Happy birthday! Well, it's not your birthday, you silly sausage! Books can't have birthdays! It's mine, I'm 24. I spent the day in Swindon, which is a bit like Cardiff but with more roundabouts and tractors. My team played a friendly and I scored a great opening goal. Oh, you should have seen it, diary!
I had to spend 30 minutes after the game explaining to Sandro that it was a friendly, and that the result doesn't count. A bit like the results don't count in that game where he tries to steal everyone's underwear and set it alight in a big pile at the training ground. He didn't get it, he just stared at me then got his guitar and started singing a Coldplay song.
I got some great presents for my birthday: mum got me some new cars for my Scalextric, dad got me another poster of Cristiano for my bedroom ceiling, and Aaron Lennon got me the eyebrow clipper I've had my eye on for a while.
But I'm still waiting for that big present—the bid from you-know-who! (For the sake of clarity, I mean Real Madrid. LOL!)
All right, before bed I need to check if I've got enough hair gel for the trip to Hong Kong next week.