Stuck In The Middle

Ever since the days when Kojak bizarrely declared that it was "his kind of town", Birmingham has been in search of a new hero. One who can drive a train, build a car from nothing but superglue and ball bearings, corner the market in dodgy cigarettes from the Phillippines, and sing all of Bruce Springsteen's "Atlantic City" while walking pissed through Harborne at 1.30 in the morning. It's quite lucky, then, that the city has had Tom down for the weekend.

Ably assisted by Alastair - whose special skills include being able to persuade us not to set sugarcubes on fire in the palms of our hands - we celebrated my birthday with a colossal jaunt around town. Along the way, we drank in a haunted pub, slept in a room that appeared to have been decorated by an incontinent horse, met a hotelier who'd put Basil Fawlty to shame, and a copper wandering around New Street inexplicably holding a bunch of flowers.

We made quite a team. Telly Savalas never did Brummidgum half as much justice as us.