You bet - next Thursday.

As intended you head over to Mulligan's and 45 minutes later find yourself in an out of the way part of the campus. The bar has a brick front, painted white. Even in the dim light of the flickering neon sign overhead you can make out that the paint work is beginning to peel. A pale orange light shines from the windows but they are frosted such that you can’t see who is inside. A narrow uninviting wooden door is the only entrance. You silently pass the suited grim-faced doorman who is built like a shithouse and probably as intelligent. Inside the bar is surprisingly spacious. Huge in fact. More Shoubu strangeness.

Simple wooden tables and chairs fill the centre whilst a row of booths stretch into the cavernous distance. Overhead light fittings cast a dull yellow, almost orange light across the whole bar. You order a bottle of cheap beer with some nondescript green label and look around for: