and bung an arbitrary selection of bits of everything on one front page, complete with a handy map that we stole from Newcastle City Council. It's the Burglar's Dog: to go!
And look, we've even got ourselves some nice, safe, soothing iDog ('fraid so) graphics to go with the feature because, after all, life's complicated enough.
So sit back and let us take the strain out of your piss-up research as we present The Dog: your way.
NB Don't be thinking that the places we've listed below are any sort of recommendation, though. We just pulled the names out of a hat and stuck them in a cacky little box, complete with links to the reviews that people can't be arsed to wade through. The numbers after the names refer to where they are on the map, by the way: if you needed us to tell you that then you shouldn't be allowed near Sunny D, never mind the drink.
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DJ bars
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Piss off, will you?
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There you go. Happy now? Found one you fancy? Yeah? Fucking whoopee. It's all the same to us, you know: we're pig bloody sick of the whole lot of them, to tell you the truth. We've seen them all and become all too aware of the law of diminishing returns, ending up as the jaded, sneering, egotistical wankers you all despise in the process. Look at us: see how desperate we are for something to cling onto in our search for fulfilment. See us pinning increasingly larger hopes on the next bar to open, only to experience even greater crushing disappointment as it fails to meet our ridiculous expectations. And see us hammer out another six hundred words that nobody will ever read, our cries for salvation from our imminent mental collapse buried beneath more griping about purple paint.
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Here's the link to the bloody map, anyway (click the image, you helmet). Every bar in Newcastle at the time of writing - October 2005 - should be marked on there with a dot and a number; well, all the bars we managed to recall before the crushing futility of the exercise dawned on us.
Will it look alright printed onto a page of A4? Dunno. Haven't tried it. A3, maybe? Dunno that, either. We may as well suggest you lithograph it onto a roll of Axminster for all the chance you have of actually using the fucker.
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Remember: you drove us to this.
Balls.
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