This Sunday sees the anniversary of one of the most momentous occasions in the history of football, style and cooking. I’m talking, of course, about the birth of me. I’ve always been one of those people who thinks that a mere evening of celebration isn’t enough so I decided to dedicate a week of partying to my 32nd birthday. Yep. I’m 32. Definitely 32. You can check my Wikipedia page if you don’t believe me.

My birthday is a time where I should be able to relax and enjoy the things that matter to me so I made sure I didn’t have to have the kids and I’ve been having fun since the weekend. One thing I really love about me is that I’m really spontaneous so last week I made arrangements to have an impromptu party which took place last night. I hired out a kitchen showroom, because everyone always ends up in the kitchen at parties anyway. I offered the owner £5,000. He only asked for half that and I said it was a bargain at twice the price! He thought I was mental! Credit where it’s due, it was my PA who got in touch with him. She put a lot of hard work into organising this and said it was going to be a really exciting night. To reward her for her efforts I insisted that she had the night off.

To make sure this was going to be the party of the year myself and some of my mates went around the bars of London inviting the fittest girls we could find. By the end of it the guest list looked like the cast of Skins, but less pasty and with no teenage boys. I then invited all of the coolest people I know. Jamie and Louise couldn’t make it, Chris Moyles didn’t answer his phone – the dozy git probably ate it! – and I couldn’t get hold of anyone from Hollyoaks or T4 but there were still plenty of cool people there.

It’s easy to forget that because I’m most recognisable as Britain’s top pundit that I’m also one of Britain’s top chefs. I feel as at home in the kitchen as I do in the punditry armchair and everyone agreed that it was a brilliant place to have a party. To make it even better I had it set up so that we could watch the football. I had the DJ (Spoony) play music over the commentary to keep the party atmosphere up. I always do this when I’m at home anyway. I much prefer it without all the waffle. As we watched Chelsea murder Portsmouth a debate about who’s going to win the league cropped up. It’s going to be Chelsea. You know this. More importantly I know this. Try telling Piers Morgan this. He was going on and on about how Arsenal are going to nip in because they’ve got a better run of games than anyone else. I don’t think it’s even mathematically possible for Arsenal to win it. Everyone knows that because of The Big Four the league is a two horse race every season.

This annoyed me so I stopped talking to him. After watching Chelsea hump Portsmouth I was in the mood for a romp so I set off to the dance floor/tiling. On the way I got stopped by James Corden. I didn’t even invite him! He started banging on about Lionel Messi and how amazing he is. I’m getting so fed up with these presenters who think that because they’re famous and they like football it means they’re an authority on it. A quick check of the Blackberry showed that he’d failed to score in a game that Zlatan Ibrahimovic had scored in. It’s safe to say that you could have scored in that game, even if you’re my Nan. Corden was proved wrong, thrown out and I set off on my way.

What happened next is a bit of a blur. I finally made it over to the girls I’d herded but ended up drinking After Shock with them and had to run to the toilet to be sick. If you’ve ever had After Shock you’ll know that it tastes like Bertie Bassett’s piss. Horrible stuff. When I came back from the owner’s office - didn’t make the toilet but I gave him five grand, I’ll throw up where I want, JT would agree – something weird happened.

I knew I was getting an amazing present and that this was going to be the centre point of the night. If I’m honest I knew I was getting a Porsche, because I bought it for myself. However, I didn’t want to spoil the surprise for everyone else. A lot of these people, particularly the girls, won’t have seen what it’s like to have loads of money and I didn’t want them to miss out on being impressed.

My mate Fatto had the job of driving up outside the showroom with the lights on full beam and sounding the horn, then everyone would know it was my present and sing happy birthday while they basked in the glory of my lifestyle. However, the stupid bastard was too drunk to pull this off and ended up driving it through the glass of the shop front. The alarm went off, there was glass everywhere and everyone went mental, except Fatto who didn’t even seem to notice he’d done it. He just jumped out of the car and started taking photos. I’d told him to do this earlier because none of the paparazzi I got my PA to get in touch with turned up and I wanted the guests to get the full experience of what it’s like to be me when I go out. He’s probably trying to sell the pictures to the tabloids as we speak! He’d better be anyway.

The Porsche is a mess but it was on a test drive in Fatto’s name so I’m not too bothered, James Corden cut himself up rolling across the floor to get into the pictures – again, not too bothered - and my PA is getting it in the ear about the damage to the kitchen showroom but it was definitely worth it for everyone involved. I love being me. Happy Birthday Jim! For Sunday! Chelsea, Chelsea!

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