Birthday rage

I noticed in The Telegraph’s recent obituary for TV chef Keith Floyd that he once experienced an episode of what I can only describe as “birthday rage”.  Or, perhaps more accurately, “forgotten birthday rage”:

His third marriage ended when he accused his wife of forgetting his birthday. In a rage he destroyed much of his own restaurant bar and threw out his wife and 50 diners before retiring to a nearby hostelry to drown his sorrows.

The article doesn’t elaborate as to whether Floyd’s wife really did forget his birthday.  (Wouldn’t it have been awful if she’d had some lovely surprise present wrapped and ready to give to him after the restaurant shut for the night?  Although I wouldn’t recommend leaving it that late in the day to give your nearest and dearest their birthday present.)

And in another episode I recently read about, a woman complained to the authorities that her mail had been stolen, because she had not received birthday cards from some of her friends.  Rather touching, I thought.

Which I guess goes to show that people really do care about whether you remember their birthdays.


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