37 years ago at 22:10GMT, the first … and only … child of Roger and Fiorella Campbell was born.
5ilbs 5oz of screaming jaundice.
Apparently I looked so dodgy my Dad wanted the hospital to ‘double check’ I was the right kid.
It obviously affected them deeply because they lost all hold on their senses and decided to call me HOWARD!
HOWARD!!!
However an angel stepped in the form of a passing nurse … who having heard what my hour-old parents said, told them, “I don’t think he looks like a Howard”
Within seconds, sanity was restored and they decided to lumber me with the far less bully-friendly ‘Robert’ instead.
I owe so much to that nurse.
I’ve written loads about how great my childhood was and without doubt, my birthday was always a highpoint of the year.
I would get so excited about ‘the day’ that I’d not sleep for days prior – which always went down well with my parents as I am sure you can imagine, ha.
I’d get really, really cool stuff … one year it would be a Raleigh BMX Tuff Burner [with original skyways] the next a [admittedly, bloody small] snooker table … then of course I’d always have a really great party with my nearest 15 friends [ha!] – eating sausages-on-sticks, tizer, monster munch and ham sandwiches before heading off to see some cheesy blockbuster at the Nottingham ABC or maybe going to the 10 Pin Bowling Alley. [Which I stopped doing when Chris Bird kept winning, ha!]
Then the curse of great presents happened. I hit double digits.
Suddenly friends would no longer buy pressies, they’d simply hand over some cash or [God forbid] a crappy WHSmith book voucher. Infact for years, my best mate Paul [who is 4 days younger than me] would give me 5 quid, only for me to give him the exact same note back 4 days later.
Oh the innocence of it all … though I have to admit it did cross my mind to only give him 2 pounds to see what he’d do! Ha.
Anyway, those great, great days are now in the past – I’m 37 today – mature, responsible and wiser [ahem] … so can someone out there please explain why I’d still kill to be surrounded by nicely wrapped electronic shite that’ll fall apart within 2 days of playing with it … or at the very least, shoving a Sherbet DibDab in my gob and then pretending I’m frothing at the mouth?
Actually on second thoughts, don’t tell me – I can guess the answer.
