On The Town

Tom's birthday is the welcome pretext for converging on the city and taking time to appreciate the cultural and historical landmarks of the area getting rat-arsed. Things get off to an auspicious start when, on texting Tom and Alastair to let them know that I'm in a public house named The Lost & Found, they somehow reach the conclusion that I've actually handed myself into the Left Luggage department at New Street Station. After assuring the guys that I haven't been filed away as a missing parcel, it's a whistle-stop tour of the German market followed by a pint in the Canalside Café down the Gas Street Basin, a walk up to the Jewellery Quarter for one in the Ropewalk, and subsequent rounds in the Old Contemptibles, the Old Joint Stock, the Welly and the Brewdog bar, punctuated by a pork dinner off the market to fill our bellies.

In the Post Office Vaults we're befriended by a group of amiable Barnsley fans glugging cookie-flavoured beer, and it takes some effort on our part to drag ourselves away from that happy subterranean sanctuary and board the last train to Lichfield armed with a bottle or two of Banks's. There's a moment's confusion en route, caused by a less-than-sober Tom suddenly declaring "I think this is Lichfield!" at some dark and mysterious station (we rush to the carriage door, only to abruptly find ourselves in an anonymously dismal north-eastern suburb of Birmingham, and scramble to re-board the train to the infinite amusement of our fellow passengers), but we eventually make it to Samuel Johnson's birthplace in time for one last pint, and stagger off into the evening stopping only when Tom forces us to stand and appreciate the city's three-spired cathedral on the moonlit horizon ("Look at the spires, guys. LOOK AT THE FUCKING SPIRES.").

There's still enough of the evening left to mull over life in general to a Bruce Springsteen soundtrack when we get back; a tried and tested post-pub ritual, far better than any kebab.