There’s another thing about that horrible hole that reminds me of Whelan’s at its worst – and that’s the tendency of drunken idiots to crash into you on the dancefloor. In every other Dublin club, people take care not to bash into someone else’s space for fear of getting their heads kicked in. This healthy fear of violence broke down in the toothless middle-class indie-kid atmosphere of Whelan’s, and all manner of twats would take intolerable liberties and simply crash into your path while you were preparing to throw the gob in on some teenage Strokes fan to the accompaniment of “Bohemian Like You”. Of course, the advantage of said atmosphere was that you could retaliate without any fear of retribution; persistent tossers could be clothes-lined or elbowed in the face, and they’d never say a word, even if you knocked them to the ground. But it grew to be tiresome, even for a spiteful individual like me. Anyway, this shitehawkery has been revived on the Doyle’s dance-floor, so if you venture there, be ready to shoulder-charge the cunts.

Furthermore, something is really going to have to be done about the Monkey Cunt behind the decks. A friend suggested the following solution: bring a sackload of bananas into the club and distribute them around the dance-floor. Then request “Monkey Man” by the Specials, which will be the cue for everyone to pelt the fruit at the DJ box, knocking the little shit out the window and onto the street below, where he’ll hopefully be crushed by an oncoming bus.

Until such a joyful liberation transpires, my advice is to stay well away…