NH3 @ The Queen Victoria, Gosforth – 15 Jan 2020

Luv a duck! It was gorn ‘arf parst when I got to the Queen Vic. Traffic’s a bloomin’ nightmare, that High Street’s worse than Margate on a bank holiday. Tell yer what, pub looks laverly inside – much better since they burnt it dahn. Again.

I was surprised to see Phil there (fought he’d bin shot). There were loads of ‘ashers in the bar, crahded rahnd a cupple of tables. I ‘ad a Lady Godiva for my Britney Spears tucked inter my trolleys, so ‘ere’s me fishin’ it aht when I hears Mindphuck say “Are you taking your shorts off?” She’s only ‘avin’ a butcher’s hook. Stone me.

‘Are finally turned up abaht seven bells. Pop ‘ad picked the rub-a-dub then parsed it on ter Misled, prob’ly cos he ‘ad bovver with the cozzers. She got there so garden gate that Five Kuai ‘ad already turned up and put ‘is bag in Counterfit’s jam jar.

Orf we went, dahn the High Street then inter the Noah’s Ark. Brass monkeys it was aht there, but there was Innconts up in front – e’d ‘ad a look at the flahr on the way in, so ‘e ‘ad – wif Cinderella not far behind ‘im. There was a stop check aht on the rahndabaht on Moor Road North, and when we got there Misled decided to do a ‘ead count.

“Everybody remember your numbers,” she said, “so we can make sure nobody goes missing.” Werl, I fought, that won’t be a problem tonight, it’s not loik we’re sahf of the river. I got number 7. Or was it 13?

Orf we went towards the Little Moor, which is just across the frog’n’toad from the big Moor. Misled had laid a trail dahn the side of it, just where all the flippin’ mud was. Laverly. Rahnd the little Jack Horner we fahnd a bunch of proper r*nners, all in lycra and hi-vis, cahntin’ dahn until they were ready to start r*nnin’ again. I fink we minded are manners very nice by just shahtin’ ON ON at ’em. Left ’em there when we crorsed over and ‘eaded towards Jesmond Dene.

We stuck ter Jesmond Dene Road for abaht ‘arf a mile til a r*nnin’ check sent me dahn a parf. Caught an FRB on it and watched ’em all skiddin’ parst, dainty as yer please; cobbles it was, covered in sloimy mud. Jast the fing for yer ankles, and ter top it off it was dark as Nick Cotton’s soul at the bottom. Everyone got their torches on, except for them ‘as adn’t brought ’em, like Kuai.

Then Misled says we ‘ave ter sing aht numbers.

“Do wot?” says the ‘ash. Got enuff ter do cahntin’ Britneys.

As for the next bit – I’ll be Dirty Den’d if I know where the rubber duck we was. Misled knows that Dene like the inside of Sab’s shorts (we’ll get back ter that) and in the inky black we had not a Scooby Doo which way was up. There was crorst a bridge, up a few ‘ills, rahnd a cupple a corners, then up some apples and pears to end up in Paddy Freeman’s Park. I fink. Then it was back in, more avin-a-larfs, nearly knocked Speedbump for six, and we come aht on Freeman Road. Then we went back in, more avin-a-larfs, on the bloomin’ BMX track and we come aht on Freeman Road. Sure as my uncle’s a cobbler, Misled ‘ad some sort of black magic goin’ on.

Anyways, that second time we knew where we was. Because we was close to a pub. I got stuck on a bleedin’ FRB so I ‘ad the pleasure of watchin’ from the rear as the entire ‘ash jaywalked across a main road covered in works and r*n, not Charlie Chalked, in the front door of the Brandling Villa.

The Brandling’s a laverly little rub-a-dub. Miles better than the Dagmar. The Carters ‘ave done wonders with the old Queen Vic, but the selection of Britneys in ‘ere was somefin’ else entirely. Full marks to the ‘are, best pint of ship full sale I’ve ‘ad in ages.

Werl, we was bahncin’ orf the walls when we left. Dahn Haddricks Mill Road then strike a light, and we all fought we was goin’ straight back to the Vic. No such; Misled ‘ad us up and dahn the back streets, we didn’t even see Sahf Gosforth metro, and it was only Innconts who kept us goin’ from the front. Cos ‘e’d come in that way, adn’t ‘e, and done a cheeky advance recce! ‘E kept us roight til we was on Church Avenue and that was us On Inn.

We had to crors the High Street again. I’d rather ‘ave a Punch and Judy with Grant than crors that three times.

Circle started late. Slippery called on the RA, naffin’ ‘appened, we all went “WHO SHOT PHIL?” But ‘e was alright, just a bit ninepence to a shillin’. It was much too taters in the mould to be stahndin’ abaht so ‘e kept it short and sweet.

I had to arst about Sab’s crotch. Misled ‘ad brought it up – nah, not like that, in an email, said she stitched ‘im up good and proper. ‘E seemed ‘appy abaht it. Too much doin’ the splits I reckon, or that bike seat needs a bit of sahndin’ dahn.

Big fing was all the events wot’s comin’ up. Burns Noight, 1600 Run, Red Dress Run where we’re gunna cerlect for all them animals dahn under what got caught in the ave maria.

Wot? Wot yer mean, y’don’t foller? Speakin’ the Queen’s, so I am.

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