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Oh amber nectar! What has become of me! Will I ever escape thy vile clutches? Will I ever want to escape, for that matter? 

Just in time to round off the year, your humble correspondent has embarked on a plan of action that will either make him one of the most cultured men in Belfast, a rakish wit who will be glimpsed at every social gathering, adding that little special something to the proceedings, or it will make him an alcoholic. 
 
I have joined the Rum Club. 
 
Every Sunday to Tuesday, The Spaniard Bar in Belfast is host to Rum Club, one of only four such Rum Clubs in the world. The concept is remarkably simple: 25 rums from around the world, which one endeavours to work through, developing one’s palette and learning a little about rum in the process. Upon drinking all 25 rums, the club member achieves a status of Tiki Godhead, and is gifted with a new Tiki God name, which is engraved upon a silver tankard, which is hung behind the bar, and only to be used by the person bearing the name on the tankard. 
 
Simple enough, one might think. But sadly your correspondent has never been much of a rum drinker, preferring the dark pleasures of gin (or latterly Bushmills whiskey). So rather than this just being a regular booze eating competition, there is a degree of determination required in order to complete my task. Truth be told, it hasn’t been that arduous, and I have developed quite a taste for a little number called Clements Crelole Shrubb, which is delightful orange flavoured liqueur.  
 
Another thing to recommend Rum Club is that all the rums are cost price to Rum Club members, which means that this trans-continental jaunt is not quite as bank balance crushing as usual. However, it was with no small amount of horror that your correspondent watched as a round of three drinks came to the whopping tag of £37.50…for two rums and a cup of tea. Don’t get me wrong, the rum tasted like honey drawn straight from the rear end of Lovely McBuzz –Buzz, the god of bees, but I suffered a minor stroke with that one. 
 
And in case you think the wonderful Spaniard is promoting binge drinking, never fear: the 1^st rule of Rum Club is that you can only have three per night. The 2^nd rule of Rum Club is…etc. 
 
After the delights of Rum Club, myself and my two companions moved on to our next weapon of choice – The Manhattan.  
 
I’ve never tasted a Manhattan before, and it was with great anticipation that I watched our friendly neighbourhood barman, Dale, mix this most illustrious of drinks. Fine, elegant, classy – I am none of these things. But with a Manhattan in my hand, I feel like I should be attending a gathering of Warholian superstars, or perhaps a soiree hosted by Truman Capote. 
 
Another drink which was sampled was the Nuclear Daiquiri, a delightful blend of rum and wizardry, which definitely soothed the palette of myself and my two companions. And without wishing to gush on about it too much, there really isn’t a nicer spot in Belfast for this sort of thing, the environs perfectly complimenting that laid-back Sunday feeling. Belfast can get a bit claustrophobic from time to time, and there’s something about the Spaniard on a nice day which makes you feel that you’re somewhere else, somewhere very far away indeed. In many respects, everything that the Cathedral Quarter is supposed to represent is embodied by the Spaniard – its compact, has a great atmosphere, friendly staff, and it has an unusual odour 
 
However, this particular Sunday was not just about Rum Club, as alluring as it might be. Our next port of call (after a quick pit-stop at Muriel’s, where I thrashed my companions at chess) was the Archana Indian restaurant on the Dublin Road. Archana has the distinction of being one of Belfast’s oldest and most respected Indian restaurants, as well as being a restaurant which has never turned your correspondent away, regardless of his current condition. Never having been one for anything too spicy (I’m man enough to admit that I once accidentally ate a pizza covered in chillies, and actually wept) I normally go for a korma, despite every single person I’ve ever met telling me that this is the way of the loser. Regardless of whether it’s wimpy or not, I positively relish the thought of a nice creamy korma, and once again, Archana didn’t disappoint. 
 
Stuffed with curry and rum, I made my way across the road to Auntie Annie’s for a bit of post-hardcore action. On the menu for this evening’s entertainment were two of Northern Ireland’s hidden gems – Spectator and Black Bear Saloon. Spectator hail from the North West, and specialise in breathtakingly tight arrangements which pummel you into submission. Black Bear Saloon kick you to death with riffs and shouting, and seem to have a particular aversion to psychics. A good time was had by the few who were there, but attendance was low, which is disappointing for bands of this calibre.  
 
But I was there, and I guess that counts for something. After all, when you’re a member of the Rum Club, “Determination” is your middle name. 
 
And perhaps having your name engraved on a silver tankard is something that would get people to more gigs? 
 
Promoters…take note.