All hail Empress: the mother of pre bars

Our dearest Empress: We’re sorry for that brief period in second year treble bars became all the rage and we neglected you. We sought refuge in the grimey back alleys of Mimo’s, some tipsy warriors facing the brave treck to Bijoux, so far away from your humble corner. We got distracted by the blinding lights of Geordie Shore and we lost sight of who had been there the longest.

We’re sorry, Empress. This one’s for you.

Demanding no further attention than the legend you’ve bestowed upon the Toon, you’re tucked away quietly opposite Tup Tup and have watched us try and crawl across the cobbles to the rest of our filthy night since freshers. Filling us full of your gloriously original bombs and sending us on our way, you simply chuckled under your breath as we threw back your lethal trebles and left you at 1am to face Waikiki.

You know your place and never ask for more. For that, we’ll always love you.

You gently tucked us under your pre-drinking wing, adorning every bedroom wall with your menu of shots ranging from sherbet bombs to fiery tabasco little bastards. You offer us both cocktails and pints so that poly and posh can drink together in harmony, feeling catered for and well and truly wankered.

We don’t know what we’d do without you.

You’re so close to everything we need, as if each of the bricks you were lovingly put together with all those years ago thinking just how baltic Newcastle can be and the fact that none of us will take out our coats. You know that, for all we try and argue otherwise, geordies are not weather-proof but you accept us flaws and all.

There was that tough time where we weren’t sure which direction our relationship was going: the end was looking near and gloomy. The buildings around you changed and we thought you were changing, too. There are generations of students who have never seen you in your full glory, without the scaffolding you’ve been plagued with for years despite never being treated to a make over yourself. We thought we’d lose the Empress we knew and loved forever. We’re sorry we doubted you.

You have such persuasive methods, Empress…

We’ve never quite made it to the VIP area towards the toilets but we respect those black booths of cool are there as an option. You lovingly provided us with those weird, little-bit-too-tall-little-bit-too-slippy stools along the sides of the wall as if we would ever act sophisticated enough to casually sit and sip our treble vodka, lemonade and black currant. Your dance floor has that only just noticeable slant because of the bank to the Quayside you reside so humbly on. You’re a truly unique, if not obscurely placed little gem and we adore you.

But where you really separate the boys from the men is your queue handling. There’s never an hour long wait just to get through those big old doors (that we’re slightly scared of being crushed by) the way there is up the Diamond Strip and we’ve never waited arounf longer than deciding what our poison is at the bar.

Empress, you’re practically perfect in every way and we’ll never leave you again. This is our ode to you.