‘You can get three trebles for a fiver’ and other lies you tell about Newcastle

‘Scotty T is my best mate’


We’ve all been there. You’re back at home for the hols to take a well earned break from your Geordie alter-ego, who loves blueberry trebles, quirky northern slang and questionable kebabs.

Your mate, who has dived head first in to a maelstrom of boredom by deciding to study biology at the University of Warwick, approaches you with eager ears about your time at Newcastle, where you are slamming Jager bombs down your throat and rubbing shoulders with the stars of Geordie Shore.

It is a moment when you realise that you definitely made the right decision to come to this mad but wonderful place. But, there’s always room to exaggerate on the life you live up here; besides, it’s unlikely that your home friends are going to jump on that 8-hour Megabus from the home counties to come and visit. Here are our favourite exaggerations that slip through the net when describing the Toon to your mates from home.

‘You get three trebles for a fiver’

‘It’s like 10p and I’m mortal’

Yeah, you do if you go to Basement every night you weirdo. Realistically, the prices have ‘shot’ up in this instance (sorry), and in actual fact, two trebles and a jagerbomb costs £7.50 in the much-frequented Soho Rooms. It is cheaper in Empress, but saying ‘three trebs for £6.50’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. It goes back on the promise of the third-year that showed you round when you were 17, that a crisp fiver gets you nine shots. Then again, he was probably lying as well. However much it is, just remember that it’ll  always be cheaper than the £20 pint your mate gets with his student discount in UCL’s Student Union bar.

‘Geordie Shore? Yeah, I literally see them all the time, really good mates with some of them.’

Oh, stop it you little fangirl. Don’t lie and say that Bijoux wasn’t the bar you ran to on your first night in Newcastle because you were desperate for a glimpse of Scotty T and the gang. A quick ‘hello’ with Holly, a high-five with Gaz, or a peck on the cheek from Charlotte does not constitute a ‘night out’ with the reality stars. As time goes on, you do see them knocking about town a fair bit, and it becomes blatantly obvious that they are just some Z-list locals who wear rather ridiculous jeans and too much make up. But no, you will not be potentially getting a call up to Series 15 because Marty himself has recommended you, so please stop giving your mates false hope.

‘You wear jumpers out? Pffffttt, bloody Southerner!’

I mean, this could be the worst one. Not only do you betray the fact that you yourself live more south than the absolutely baltic North East, it’s just a lie. No, you have never been in the Swingers smoking area with your shirt off and no, you are not best friends with that bloke who whips his moobs out on TV at St. James’ Park. You wrap up in your generic Jesmond puffer jacket when you go out as much as the next home-counties student, who was also given an extra £50 by his Mummy at the start of freshers for an extra-warm coat.

‘Why aye, I’ve picked up so much Geordie slang’

When was the last time you actually shouted ‘howay pet’? In an ironic drunken scream outside Soho to a taxi that absolutely wasn’t yours? Probably. Yet, when you return home, don’t you just dish out your new dialect. Whilst you slip your local lingo in to every day conversation, your ‘impressed’ mates have to continuously pick out words that you know they’ve never heard before, giving you the smug opportunity to condescendingly define the meaning of ‘radgie’, ‘bait’ or ‘mortal’ to them. Isn’t it funny that when you’re actually at uni, you’re the one being constantly ribbed for having the most unoriginal accent out of everyone.

‘I go out, like, five nights a week on average’

‘Yeah, that’s me on an eight-night bender in the background’

Ok, maybe you did in the first weeks of freshers, before you almost died of flu and decided that 13 nights in a row was pushing it a bit. Since then, you’ve clicked ‘going’ on each and every drum and bass event at Digi, to maintain the facade to your Facebook friends that you are constantly loose and enjoying nightlife as crazily in third year as you did in your first. In reality, you’re tucked up in bed, watching Aaron’s antics on Ex on the Beach, aren’t you?

It’s time to come clean to your friends from home. They all know that you’re having an amazing time up here when they see the radge Facebook photos of you looking mortal, shirt off, sharing a £1 treble with Gaz anyway.