Touring the Worst-Rated Nightspots in... Manchester!

Manchester is an iconic clubbing city. Watch any one of those BBC back-in-the-day shows, where they wheel out Pete Tong and Sarah Cawood to get misty-eyed about smiley face T-shirts, and you'll hear how the place is still inextricably linked to acid house, The Hacienda and people taking just an extraordinary amount of MDMA. That scene went on to breed an optimism that would eventually inform festival, youth and nightlife culture around the world.

But a lot has happened to the city between then and now. It's fitting, for instance, that the red-brick building that used to house The Hacienda is now home to flats, candidly being sold using the slogan, "Now the party's over… You can come home."

Of course, the party isn't over: there are still tons of great bars and clubs in the city. However, by the looks of the reviews on the "Mancheser Nightlife" section on TripAdvisor – the most reputable of all city guides – there are also a whole bunch of very bad ones. To see them for myself, I hop on a MegaBus to visit some of the city's worst-rated clubs. And where better to start than the place you've heard your mate at Manchester Met earnestly and repeatedly compare to Williamsburg over 15 times: The Northern Quarter.

First, let's see what people who take the time out of their day to write online reviews of pubs think of the place:

So the toilets apparently leave a lot to be desired, according to these oracles of Manchester toilet culture. Better check them out.

Oh, they're literally completely fine. Who knew Manchester was home to so many anal toilet puritans.

As for the ""inappropriately" dressed staff, though it sort of looks like I've arrived at an open casting session for Dirty Den's replacement, there's nothing wrong with that whatsoever. I don't know what "inappropriately" dressed in a pub even means – a suit of armour? A wetsuit?

Whether this is a coke gag or a forgotten Christmas decoration, it has me feeling the chill. Then I feel a warmth permeating the room, coming directly from the guy behind me.

"Are you the DJ?" I ask.

"Yeah. Anything you want on, pal?"

"Mistletoe & Wine?" He laughs and nods, smiling. Does he think I'm being serious?

Either way, my interaction with the guy has done wonders for my PR.

I ask my new friends for the most memorable thing about this place and a guy says, "The stench!" The vibe is good, so I decide to leave on a high.

It's 11PM and I'm walking through an alleyway that contains the Hard Rock Café, Tiger Tiger and Yates. People shout "Lego head" at me and ask for my ID. It's like I'm 14 again.

Let's hear from those online reviewers again:

Pushing through the large glittery doors, I pass dancing shapes in the pitch black. Crowd noise is being pumped out of small speakers in every corner, which strikes me as strange, but whatever; I guess this is the nightclub equivalent of Sainsbury's pumping out synthesised bakery smells.

I order a pint of Rekorderlig – a party drink, yes, but I have business to get to first, and that business is named "Michael the Manager", the apparent tyrant in charge of the place.

After a bit of back and forth with the bar staff, Michael the Manager makes his way down from his office.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. Are you Michael the Manager?"

"I am."

"I'm Oobah the customer. I read on TripAdvisor that you weren't a nice guy. I just wanted to see if that was true." Michael looks at me, numbly, takes a deep breath, holds his hand up and offers it for a shake. Seems alright.

Waiting for a second Rekorderlig, I feel a hand on my arse. A lady, dressed as Snow White, hugs me, giggles and puts a sash around me.

All of a sudden, I've joined a hen party.

I'm welcomed with open arms and led to the dance floor.

Inexplicably getting in on rounds of shots, having people clap me as I dance inappropriately – I'm beginning to enjoy myself. Then, all of a sudden, I'm collared by a bouncer. What on earth have I done? I see a gaggle of my fellow hens being ploughed off the dance floor. Then this happens:

Which, again, is odd. After three minutes they're done and come off stage, and we're allowed back on. I don't get it, and nor does anyone else. Looking around the room, I realise it's split down the middle – half of us who want to dance, half who are just here for the cabaret. So we're essentially playing a game in which 50 percent of the participants are pissed off at all times.

Sensing bad vibes, I flee.

My pockets filled with coins, I burst into Bar Pop: I need to check out this Tuck Shop.

Flamin' Hot Doritos, Fruit Pastels, Boost bars – it's like being in a corner shop, with the added benefit of being able to buy a vodka-slushie at the bar. I know people might use this to complain about the whole "infantilisation of culture" thing, but they can honestly get to fuck.

Soon, I'm screaming along to Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now", falling back into trustworthy arms.

They've got me. I feel incredible. Night club tuck shops are the shit. Another vodka-slushie and a Boost bar, please.

Hold on – I feel a sickness in my stomach. This must be one of those famous sugar crashes.

Why on earth would you provide a tuck shop in a club? Have you seen the way drunk people behave? I saw a guy eat four chicken fillet burgers in the Morley's on Peckham High Street at 2:30AM last week. We're fucking animals and we will eat too much sugar if it is available and then we will feel physically ill.

I stumble out of the door and into the night.

Lower than ever, it's time to go to ground zero: the Valhalla of shite.

After five checks of the content of my bag, the redness of my eyes and the pertness of my back pocket, I feel like I'm boarding a plane to a secure military base. But eventually, I'm wavedthrough.

Gigantic columns, jet black walls and thick smoke disguising any form or shape to your surroundings, it's an architectural anomaly. Kind of like Berghain if it had been designed by Mudvayne. Sipping £2 vodka-Red Bulls, I study the smattering of students posing for photos with people they've been leaving passive aggressive notes for over the past seven weeks.

Hours fly by, multiple vodka-Red Bulls go down.

Eventually, we're prodded out into the streets. Feeling glossy, I look around to see where the party is headed, but no dice. It's weird: unlike in London, I don't see any furtive after-party supply calls being made, any NOS sellers, or any pilled-up dickheads trying to talk to you about a podcast that changed their life. Instead, the cabs pull up, the takeaways fill and the streets empty within minutes.

Maybe I've just been in the wrong club – and if the reviews are to be believed, I definitely have been. Mind you, the online reviews – like always – meant little: the good thing about Manchester is that even in its "worst" bars and clubs, you're still guaranteed a decent night.

@oobahs / @CBethell_Photo

Previously:

Liverpool!

London!