IT HAS ARRIVED!

So what is it that's arrived?

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!




AND I'M 30 YEARS OLD!




(Stop acting like you don't care.)




To celebrate this most joyous day of days, I have decided to take you on a pictorial journey of my birthday cakes over the years. Some of these have been a little strange, but all of them are real cakes I have been presented with (or in some rare cases, made for myself) on the occasion of celebrating the anniversary of the day that I was savagely ripped from the comfort of my mother's womb.*

So go grab a comfy chair (I know you're already seated, but grab a more comfortable chair), squeeze yourself a lemonade, sit back and enjoy ...


THE CAKES OF BEVIS' BIRTHDAYS PAST


CAKE # 1

For my first birthday (as evidenced by the soiled nappies, towels and wipes in the extremities of the photograph), I was of course too young to know what was going on. However, I found it a little offensive later in my childhood to look back at photos of the day and see that Dad (who never enjoyed the task of changing my nappies) decided to decorate the cake himself - and chose the moment to make fun of me.




Thanks, Dad.

Unfortunately for everyone else, he was unable to find any icing mixture, and opted to use white house paint instead. The cake was thrown out and the family ate mini-quiches.


CAKE # 2

This was the cake Mum made me for my second birthday. You can't see much of it there, because Dad was enjoying testing the new toy catapult he'd bought me by using it to hurl chunks of cake at my mouth from across the room. Mum was busy preparing the drinks down the hall at the time. As you can see, it was a dodgy catapult and I was terrorised by the whole experience for a few years.




Thanks, Dad.

The birthday cakes I received over the following years didn't help me get over my fear of cakes much, but at least Mum had instigated a strict 'no cake projectiles' policy in the house by the time my third birthday rolled around.


CAKE # 3

By the time I turned eight, I was so haunted by the idea of an emotionally-scarring birthday cake experience, that I decided to make my own. I had a grandiose plan to create a masterful work of art - indeed, a cake that would not only shame Dad into being nicer to me on my birthday, but also shame Mum for all those simlpy cakes she'd made me over the years. This cake was going to be spectacular. I envisioned in my mind's eye a tropical oasis, brought to life through the magic of cake. Here is the result:




Thanks, me.

It didn't quite turn out how I imagined it would. And a promising career in cake decoration was thwarted before it began.


CAKE # 4

Dad had his moment of glory the following year, though, when all my new school friends were gathered around me and he brought out this little number:




Thanks, Dad.

I never quite lived that one down in the school yard, but at least Dad had stopped using house paint to decorate cakes.


CAKE # 5

Needless to say, My name's not Kylie. This was for my thirteenth birthday.




Thanks, Dad.


CAKE # 6

For my sixteenth birthday, Dad continued the tradition of giving me girls' names to embarrass me, but this time added a little something extra.




Yes, arsenic. We didn't realise at the time that the skull-and-crossbones was serious, and David Tompkins had to be rushed to the emergency room and have his stomach pumped. Turns out he was alright, but he never came to one of my parties again.

Thanks, Dad.


CAKE # 7

After that, things started to get more obscure. Take my seventeenth birthday party's cake, for example:




I'm still not sure what that one was on about.

Er, ... thanks, Dad.


CAKE # 8

For my twentieth, Dad finally convinced Mum to join him in his birthday cake hijinks, and together they created the following culinary masterpiece:




Not only was it not Mum's 50th birthday, but the picture of the girl on the cake was taken from a major Australian newspaper the week before. It was the photo used in all the news reports of a little girl who'd been abducted and was feared dead. I even wondered if she had been used in the making of the cake, and politely declined my slice.

Thanks, Mum.


CAKES # 9 TO # 12

Rapid fire:

For my 21st, expecting a big deal to be made out of the cake, my parents surprised me with this minimalist approach. We don't own a pet rat. They got one from under the house for this effect. I wasn't there when this photo was taken, and was only told about it after eating the cupcake.




For my 23rd, this confusing cake was presented to the gathered guests. Not only was it not the 80th Anniversary of any battle whatsoever, but it appeared with the bottom left-hand corner already removed. Strange.




For my 24th, Dad finally cut me a break by giving me a boy's name, but still called it my 60th. I thought that was the extent of his pranks, but it turns out that he'd switched Mum's self-raising flour with industrial strength washing powder, and then laughed himself stupid as everyone spent the later part of the night throwing up. It turns out the boomerang motif spoke volumes, as each of us who'd had a slice saw the cake return again and again.




For my 25th, I was adamant that no cake would be made for the party, but I received this birthday card from Dad:




Thanks, Dad.


CAKE # 13

Unlucky for some, but here I am celebrating my 28th birthday (my first as a married man) with a special cake on the beach. Note: I have grown the moustache much longer and bushier in the two years since this photo was taken. However, in keeping with the family tradition, my name's not Jon.




Thanks, Wifey.

Here's the wild and wacky decorations my cubicle at work has been adorned with today to celebrate my 30th:




And here's the birthday card I received this morning from Dad:




Thanks, Dad.


BEVIS


* Note: The above statement of these cakes all being real cakes from my various birthdays throughout my life may be false. In fact they are. But it's my birthday, so what are you going to do about it?**

** Don't answer that.