Underground

We're awoken on Sunday morning by the clanging of church bells, and the sound of longbows being fired outside the window. After quickly checking that we haven't got caught up in the middle of a Welsh invasion, I stick my head under the pillow and return to the foggy climes of hangover land. For the people of Harborne, the seventh day is not for resting; it's for titting about in the pursuit of arcane hobbies and unfathomable sports. This is tricky for a Tipton lad to digest - launching projectiles en masse is something we generally reserve for Black Country derbies, while the last sustained bell-ringing session in Princes End was to signal an outbreak of the plague.

Eventually we feel up to facing the day, and after vacating our accommodation (taking care to tip the helpful staff a sausage roll or two), we get a bite to eat at the Plough, fortify ourselves with a pint at the Green Man, and start the long journey back to New Street. Along the way, Alastair (pictured) and Tom pause to admire the architecture of the Central Library ("it looks like the headquarters of the Polish Communist Party") and the spirited bongo playing of a busker near Victoria Square who doesn't seem familiar with the concept of songs having melodies. Then it's into the Post Office Vaults for an in-depth discussion of why the world needs pork-flavoured beer, before going our separate ways. Another fine birthday party for the history books.