It’s my birthday tomorrow. Depends when you’re reading this, of course, but it’s on 7 January, always has been, since I was born. Though in fact I did change it, for 20 years, to 7 July, much to my mother’s annoyance. We were always in Portugal in July, so I thought it would be a better time to have a party, rather than boring, dreary, miserable old January. If the Queen can have two birthdays, why can’t the rest of us?
No presents, please. Just wish me luck in getting to 90. That’s my ambition, having got over the hurdle of being 80 – hold on, 81 – tomorrow. I want to be here to see my older grandchildren, now aged 16, leave college, if they ever go, and get a job (they’ll be lucky). But mostly I want to see what it’s like when China dominates world football. Which they will do, don’t you worry.
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