This cluttered nook attracts a misfit parade of artsy, bookish types of unannounced sexuality and longhaired tattooed folk of indeterminate age. With crimson walls and a mish-mash of retro furnishings, it shoots for an anti-trendy aesthetic and fails miserably.

Bartenders break a sweat trying to repel ‘douchebags’ looking for bottle service and cocktails by keeping drinks to a three-ingredient maximum. There are five beers on tap including Guinness, and snacks are of the ‘cheez whizz on toast’ calibre. There’s a 25c-a-song jukebox for keeping it real, and with such little personal space it’s easy to make friends over song choices.

The only people allowed to have attitude are those serving drinks: sarcastic barmen are poised to cut off and humiliate those who do not tip at least a dollar a pint. Sweaty Betty got to this street first when it was a slum – and it likes to let you know it.