retiredmartin

October 2023. Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

I’d obviously lost track of time as it was past 5pm when I left the Bridge Hotel in search of two Newcastle ticks, the first of them right out on the coast.

The skies were looking angry as I descended to the bowels of the metro,

but it was the bladders of the youth that were most concerning me as we headed towards Monkseaton.

“Oooh, I need a p*** so bad I’m gonna wee on that bloke“.

I understand there’s former US Presidents who pay for such services and I don’t mean Ulysses S. Grant.

I was glad our charming young ladies left at Palmersville (where ?) and equally glad to learn I could jump off at Monkseaton West, a neat but plain suburb in the manner of Shirley or Bamber Bridge.

Crafty Cold Well is sadly nothing to do with our dear friend Richard,

and feels more in the spirit of those neighbourhood Lancashire family pubs than the beer bore bars from, well, I’ll let you say.

Rev James was on to accompany a gallant Welsh attempt to emulate mighty England, who managed 156 points today, so I assume they win. I never understood these World Cups that go on for months.

Table reservations, TV sport, children, Blur; very non-micro and much the better for it.

All irrelevant if the beer’s dull. The Reverend was a chewy 3.5/4, and I know what I mean by chewy.

Just don’t ask me to explain.