Happy Birthday To Stu

There's a scene in the Great Gatsby when the flappers, the jazz babies, the Aspirin poppers and the new money families all descend on the east coast for a fabulous party. Scott Fitzgerald gives us all the family titles and infers that since there are many Irish and other immigrant surnames in there, that they don't have the blue blood status of a proper event. The party date is July 5 1922, and I was rather pleased on reading the book to note that my birthday has some kind of cultural status.

Then again, chin-stroking critics say that the author chose July 5 to show just how low and how swiftly the American nation had declined from Independence Day. Oh well.

July birthdays are rubbish. As I kid, I was either on my holidays or all my mates were, so I rarely had a good knees-up with all the fixings. Not that my parents didn't try, y'understand. Meanwhile, every year I look in the horoscope section of the paper to see if I share my special day with a proper celebrity. The only one I remember is Huey Lewis. So here's looking at you, Huey, pal.