Touring the Worst Rated Nightspots in... Birmingham!

What do you think of when you hear the word Birmingham? Smog? Red bricks? The inexplicably downbeat robot that makes announcements at Birmingham New Street? A hundred-thousand miserable nuns queued up outside a massive Primark? Personally, I'm reminded of visiting my cousins there and all the Saturdays I spent in town as a teen, having grown up nearby.

Understandably, the UK's second city means different things to different people. However, there's one thing we can universally agree on: it's a bit shit. Thing is, this mediocrity is part of Birmingham's identity. Brummies own it, they revel in it – albeit in an extremely placid way. As long as you don't chastise it first, they'll happily admit the city is a monument to meh.

The idea of this column is to review the worst-rated nightspots in cities across the UK, but until now I haven't visited anywhere like Birmingham – a town or city that finds a perverse sense of pride in the fact it's largely quite crap. So to find out if Birmingham does crap best, I've driven home up the M40 for a Thursday night club crawl of the city's worst-rated spots.

First, let's see what the actual humans who use their own spare time to write anonymous internet reviews make of the place [all sic]:

Bet you didn't know Birmingham has more canals than Venice. Unless, of course, you've met literally anyone from Birmingham, who will have told you that Birmingham has more canals than Venice. This pub quiz fact is to Brummies what MapMyRun posts are to your sinewy Facebook friend, Dean: a point of pride that absolutely nobody else cares about.

Either way, how better to kick off the night than sucking back a beer on the canal next to our first destination?

Inside, I order myself a couple of drinks: a lemonade and a tonic water. I want to get to the bottom of the profoundly unimportant "NOT LEMONADE" fiasco our reviewer took the time to describe on TripAdvisor.

I compare the two, and that, my friend, is definitely a lemonade. I grab myself something stronger and take in my surroundings.

Shoulder to shoulder with hordes of self-made, Thatcher-adoring types – men who remind me a lot of Harry Enfield's Considerably Richer Than You character – I begin to understand why the Tories held their conference a mere 20 metres from here last year. This is the land of opportunity; a place where dreams can come true. I head out into the night to chase mine.

Almost immediately, an egg lands next to me. Not a great start, until a nearby club promoter makes it clear the egg was aimed at her. "Not for the first time tonight as well, duck," she adds. A comforting wave of sadness washes over me. I'm home!

Oobah at the O Bar: a phonetic similarity that another, more drunk writer might use to justify just slacking off and partying. But despite the temptation to drink pints, silently mouth along to "Sex Is On Fire" and gaze at TrendingLive – a sort of Popworld for the Musical.ly generation that I have just now learned exists – I've got real journalism to do. Like, say:

Identify the remains of this partially-digested lamb masala blocking up a sink. Or:

Bear witness to the fact that, like our reviewer friend pointed out, this cocktail does indeed shine a shade of Simpsons' "radioactive sewage green". But you can't taste a whole book by just licking its cover, can you? So I order my own to judge this whole "undrinkable" thing.

Yes! This looks vile! But is actually totally drinkable! In fact, it's got me in the mood for a dance.

Which ends within seconds, with a crash.

I make a move for the door; we're heading to The Arcadian.

With its boarded-up Ladbrokes and black forest gateau of shit clubs stacked on top of one another, The Arcadian is a Wild West best captured by this viral video of a gigantic brawl that took place here about two months ago.

Great vibes!

Bursting in, it quickly becomes clear: this is where the party's at.

Anything you read or hear about the unfriendliness of the people in Levana – or Brummies in general – is absolute bullshit, by the way. And I'm willing to put it to the test.

Parting with just a couple of pounds, I've managed to secure a balloon. Now, just the small matter of slurping it down. Surely if this owner is an "IDIOT" like the review claims, he would have security chucking me out for doing it on the dance floor?

Absolutely nothing. Yet, dance like a dork?

And you'll be stared down like you've just stormed into a Millwall pub with a "Forever Blowing Bubbles" face tattoo. Ladies and gentleman, this owner is no idiot. He's simply an entrepreneur with his priorities in the right place.

Yet, with 2AM beckoning, it's time to move on, to the spot I'm most excited about. A rite of passage in every Midlander's life.

I can't believe it. It's Thursday night and Snobs is shut. I'd thought Snobs was the Newton's Cradle of clubs: never stopping, always open, consistently serving up £1 shots and Blink-182 hits. But checking on my phone, it seems it's not just this place; Subside, Subway City and a load of other clubs are also closed for the night.

How is the UK's second city so dead on a Thursday night? Eventually, I find a place that begrudgingly lets me in.

Waiting in the lobby, I'm ready to fight back the crowds and get to the bar, where I've read it will take one hour to get served, minimum!

Pumping! I could gambol around this place without even touching the sides! But as fun as that would be, I get the impression that it's downstairs in "The Club" where things are really going off.

"Entries are done!" the bouncer yells, shooing me up the stairs like a grandmother with a broom, and out of the door. Now 3:30AM, there's only one place left: somewhere my friend describes as "that place with the weird pole and not much else".

On the way in, the bouncers don't look too fat. Sure, they could probably do with cutting down on the cobs and potato scallops, but couldn't we all?

Look, I know what you see: a carcass of a club. A sight sadder than a Sainsbury's Basics sachet of soup. But I see something different.

An opportunity! Within minutes, the place gets up onto its feet. Birmingham is ready for one last go – one last flurry of fun as the sun rises outside.

And as the party really starts kicking off, I'm full to the bloody brim. Stand loud and stand proud, Birmingham, you've beaten them all. You truly are the best, at providing the shittest night out in Britain.

@Oobahs / @CBethell_Photo

Other times we've toured the worst-rated nightspots in:

London!

Liverpool!

Manchester!