Let's move to a city where the people love bridges almost as much as they love Greggs! This week: Newcastle upon Tyne

What’s it about?

They’re friendlier up north, and Newcastle is truly one of the friendliest places to get your head kicked in for glancing at someone’s girlfriend. But acts of savage violence aside, Geordies are warm, welcoming and unintelligible to anyone south of Darlington.

Newcastle is a lively city with its own culture and customs, like drinking pints, smoking tabs and wearing close to no clothing in sub-arctic conditions. The government prefers to forget it exists which at this point in time is a compelling reason to move there.

Any good points?

Newcastle is renowned for its nightlife – and, unlike shitholes like London, lives up to that reputation. A night out in Newcastle makes nights out in other cities look like a watercolour painting class for pensioners at the local library. Geordies know how to have a good time and, if you get on their good side, they might just teach you.

It’s also one of the last few places in the country you can get a pint for less than £2. Find the right pub in Byker, Walker, Heaton or even some city centre locales and you’ll be buying rounds under a tenner or, as locals call it, a deposit for a three-bed terraced house.

It’s a football city. You can accurately calculate your odds of being filled in on a night out by whether Newcastle lost that day. The club was recently sold to Saudi Arabia, which because Geordies are a welcoming people who embrace diversity was celebrated by pissed fans dancing around with tea-towels on their heads outside St James’s Park.

Wonderful landscapes?

Surrounded by nightmarish housing estates and brutal suburbs, Newcastle’s centre is delightful. Grey Street, frequently voted one of the most beautiful streets in the country, is so aesthetically pleasing it feels like a mistake, as if it was meant to be in Bath but got lost. At the top of it is Grey’s Monument, a huge statue of the guy they named your nan’s favourite tea after.

Residents of the city are so taken with the novelty of crossing water there are seven f**king bridges, which is dramatic but unreasonable. The Tyne Bridge looks like the Sydney Harbour Bridge but isn’t half as famous and the Millennium Bridge is known as the Blinking Eye, but more closely resembles a harp crossed with a vagina.

Hang out at….

You’re never more than six feet from a Greggs in Newcastle. Like pasta to Italians, Greggs is a regional staple. Their sausage rolls are called Geordie Dummies because they’re given to infants as the beginning of their life of Greggs.

If you want to try an age-old Geordie tradition, find yourself a café that does a ham sandwich with pease pudding on stotty bread. It’s a regular ham sandwich with the addition of a yellow mush that tastes a shit hummus.

For nightlife there’s the Bigg Market. Nobody alive today can experience the last hedonistic days before Rome fell, so this is the next best thing. There’s everything you could want: nightclubs, kebabs, cocaine, bouncers pumped up on testosterone incensed at the mere thought of a man wearing trainers. There’s also the Quayside, which is the Bigg Market with a non-zero chance you’ll fall in the Tyne and drown.

If you’re artsy, there’s an abundance of wanky venues. Baffling contemporary art? Go to the Biscuit Factory or stroll over the vagina harp to the Baltic.

Where to buy?

Back in the 1970s, the powers-that-be had an ingenious idea: gather up all the poor and build a wall around them. Thus Byker Wall was born. A hybrid of warzone and prison, Byker’s cheap, central and has a vibrant culture of calling ambulances then throwing bricks at them.

Upmarket? Jesmond’s for you. It’s hard to believe but there are posh parts of Newcastle and Jesmond is one of the poshest. The Geordies who live there prefer the Guardian to tabs and Waitrose to ale. If you’re from the south, you’ll fit right in.

From the streets:

Tom Logan, 30, said: “Newcastle’s great. It’s cold and miserable, the government doesn’t give us any money, and parts of it are rough as fuck. But if you’ve got twenty quid in your pocket you can forget all of that shit and have the greatest night of your fucking life. Who’d want to live anywhere else?”

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday

Five legitimate excuses to get out of sex with your partner: the Mash sex columnist writes

Lower your sexpectations with the Mash’s middle-aged sex columnist, Jen Prentice

NOBODY wants sex, at least not with the person they share a bed with. It’s a faff, tiring, and engenders powerful emotional connections you could do without. 

But sometimes, on summer evenings when romance hangs heavy in the air, neither of you is too tired, neither of you is too drunk and the kids have gone to sleep, a fuck seems almost inevitable. It isn’t. You can always get out of it:

It’s Monday

Sexual euphoria and Mondays do not mix. The start of the week is the time for unshakeable heaviness about the state of the human condition, not carnal pleasure. Why prolong it when you can lapse into unconsciousness and wake up with one working day behind you?

No reasonable partner can expect you to be up for it when tomorrow’s only fucking Tuesday. That’s no day to wake up with cystitis. Everyone on the school run will see you swigging cranberry juice and know exactly what’s been going on.

You’re in no state for it

The human body needs maintenance, just as a car does, and the Kia Sportage of your body is knee-high with Ginsters packets in its allegorical footwell. If I’ve lost you there, what I’m saying is the woman’s not shaved her legs and the man’s got detestably sweaty balls.

Can you really paper over the cracks by hoisting your leg into the sink for a quick warm-water splash, or straddling the bath tap in the vain hope it’ll be less trouble than a full shower? No. This vehicle needs a full valet before it fucks, to mix my metaphors.

You’re meant to be trying something new

We’re all creatures of habit. And just as you know where your husband left his car keys, you know exactly how long he’ll spend on your tits before deciding foreplay’s over and it’s penetration time. Which is reassuring, easy and directly contravenes that chat you had about revitalising your sex life.

Conversations like that are money in the bank. Having summoned the effort to broach the subject, you can now wield it like a weapon to nip any spontaneity in the bud. An ordinary, familiar shag, at this point, would be a betrayal of those promises. No shag at all, conversely, is fine.

You really went for it at dinner

The pleasures of the flesh are many, but at this stage in the marriage they come chiefly from Deliveroo. And after licking out a foil tin of Lebanese mezes, the thought of applying that same tongue to your girlfriend’s fanny is numbing. Neither of you needs any more meat inside you.

Is it the death-knell of passion that you’d rather have a food delivery moped shooting up your drive than your boyfriend shooting up your muff? No. It’s inevitable. Food sustains life. Sex merely creates it, and long-term that’s a pain in the arse.

You’re approaching a season finale

Once past episode six of an eight-part series, all sexual activities are automatically suspended until the ending. How can you prioritise a simple, low-budget, predictable penis over the sophistication and class of The Staircase? 

Yes, you’ve put work into your long-term relationship, but you’ve put just as many hours into Saul Goodman, and we all know which is going to get your blood pumping faster. If your partner’s really that desperate for it, wank him off.