In Proof one can buy oneself an Old Fashioned. At this point, if I were a little scallywag, yet to enter the world of proper, adult conversation, I would say, Nuff said. But, onwards, I must continue.
Proof is a pretty cool bar and not only because it sells cocktails that dote on the world of the grain; it plays cool music too. During the week one can hear the reasonably entertaining beats of Manchester indie. When the weekend comes a DJ graces the scene. Some of these play music from their mother's vinyl collection; Stevie Wonder, The Trampps, Earth, Wind & Fire. Sometimes, however, a DJ will attend who has been schooled in the wonderful world of late night radio; you might hear Roy Ayers, Nu Yorican Soul or Galliano.
And what about the staff? They're pretty cool too. Although they can be a little overly attentive. In one ten second period I was asked if I was okay on several occasions. I had an Old Fashioned in front of me; of course I was ok! Also, there is something disturbing about the pubs, bars and restaurants of Chorlton. Everybody who works in one has a doppelganger in another. There is a girl in Proof whose clone works in Croma; likewise waiters of Croma have clones in The Lead Station or The Horse and Jockey. These aren't the same people; they aren't perfect matches; but the situation makes me feel a little uneasy like I'm watching Village of the Damned or Coronation Street.
Proof is the obvious choice too; it's surrounded by terrible alternatives. It's next to Charango which is shit. It's across the road from Weatherspoons which is filled with old men drinking weak ale from dirty mugs. And not to far away is the scally infested hell hole, The Royal Oak. Nuff said.