Andy Richardson: C'mon then sales. . . sock it to me!

Lord knows why: don't these people know the gastronomic joys of Ginsters' deliciously peppery filling and buttery pastry? Apparently not. Oh, and before I forget, a quiet note to that kind lady from Ginsters: pasties to the usual address please, love.

But back to Birmingham.

As the clock struck 10am, hordes of shoppers had been herded like sheep into a temporary pen beside Planet Next. They were fenced off behind red plastic barriers like workers on a trunk road. I almost wanted to give them shovels and tell them to dig. The sales had begun.

I've never understood the lure of January sales. More particularly, I've never understood why people subject themselves to the mad frenzy of shopping for things they don't need when they can do the same from the comfort of their sofa: that's why God created the internet.

And yet an urgent, call-the-FBI-and-hire-a-helicopter-to-get-me-there-now NEED for Fancy Dan socks persuaded me to change the habits of a lifetime. I braced myself, wrapped up warm and stepped into the void.

Going shopping reminded me why I never go shopping. There's the nightmare of finding somewhere to park on a day when 181,000 motorists have also decided to pay £267.99 per hour for the privilege of shoehorning their pride and joy within paint-scratching distance of a really expensive Lexus. There's the blood-boiling frustration of being stuck behind the woman who decides to cause a mini, underground-in-the-NCP, seven-minute traffic jam by waiting for the person who's walking across the car park to reach their car, load their shopping into the boot, reverse and exit. Just find another space. . .

Birmingham was doing its best to lighten the mood. The 2.2-metre bronze bull in the Bull Ring had dressed itself in colourful knitwear, showing considerable dexterity in fitting its six-tonne frame into a fetching green, white and red combo like some crazed Italian quadruped.

I'd planned my sock-purchasing mission with military precision. Admittedly, it was the sort of military precision that would have seen my army over-run within the first three minutes of battle, but at least I tried. I parked the car next to Selfridges where there was a Battle Royale among shoppers to guess which lift would arrive next. They hovered, like customers hedging their bets at Sainsbury's serve-yourself-fast tills. It'll be that one, no, that one, no, that one. . . They inched left, then right; apologising for elbowing crying children in the face. I used the stairs.

Trying to find socks in Selfridges is like trying to find gypsum in a copper mine, trying to find peace and decorum in an ex-wife or trying to find chocolate-coated peanuts in a packet of Haribo Tangfastics. I gave up and walked to Harvey Nics.

Harvey Nics messed with my mind. I rocked up to the store, only to find it had moved. A wave of panic spread through me. It was like heading out of the door and forgetting the key. Harvey Nics V 2.0 was stationed in a new location 200m away: I'm sure it was singing ner ner na ner ner and laughing at my confusion. The store had been turned into something approximating a hotel with a concierge, ambient lighting, free phone chargers and rows of comfortable armchairs. I didn't know whether to buy socks or book an overnight stay and call a girlfriend.

Remarkably, there were socks. Woop woop. But they were naff. I bought them anyway then ruminated on whether to write a thesis on burning £66 on socks you don't want and don't need but buy because otherwise your trip to Brum will have been a complete waste of time.

Harvey Nics' new hotel design was a triumph of style over substance and tills were hard to find: presumably they'd been hidden in the mini bar. I asked two staff where to pay: "Try the food hall, mate," they'd shrugged. I did. The woman wrapped my socks then asked me whether I wanted to buy a jar of honey.

Setting the alarms off, being stopped by security and being sent back to the concierge were among the minor obstacles that delayed my exit. "Don't worry, fellas. They're only socks – that's another £267.99 on the car park."

And then when I stepped into the street three mildly evil police were casually bullying a beggar, whose justified protestations very nearly got him nicked.

I looked in my bag at the absurd socks I'd bought but didn't want and then did what I ought to have done in the first place. While walking through the centre of Brum, I whipped out my phone and logged onto internetshopping.com.

I bought the reasonably-priced socks I'd wanted in the first place and vowed never to go shopping again. Ker-ching.