e never really recovered from last year's three-city drink-down. Aside from fathering illegitimate children, cuckolding a mayor and waking up smelling of drag queen, we did figure out how many clubs we could hit in a single night. This year, our Clubathon consists of two guys, two girls, a night of Buddha-heavy drinking and a stake-raising fourth city.

Once again, our entire Clubathon team is frantically speed-dialing and text-messaging as we reserve planes, trains and automobiles. Okay, no trains; but there's definitely some head-scratch plans being made. The idea is to pace ourselves while not get so soused as to abandon our schedule. Ideally, we hope to avoid pissing off too many club promoters as we stumble around drunk but punctual. The night will be a busy one, but we’ve spent years in training and we're up to the challenge.

We have a long night ahead so we kickstart our Clubathon early at The Drake Lounge (1150 Queen Street West). Even though it’s only 5:00pm, it’s no surprise that pockets of stylish hipsters already dot the room; we manage to turn things up a notch. As regulars, we pony up to our fave bartender, known for her attentive and sweet disposition. This tiny ball of Assmaster energy pours 'em mean and neat. If you aren't careful, you'll fall prey to her specialty: a fruity, bloodshot concoction that'll have your eyes stoner-crimson come morning. It's just our first stop, but we don’t want to leave (I never tire of these Rorschach Test walls). The Drake has been serving us silly since Stober gave us back this crazy, Third Uncle-designed space. With its bohemian-meets-hipster vibe, The Drake stands out among its neighbouring shops and dives.

We briefly consider tidying up for our next stop: ultra-chic Kultura (169 King Street East). It’s already filled with BMW-driving, Chanel-accessorized gallery types. Kultura’s beautiful dining room and main level lounge are among the most sought-after in town. Here, the scent of expense accounts and super-premium bar rails mingle in the air, and the crisp, white shirts and freshly pressed suits of both the masculine and feminine ilk are aphrodisiacal for the seriously marriage-minded.

Our limo whips us over to Lobby (192 Bloor Street West), where we're eager to soak up the hip new redesign. Inside, loungers and diners alike do their thing to deejay-spun sounds and attitudes while nursing multiple glasses of expensive liquid. Lobby’s interior no longer screams Yabu Pushelberg; Precipice Studios' redesign has given Lobby a jangly, nervy energy. The drinks are boozey if you know someone and the lines are usually so packed that the choice grab is often offset by a chance for an innocent-like chat. While models and celebs filled these four walls during TIFF, tonight we're treated to a depressingly older CEO crowd sipping vodka shots and monitoring the much livelier ladies on the prowl. Normally a spirited lounge scene; tonight it's the Geritol variety. Off we go.

It’s quite a few blocks away, but Maro (135 Liberty Street) is worth the trek. The propulsive cocktail movement and sweat-inducing dance floor situation is inevitably reminiscent of Ultra Supper Club (314 Queen Street West), but the sensation here is somewhat different. Maro has an exaggerated BoHo quality to it in the way it crashes club-like zaniness into an efficiently-run dining room setting, and in its accommodation of wild partying at its core. Tonight, the pre- and post-dinner crowd is adding greatly to this atmosphere. If we didn't have such a busy night, we all agree that we'd be sticking around 'til the wee hours and soaking up the vibe...and 5oz. martinis.