Tomorrow is the 16th August, and it is my birthday. It is also Madonna’s birthday. She is exactly twenty years older than me. This is why I was convinced, when I was younger, that when – not if, but when – I met Madonna – y’know, jogging in Hyde Park or erm, shopping for conical bras innit – we would end up being BFFs, cos we shared a b’day. ‘Madonna! Hey,’ I’d coolly open with, ‘my birthday’s the same as yours. I love you. Let’s be mates?’ And her immaculateness would reply, ‘Yeah all right, Fran, you’re pretty farking awesome yerself, don’t cha know’ and then we’d make out while half-watching Desperately Seeking Susan over and over.

Sadly, I  no longer adore Madonna. Soz, Madge, but you look like you’re made out of some weird shiny clay, and you seem, I dunno, just a bit, um, hard work. So I don’t really wanna be friends any more. But don’t sweat it, you’re still way richer than me.

Anyway, birthdays. That annual reminder of your approaching  decrepitude and eventual mortality. Pardon me for not celebrating. Birthdays make me introspective rather than celebratory and it has been that way for a while, not just cos I’ve had a totes shiteballs year. I set myself high standards and if they’re not met I end up being quite hard on myself. You might have noticed that particular personality trait, innit.

Wonder if Madonna does that? Question her lot in life, I mean. Is she content with her big house, hunky younger man, African babies and the knowledge that quite a large percentage of the world’s population have seen her minge? Is that enough for her? She’s one of them folk who constantly strive to reinvent themselves, but I suspect it’s more a relentless promotional tool rather than a need to ‘find’ the ‘real’ ‘her’. Then again, who knows. She’s built a career on presenting us with a cavalcade of painted faces (and minge) and yet, d’you want to curl up with her on a sofa and share a tin of custard creams, drinking tea and bitching about that bastard Guy Ritchie? Nah. Not really. I’d rather do that with someone approachable and warm and fun.

Or maybe that’s the secret. That’s how you get through your days. Mould yourself a iridescent carapace to drape around your shoulders, and hang a KEEP OUT sign on your life. Practice holding everyone at arm’s length. Be brilliant, have moments of genius, and remain untouchable. Go jogging in Hyde Park with your minders and ignore the plebs who so desperately want to emulate you. Every now and again, get your tits out and have a radical haircut. Is that the formula? Fark me, now if only I could write good songs.

Oh who gives a crap about Madonna. She’s nowt to me now other than a dessicated, strangely muscled husk with an impressive back catalogue. Fond memories, maybe. I’m mooching about in my head cos tomoz I’ll be thirty farking four. That’s thirty farking four, people. Young to some, but old in my soul. I feel older than I should. This last year – the one since my last b’day – has aged me.

Madonna. Me. Who’s the best? Only kidding. What’s the secret to an enjoyable birthday? Lemme know below in your usual manner. Much love.