I have forgotten somebody’s birthday.

No. That is not quite right. It’s not as simple as that.

Remembering birthdays is all to do with genetics and gender. I do not think it sexist to say that it is females who are programmed to remember to buy and to post birthday cards. It is something to do with evolution.

Presumably men were out killing mammoths and things so never developed this side of their brain, whilst women were tending the fire, tanning animal skins and generally developing their organisational sense.

Now we have moved on, and women can get secretarial jobs and listen to Dido, but their birthday card gender superiority remains. I truly do have respect for them.

So anyway, I did not forget as such. I knew it was his birthday, and have done for a while, but it sort of crept up on me and by the time it arrived it was too late to do the Ranulph Feinnes-like trek to a shop that sold anything that he might like. In the end, I was rubbish and did an emergency Amazon order. Did you know that 82% of Amazon’s sales go to blokes who are rubbish at remembering birthdays?

The thing is that I think I might have gone a bit over the top. After all, I have just dedicated a whole written entry to him.

I doubt Beethoven’s friends would have been pissed off, had he written them special piano sonatas on their birthdays.

“That’s great! Thanks very much, Beethoven!” they would have exclaimed.

“You what?” he would have replied.

Likewise, there could have been nothing more flattering for people like Mona Lisa and The Laughing Cavalier to have their mates, the great artists, immortalise them on canvas.

So happy birthday, Unluckyman. I did not forget after all. I have given you the greatest gift in my possession.

I have given you the gift of blog.

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