The bass from Shooters rumbles in the pavement, even at a distance of 100 metres or more. Inside, a relentless, churning meat-market boggles the minds of the chaste and charitable. The grandiose interior boasts remarkable timber and wrought iron magnificence, echoes from its past incarnation as the Grand Hotel, but the high ceilings only serve to create an echo chamber for the wolf whistles, jeers and leers of patrons that probably should have been refused service hours ago. The barmaid looks absolutely sick and tired of it all, and who’s to blame her? Clutching their cassocks, the nuns flee for the street, having not the heart to bother her.