This place has been trading off its mention in Lonely Planet for far too long. Admittedly the upstairs is a respectable place to kill some time with the plastic dartboard providing an amusing barometer of your sobriety (or lack of it); however to say the downstairs is a lamentable excuse for a club would be to understate. Try and remain inconspicuous whilst groups of thugs stare at you from under their sports caps, and trashed village girls sway half-heartedly on the dancefloor. Worst of all the soundsystem at No. 9 packs all the punch of coma victim... Which of course doesn't stop the (surely deaf and mute) DJ turning the volume up full blast.

4 / 5

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