On the way over I had to step over a pigeon’s wing stripped down to its intricate bone system, splayed in front of the town hall steps like a voodoo offering. This I take to be good juju indeed. Tonight I’m on a mission, I’m here to check my city’s pulse, snoop, explore, and do what the situationists called “Dérive”.

It’s early evening and the town crowd has thinned considerably from the daytime bustle, everybody seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere. The only people remaining are the most bag laden shoppers, suits with one too many after work drinks inside them or harmless gaggles of kids enjoying the late evening sun. It’s still light so the real predators are still rousing from their nests, scratching their dirty chests and yawning while they wait for the night.

The first bar I come to, Subside, is empty, but that’s not too surprising. Goths, rockers, punks and emo clothing are not really practical during the day, black, leather, make up and bondage trousers are not the most comfortable items to wear on a day as sunny as today, let me assure you this is not a criticism, I spent a large part of my formative years in any combination of the above. One criticism I did encounter was that some people see a hypocrisy in wanting to be different but then dressing the same as your friends, but when we said we wanted to be different we never meant from each other, just you. The people we wanted to annoy the most were the ones that got the most annoyed, a reaction driven not only by a reaction but a sense of belonging to the fringes. the place is empty and that is incredibly counter productive, I came into town tonight to dip my toe in the pool of humanity, shamelessly people watch.

So I come to broad street, as much as I hate it, it is Birmingham’s carotid artery at night, seething with the bacchillain masses. In front of the old registry office stands the statue of, it’s a little amusing that this city’s tackiest strip has the most bling, Elizabeth Duke statue at the start, perhaps it’s a warning from the council “here be tasteless monsters”. It too is empty; admittedly this is summer so it isn’t dark yet, and a Thursday. But it is nearly nine and everyone knows that Thursday is the new Wednesday and Wednesday has been the new Friday since last Tuesday. I did expect more people, and more bars to be open to be honest, as I walk up the road I notice that places that are out of business outnumber the trading ones by about 2:1. Which surprises me and makes me question the wisdom of the forthcoming “megaclub”, a 35million redevelopment of the old Works nightclub by Gatecrasher. The giant purpose built superclubs of the nineties nearly killing the big club brands. The last big club to be opened in Birmingham was Oceania which is not attracting as big crowds as it first did and is looking a bit frayed round the edges now.

It’s hard to know where to look when your walking up Broad St, looking up is out – only tourists look up in cities and tourist is another name for target to some people. Of course looking down isn’t a pleasant or safe option either, the view you are afforded is one of chewing gum and the faint stains of sick and blood and if you stumble into someone it will probably end up in violence. But looking ahead is equally fraught with danger; mere glancing eye contact is the Neanderthals signal for aggression, as is accidentally looking at their “bird’s tits”.

I’ve only popped into Revolution for one, to give the streets a chance to fill up, that way I will be able to walk down Broad St at its terrible best; full of drunks, sluts, idiots, hen parties, beggars and bouncers. Allowing myself a waft of humanity.

And so to the Mailbox, a place, if I’m honest, that I find even more terrible. But I admit it probably is a class thing. Broad St, as depressing and gaudy as it is, is at least honest. Where Broad St is filled with the lowest common denominator blowing off steam from jobs they hate, the Mailbox is 70% full of privileged arrogance and 30% of the Broad St crowd on their birthdays assuming that pose. The cocktail of expensive perfumes being wafted into my face by men waving handfuls of bank notes gives me a headache, as do the less than private conversations about house values and new cars. I find a seat outside and realise the headache is from the impending rain shower which is relieved as soon as it arrives, and take no small degree of pleasure as I watch everyone dive for cover, man and woman alike worried about ruining their hair.

So I meander to the Rainbow, taking my time and enjoying having the wet night streets to myself, although I am disappointed that the pub is empty. It’s strange that I seek the company of strangers especially when I want to be on my own. Maybe it’s the ten or so years I spent working behind bars makes me crave the crowds or perhaps my formative years drifting from one subculture to the next – what’s the point of moody introspection if theres no one around to see it, right? Although I like to think it is because humans, as a species, are inspiring. And no one is more human than when in a pub