Today is my birthday. So, before I continue with my blog, I am going to give you all a few moments to stop reading and sing me Happy Birthday.

Come on. It doesn’t matter where you are. You may be in the office, on the bus or the local library, don’t be ashamed – be loud and be proud. You may get a few odd looks and an uptight librarian may even ask you to leave, but ignore them. Let the haters hate.

If you are at home, you could even take this opportunity to fight coronavirus and save a life! It is said that to wash your hands thoroughly, you should sing the ‘HB’ song, whilst scrubbing with soap and water.

Presumably, this is to ensure that you clean yourself for an adequate length of time and not to scare off any nasty microbes, which may be lurking under your fingernails, by subjecting them to an awful singing voice.

Have you all finished singing? Good. I’ll continue.

Incidentally, if any of you would like to send me a gift, I am able to receive money through PayPal and Amazon vouchers via email. Failing that, just leave me a new gaming laptop on the doorstep of my house. Ta.

For those nosey enough to want to know my age, but without the stalker mindset required to look up historical blog posts, I am 38 today. I think…

I say this, because only last week Claire and I were discussing age. It was then that I announced I was 38, and 39 on my next birthday (today).

My wife correctly pointed out my mistake. I felt rather chuffed. It was if I had been given a gift. An extra year to live and an another 365 days to keep the title ‘OAP’ at bay – although if my employer was to offer me early retirement tomorrow, I would snap their arm off. Assuming that they would continue to pay my mortgage!

I suppose at my time of life, there is no real need to know your age, so you just forget! If you do need to reveal how old you are, companies only appear to be interested in your date of birth.

When you are a very young child, you know your age to the nearest fraction and do not hold back in telling the world and his wife.

Teacher: “How old are you, Timmy?”
Pupil #1: “I’m aged five and a half, Miss”
Teacher: “and you, Jenny?”
Pupil #2: “I am aged four and seven eigths”
Teacher: “What about you, Rob?”
Pupil #3 “Forty six and three quarters, Miss

Sound familiar?

Then when you are a teenager, the importance of age returns. You can’t rent this video until you’re 15. No lottery tickets until your 16th birthday. Learn to drive at 17. Get drunk at 18. Go to prison for drink driving at 19.

These are the important numbers followed by law-abiding young men and women. Naughty teenagers must also be aware of them, in order to know what DOB to put on their fake ID.

I suppose the next group of people, for which age becomes an issue, is the older generation. Those approaching the time in their life when they can apply for a bus pass or attend ‘Silver Screen’ mornings in the local cinema – a 1950s movie, alongside a cup of tea and biscuits. That does actually sound rather pleasant – am I 38 or 78?

You will see from another blog post that my amazing wife has been preparing for my birthday for the last two days.

I think she’s caught a baking bug!

This year, Claire and I are officially celebrating my big day tomorrow. It’s not that we have a strange, gothic desire to have a birthday on Friday 13th.

My other half is off to Cheltenham Festival today. Don’t worry, I haven’t become a ‘Turf Accountant Widow’. Claire and her parents attend the event once a year on the Thursday.  It just so happens that this time, the Thursday falls on 12th March. It all seems fair enough to me.

Once upon a time, birthdays used to be massive for me, as they are for most kids. Along with Christmas, it was the only time in which you could get something expensive, that you would be unable to get at any other time of year. Unless you’re a spoilt, rich child.

I remember my birthday in 1993. I was 11. The Sega Megadrive was the must have console with everyone in school – even the teachers!

I wanted one more than anything in the world. I sold my inferior Sega Master System to raise money. This was then given to my parents to part fund my dream games machine.

Forcing their then ten-year-old son to sell his video games in the TradeIt newspaper may sound a tad cruel by my parents. Before you judge, you must remember that this was the 1990s, and the Megadrive cost £200! It wasn’t like this current generation of children, where every kid has an iPhone, iPad and PS4 Pro.

Finally a rant. A shame to leave this post on a slightly sour note, but there you go…

I have an issue with Royal Mail. Yesterday, I received, what I believe to be, a birthday card in the post. I haven’t opened it yet, because as I have already said, I am not celebrating my birthday until Friday.

The card turned up in a bag with a message of apology from Royal Mail. The birthday card envelope had been torn open!

I am sure that those defending Her Majesty’s Postal Service will argue that the envelope became torn by accident in the delivery process.

I smell bullshit…

It’s a coincidence how none of my bank statements, hospital letters and invitations to join Virgin Media never get damaged in the post. Maybe that is because, unlike with birthday cards, money is never included in correspondence from my bank manager, doctor or Richard Branson.

I’m not suggesting anything of value was included in my card, but the scumbag who opened it on my behalf didn’t know that!

I know ‘theft’ is a big accusation to make and there is no way anyone can prove that a crime did take place. I just hope that if there is a bad apple in the Royal Mail workforce, that they are caught red-handed and dealt with accordingly. Locked in a cell with a real life Hannibal Lecter would be rather fitting.