In Ireland, if you’re drunk, you are always among friends. The same holds true for Doolin’s Pub. You won’t know what to make of the place after you handle the queue, for although the lineup appears as if it could service a classier joint, you are on the dodgy end of Granville, and the Celtic chorus of the mob within is far more indicative of the kind of time you’ll have whilst boozing.

Doolin’s beer-slingers are top notch. Our perch at the bar proved to be the best real estate in the house. We were charmed, egged-on, given free drinks, and cleaned up after better than our mother could have done. The energy they invested in our good time was obvious, and is reason enough to return.

If you keep your head up, trying not to make too much eye contact with any of the guys that make up the weighty four-to-one ratio, you’ll see that it’s a damn cool place. Score a booth to set up a choice launching pad for your adventures. Score a barstool to become the envy of the entire room. Cramped corners, stained wood, and a jovial beer-hall motif exemplify Doolin's overrun collegiate feel. But there are mysterious things afoot. Could this be a lazy person’s club as well? Dress up nice to get pissed for cheap? Dance where there is little dancing to be done? It just might be, if the bathrooms are any indication.

Doolin’s shares porcelain with a dungeonesque nightclub spot called The Cellar. The disco music pounds loudly for the pub-goers with full bladders. Perhaps it is the inspired trip to the toilet that fuels the debauchery of the leprechauns upstairs.

If you are trolling for foxes, bring your A-game. The general scruffiness of the place denotes many a battle for a woman’s affection. If you are one said fox, mind yourself. Everyone has had way more booze than they would like to lead on and the bass rattle from The Cellar is making everyone antsy. - C.L.