I’ve reached a ripe old age

I reckon I could tell people I’m 43 and they’d believe me.

The NHS’ BMI calculator says I’m in the healthy weight range, I’ve got all my own teeth, most of my hair, a beautiful wife, two great kids and a record collection to die for.

A car dealer I recently bought a motor off told me he thought I was 10 years younger than I am - but then he was trying to sell me a brand new car, so I think I’ll take that chat-up line with a pinch of salt.

To be honest, I hadn’t planned on living this long. Especially after the way I ate, drank and spent my way through my 20s, 30s and most of my 40s.

A hole in the heart, one functioning kidney, a brain stem infection, a left arm that’s held together with chunks of bespoke metal, a left knee that’s been arthritic since birth, chronic migraines and a glass back.

If I were a racehorse, I would’ve been turned into glue 10 years ago.

Men in our family have suspiciously short life expectancies - I’m struggling to think of any who got past their mid-60s - whereas it’s unusual for the women on my side of the family not to absolutely revel in their ill-health well into their late 80s.

It’s only thanks to the boss that I’ve got this far. Gone unchecked, without her guidance, I fear I’d have shuffled off a bloated corpse around the time Cristiano Ronaldo left Man United for Real Madrid.

Six months older, she looks like a triathlete in her mid-30s: glowing skin; a mane of thick blonde hair; whip-thin with legs like pistons.

If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.

So, along with all the heavy duty painkillers prescribed for my torn back muscle, we’ll do our level best to mark my 50th birthday in the style in which it deserves.

There, I’ve said it. Happy now?