Situated on the North-East coast of England roughly 80 miles from the Scottish border, Newcastle is, according to the marble mouths from Doon Sooth, a grim and miserable place 'up North' filled with cloth-capped men welding in the shipyards and playing dominoes in the working mens clubs. Bollocks! Nobody wears caps anymore, the shipyards have all shut, though the clubs are still going strong, Newcastle is the most exceptional entertainment centre in the UK - so much so in fact that it has been rated fifth in the entire known universe! - Survey by Weissman Travel.

Newcastle's main boozing zone "The Quayside" which has been done up in recent years. The fancy building on the far right is the Magistrate's Court where you can pay your fines for being pissed.

All in all, Newcastle is picturesque place with architecture to rival the best of London (Grey and Dean Streets). The city centre itself is a fairly compact little place jam-packed with shops and zillion's of pubs to drink away your dole money. Favourite boozing areas are the Bigg Market, with wall to wall blart, and the Quayside with pubs in buildings dating back to the 17th century (Geordies never throw anything away). The atmosphere on Friday and Saturday nights is unreal and wearing more than a tee-shirt in mid-winter is deemed homosexual.

History
Anyway Newcastle has a long and glorious history dating back to the Roman occupation of Britain when it had a slightly pratty name (Pons Aelius) and the wops wore skirts. These greasy buggers put some of the local lasses up the duff and the resultant offspring were apprenticed as brickies to build a bloody great wall for an rich wop called Hadrian. Now this wall was built to keep out the Picts (Scots bastards) who also wore skirts and kept nipping over the border to nobble the talent. The wall was such a great sucess that the greasy wops had the lasses to themselves until Rome got in the shite and they had to bugger off. Well, just as the girls were getting used to real men with trousers zips, along come the Vikings with their pointy hats and skirts and it all started over again. No wonder Geordie lasses can't abide drag queens!

Willy the Bastard
Around 1068 Willy the Bastard decided he'd had enough of poking the eyes out of the cockney's and fancied a trip up the coast. After setting to work all the Roman trained brickies, the end result was the walled city of Newcastle upon Tyne. The castle keep proved popular with the Geordies and is still used for pissing against to this very day. Not much of the city wall is left although some is visible attached to the back of chinese restaurants in the west end and is usually covered in vomit on Friday nights.

Picture (taken from the Gateshead side of the river) showing the biggest urinal in the city centre. This must have been taken through a flower pot as I can't think of any plants near the railway bridge.

After the Frogs were absorbed into the populus, life returned to normal. Collect dole on Thursday - drink it away on Friday. Everyone was happy till some idiot discovered coal and had the bright idea of burning it. Half the population ended up in jobs digging it up and the other half ended up building ships to carry it. The divorce rate rocketted since adulterous miners left coal-dust hand prints everywhere and the rivetters couldn't hear the husbands coming home.

Now the vicars started to complain there was no excuse for Geordies to constantly kick the crap out of the Makums but if an excuse was needed, an excuse would be found so a football team (real footbal with a round ball) was formed. God was kind to the Geordies and gifted them Newcastle United. In return the locals stopped worshipping God on Sundays and started to pray at Saint James's Park on Saturdays instead. The black and white 'Toon Army' had been born. Never ever wear a red and white shirt in Newcastle unless you wish to visit the emergency rooms of the Royal Victoria Infirmary. Picture below shows main entrance to the RVI.

The final touches to Newcastle were added in the 1920's. Firstly the Tyne bridge was built, later copied by the Ozzies for Sydney harbour, and then a saint appeared in the land and created Newcastle Brown Ale. Sold in one pint bottles, specially designed for easy grip when fighting, no male was complete without his 'Broon Dog'. The divorce rate rocketted again as throughout the land men crawled home on Saturday nights clutching a bottle in one hand and a black and white scarf in the other. A girlie version of Brown Ale was produced too, called Amber Ale but I haven't seen it for years.

In such easy stages was the Geordie race formed and a thorn in the side of Britain they have been ever since. When the Romans brought in Jupiter they stuck with the druids. When the Vikings prayed to Woden they stuck with Jupiter. When Catholisism was spread across the land, Woden was still the boy. When Henry VIII made everybody Protestant it was 'mea culpa, mea culpa' and when Lloyd George preached socialism, it was straight on the dole. In self defence against all the foreigners who kept taking a shine to the place, the locals developed their own language - Geordie - and a rich and varied tongue it is too. It is so different to English that in reality every Geordie is bi-lingual (which is different to being bi-sexual and poking men's bums).