"I'm drinking my friend, to the end..."

“It’s quarter to three,” Old Blue Eyes sang, “and there’s no-one in the place, ‘cept you and me.” And haven’t we all been there Frank. A solitary barman wiping the last of the evening’s glasses as you sit there, in the wee-small hours, hat knocked back on your head, a glass of the hard stuff in your hand, watching the opaque smoke twisting from the cigarette burning between your fingers. And it’s all because of some broad, who breezed into your life and squeezed your heart ‘til it burst, has left you high and dry.
Actually, no. That’s the cool, romanticised Hollywood version. In reality you’ll be lying in a pool of bodily fluids as a bruiser called Brian prepares to introduce you to the pavement outside ‘The Rat and Duck’ after your twelvtieth pint of Waggledance.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. If you want to wallow in gloom and the company of a bottle then book a flight to Nanjing, China. Here you’ll find a bar dedicated to the broken hearted, where the beer and whisky is sold with a side order of tissues and menthol drops.

And the best news is that if you can’t get your tears to flow then the helpful bar-staff cab help you out with an onion or red pepper. To further induce a feeling of melancholy, depressing music is piped throughout the bar and if the red mist does fall you can beat any of the available dolls against the wall.
But tears aren’t free in China as it’ll set you back around three euros an hour, as well as the cost of the beer that you want to cry into.

Never has being broken hearted been so commercially cared for.