Why is it, every time I go out for a civilised meal, a familiar song enters my ears? There’s no getting away from it. I’ll be in mid conversation with a person I sincerely want to talk to and then an unexpected interruption will occur from the table next to us. My ears prick up, but not with favoured curiosity. I see a middle aged man at the head of this whaling table, grinning like a tit. What’s so great about this song that makes you want to show your ghastly yellow teeth, I think to myself? Oh, I get it... I see... Oh dear, how silly of me. Of course. It’s that song again, isn’t it? The fucking birthday song. The fucking birthday song, again!
Do people really need to know that you’re one year closer to being a miserable old git; I want to ask this toffee-nosed twat. Do you really need public acknowledgment of the fact that you’re a year closer to having a beer gut and a rather big patch of nothingness on your head? No, it’s not really something to make quite literally a song and dance about, is it? But some people really do, don’t they! Belt it out as loud as their lungs will let them, as if it’s karaoke or something. But it’s not, is it? You’re in a restaurant you thicko, quite a posh one and your singing is putting me off my dinner, thanks.
My advice, shove a cake under your nose, blow the sodding candle out and be done with it. Bah!