Sometimes you need to just stop while you’re ahead.

It was my birthday at the weekend. All the threes.

That’ll make sense to any bingo aficionados or anyone with at least half a brain.

I’ll take the opportunity to digress and thank you all for your kind wishes and gifts before I finish my tale.

I’m sure it’s Royal Mail’s fault and my cash stuffed Moonpig cards are still en route.

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Anyway, I did have a few buddies who actually bothered to get me some goodies for my big day.

A special shout out to Big Ron – many thanks for the box of Cheese XL and one size nine espadrille that he got for half-price in Home Bargains.

I was lucky this year, it wasn’t just crisps and footwear wrapped up in newspaper.

A group of my nearest and dearest decided that they were going to treat me to a night on the tiles, because ‘soon you’re going to be too old to leave the care home unsupervised.’

I think they were just joking about being let out because they knew I had a 24-hour pass from my psychiatrist.

It was a classy affair.

We kicked off the celebrations at teatime with a selection of seafood hors d’oeuvres courtesy of Superfish.

It was a nice enough evening so we enjoyed our appetisers al fresco or in English, at the bus stop.

The main course was a large jug of Mojito in Wetherspoon that had been jazzed up with two identical ‘I’m three today!’ badges.

The night out itself was a complete success – I only managed to spill two drinks and lose one shoe in the taxi home.

Thank God Ron bought me that espadrille.

I should have just eaten the uncooked ravioli straight out of the tin and gone to bed fully dressed – the perfect end to a perfect night.

But no. At 2.43am the night was still young and I had too much Captain Morgan in my system.

I was an insomniac, party pirate and I wanted to sail on the good ship 33 for as long as possible.

But I was missing my crew.

Too drunk to correctly swipe my fingerprint over my touch screen phone I decided that the only way to continue the party with my mates was to go and knock on their doors.

I stumbled down the street to where I knew one of my party pals would either be fast asleep in the bath or scoffing some cheesy Doritos she purchased earlier.

I couldn’t see any lights on so, being the considerate soul I am, decided to pound heavily on the front door and windows.

Nothing.

Convinced I’d eventually get the door open I thought it would be hilarious to wrap my cardigan around my face and wield a discarded brick and shout ‘give es your cash!’

I was practicing my best burglar impression when I was blinded by flashing lights from an oncoming cop car and my first instinct was to run.

I fell over.

What’s worse was my friend was too drunk to answer the door and prove I wasn’t a robber – just a bit drunk and thick.

As Orson said, a happy ending depends on when you stop the story.

My 33rd should have ended with the ravioli and not disturbing the peace.

At least the policemen didn’t sing ‘happy birthday’.