As you get older, fewer and fewer people remember your birthday.

For instance, there is a period in your life when no one even bats an eyelid. There is the thirtieth and the fourtieth and the fiftieth. But all the other numbers in between don’t really count.

I think the worst birthdays have to be the ones in the thirties as none of the numbers really stand out. Apart from being the most expensive decade for most human beings, the thirties are the time when you realise that maybe you won’t be leading England out at Wembley or scoring a double century at the Oval.

They are also made up of a time when you start losing your hair and begin to lose all dress sense. Last week I wore a Shalwaar kameez top, trackie bottoms and slippers. To top it all off I had a curry stain on the front of the Shalwaar kameez. The thing was I actually thought I looked cool.

There is also the need to wander through supermarkets looking at stuff for no reason. For anyone in their early thirties in a couple of years you will be at B&Q trying to figure out why you went there in the first place.

I wish I could actually just make my birthday up like some of the first wave of immigrants to this country. There are a fair few who will have January 1 as their birthday on their passport because back in the village no one documented the date. Birthdays didn’t count. What mattered was that you made it to through the next year in one piece.

I must say the worst thing in the world is the ‘Happy Birthday’ text. You needn’t bother is what I say. What is wrong with picking up a phone – these days you don’t even have to tap the numbers in.

Today as some of you may have guessed from the smile on my face is my birthday. I was born when Sunderland won the FA Cup and Jan Kodeš won Wimbledon.

Now, I am not one for making a big deal of my birthday. In years gone by I got an egg smashed on my head, got injured playing cricket and my car broke down.

It’s just another day I guess.