Living dangerously

The date: Friday 6th January

The mission: To tour some of Birmingham city centre's least salubrious public houses and enjoy a beverage in each one without being knifed, glassed or given a Chinese burn

The intrepid adventurers into the unknown: Adam, Jim, Robin, Tristan, Andy and myself

7.45pm
Jim, Robin and myself convene at Scruffy Murphys, Adam joining us soon afterwards. Situated at Dale End just round the corner from the Academy, Scruffys used to be an Oirish pub, but is now a haven for metallers and goths. I've been in a few times before. Last time I walked past there was a chap lying on his back outside as a couple argued furiously over his prostrate body.

7.50pm
The pub rapidly fills with police. They appear to be hunting for someone rather than on a stag do (as one of our number suggests), and a photo is shown to drinkers. A small group in the corner quietly rises and slips out of the door.

8.15pm
As we set foot inside the ground level door of B3, an underground pub of very dubious repute, some gold-bedecked Bacardi Breezer swigging chavettes stood outside attempt to warn us off. We pay them no attention, determined to stick rigidly to our mission, and, glancing only briefly at the shattered glass of the window, traipse down the stairs.

8.30pm
Andy arrives, bringing with him the bad news that our next scheduled calling point, Saramoons, is closed. Saramoons, situated beneath the Priory Market, is a low-ceilinged establishment with a sign on the door which bears the warning: "Drugs are not allowed on the premises". We're not going to get the opportunity to tell the proprietors that they aren't allowed elsewhere, either.

9pm
Costers, at the entrance to the Priory Market, is like Scruffy Murphys and B3 rolled into one - an underground (though surprisingly brightly lit) lair for the hairy and tattooed. We attract stares on our arrival.

9.05pm
An alcoholically refreshed patron kicks a stool in Andy's general direction. Nothing transpires, so we assume this was just playful tomfoolery rather than an expression of any malice.

9.15pm
Def Leppard's 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' blasts out of the speakers. I venture to the toilets. The horror, the horror!

9.20pm
Tristan turns up, having deliberately waited until he could be sure to have missed out on the Saramoons experience.

9.40pm
One of the only surviving relics of the original Bull Ring development, The Bull Ring Tavern is caught in time, its thin red carpet and battered furniture long past their best. The shutters are pulled down over the doorway once we're inside. What if we need to make fast our escape?

10.10pm
We step back into the night, pulling down the shutter on our departure, and I reflect on the fact that the place probably won't see many more months, likely to be closed like the Royal George opposite and subsequently demolished as part of the regeneration of the Bullring's immediate environs. I spare a thought for the displaced locals, and then it's onwards to Digbeth and drunkenness.

10.20pm
Time being of the essence, we pay only a very brief visit to Hennesseys, conveniently located right opposite Digbeth Police Station. As a break from the relentless pints, it's shots of strawberry cheesecake flavoured vodka all round. The door staff are bemused at our exit barely minutes after we've arrived.

10.30pm
Andy heads back to Moseley, missing out on the delights of The Dubliner, next to Digbeth Coach Station. The pool table being effectively out of order ("There's no white ball, mate, so we've been using the black", I'm told), we take a seat at a table behind which there is painted on the wall a jovial leprechaun and a snarling truncheon-wielding copper.

10.40pm
A rose-seller enters, and Adam and Tristan consider buying a couple for the two ladies shaking their booty on the otherwise empty dancefloor, before deciding against it.

10.50pm
The trip to the toilet is made more entertaining by the enormous hall-of-mirrors-style mirror above the urinal. Or perhaps it's just my vision going.

11.05pm
Round the corner to The Anchor, where the lights are still on (though the curtains closed), the jukebox still playing, the glasses still clinking - but the doors are locked. Our hopes are dashed.

11.20pm
An unplanned stop at The Toad At The Bullring, opposite the long-closed-down club Zanzibar outside which a couple of friends once pulled a young lady and her mother. The Toad is like a downmarket Wetherspoons, but not particularly rough. One of the urinals is blocked, filled with a stagnant pool of piss and garnished liberally with a selection of different coloured pubic hairs. Instead of a condom vending machine, a vibrator dispensor hangs on the wall.

12midnight
Snobs, the natural end-point to the evening - a grotty, subterranean, dirt-cheap and quite spectacularly badly named club. Are double vodkas a good idea?

1.15am
Tequilas. Oh dear. Having ventured into some of the roughest pubs in the city and emerged unscathed, it seems we remain intent on having a near-death experience in some form or other.

2.30am
Which way's up?