60 laps around the sun · 1966 – 2026 · Still going, surprisingly
In honour of a man who, if a Formula 1 race happened to be on at a reasonable hour, would quite enjoy watching it. Not fanatically. Not with a calendar blocked out. Just — if it was on, it was on. This is a perfectly reasonable and healthy relationship with motorsport and we salute it.
60 years. Watching races when convenient. A model of moderation.
A comprehensive scientific analysis of the man, the myth, the person who once put a doctored photo of a colleague up in a factory and somehow got away with it.
After years of everyone wondering if he was ignoring them on purpose — it turns out he genuinely couldn't hear. The hearing aids have since resolved this. Unfortunately.
Once passionately followed every race, every lap, every pit stop. These days the enthusiasm has... cooled. Much like a set of tyres on the cool-down lap. We don't talk about it.
At age 60, Brendan has achieved what few can — an opinion about the price of absolutely everything, and an audience that has heard it before, and will hear it again, and again.
A Pepsi Max is not just a drink. It is a mission. A deal to be hunted — ideally 2 for £3, cross-referenced against rivals, and reported on whether anyone asked or not.
Crisps are one thing. But a reduced birthday cake, a half-price Mr Kipling box, a marked-down swiss roll — these are not merely snacks. These are victories. Documented, celebrated, and occasionally eaten before anyone else gets a look in.
A man of refined taste — he likes rock music. Some of it. Specifically the correct bits. Iron Maiden, AC/DC: yes. Whatever you're playing: jury's out. He introduced his kids to both, which is either excellent parenting or a very early explanation for why the volume was always too loud.
His jokes were old before he was. They have been recycled more times than a plastic bottle at a fancy supermarket he would consider "a bit dear, honestly."
Responsible for an unknown but significant number of doctored images — colleagues with suspicious expressions, family members with horns. A visionary. A menace. Possibly both.
To be fair, the hearing aids are actually quite the upgrade. We've gone from a man who would miss entire conversations to a man who can now hear conversations he probably wishes he'd missed. Growth.
"What? No I heard you. I was just... thinking about the 3 for £10 Iceland deal." — Brendan, almost certainly, at some point this week
A proprietary economic indicator tracking the gap between what things cost and what Brendan believes they should cost, based entirely on vibes and prices from Crazy Prices circa 2003.
Researchers have long studied a particular phenomenon unique to the Brendan household. It goes as follows:
"Do you want that?"
"Yeah!"
"Have you got the money?"
"...No."
"Well then." — A conversation that happened every single time, without fail
The cruel genius of this system was that it also applied to times when he was going to buy the thing. Nobody ever knew. Every Nintendo DS, every birthday present, every treat arrived as a genuine surprise — not because he planned it that way, but because he had thoroughly convinced everyone he wasn't going to do it. Whether this was psychological warfare or just how he talked, we may never know.
The NHS does not officially recognise "Brendan-induced trust issues at Argos" as a condition, but the support group is thriving.
Every year around the 12th of August, the Perseid meteor shower lights up the night sky. Hundreds of shooting stars per hour, one of the most spectacular natural light shows on the planet, reliably happening right around Brendan's birthday, every single year, without fail.
He has never seen it.
Not once. Sixty years. Sixty Augusts. The meteors have come and gone annually, dependably, cosmically punctual — and every time, something has been in the way. Cloud cover. Forgetting. The telly being on. Whatever it was, the universe has been putting on this show for six decades and Brendan has yet to catch a single performance.
At this point it might be personal.
The Perseids: occurring annually since before Brendan was born, visible to most of the northern hemisphere, and somehow still managing to avoid one specific man in particular. — Astronomical record, 1966–2026
Maybe this is the year. The big 60. Surely the universe owes him one by now.
For all the jokes — and there are many, and they are deserved — there's something that doesn't get said nearly enough.
You sat down and played games with us. You explained what was inside a computer when most dads couldn't have cared less. You taught, and you shared, and because of that, one of your kids ended up in a career they love — in a place they're happy. That's not a small thing. That's everything.
The Lego, the Star Wars, the board games, the Burnout 3 rematches — those were the bits that stuck. The bits that mattered.
Happy 60th, Dad. You earned this one.
(The hearing aid jokes were affectionate. Mostly.)