Just about every other bar on College street is the size of a minivan and rammed like fourteen pencil crayons in a box of twelve. (YA KNOW what I mean?) Not this place. Maybe it's the ungainly name, or the fact that you have to climb a short flight of steps to get in, but No One Writes To The Colonel is rarely packed. I call this Good News.
NOWTTC is illuminated at date-level lighting so feel free to bring your Plenty Of Fish trappings here. You could take a seat at the long softly illuminated bar, or one of the cosy armless benches adorned with pillows. There's a wall of LPs at the back and houndstooth drapery and spherical light fixtures. I've heard the decor described as your mom's basement in the 70s -- maybe if your mom is some kind sexual predator.
I came here for "comedy" night and if I could make those quotes thrice the size and asterisk them each, I would. It was the premiere of a "sitcom" (again, 3x + *) which was actually two sitting men taking turns talking into a mic on a stand. When one of them pulled out a guitar and punctuated the act with some musicomedy, we literally left our seats and moved to the furthest reaches of the bar.
But we didn't leave. That's how cool this place is. Cash only.
Obligatory Title Pun: The COLONEL is POPPIN'!
Menu Readability: I think it was written on a chalkboard.
Need to mention: McAuslan's beers on tap.
What this place teaches me about myself: If I grew up in the 70s I would certainly dwell in basements.