Singing “Happy Birthday” is sufficient time to clean your hands. This should take about twenty seconds, unless your friend, to whom you’re singing happy birthday has been called, by his or her Welsh parents, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, in which case, this will take the best part of a fortnight. I’d heard this “Happy Birthday” theory on the radio the other day. However, it didn’t occur to me that it’d be the song written by a couple of Louisville sisters in 1893. So, after I’d “powdered my nose”, I stood by the office wash basin and began to sing, in the style of Stevie Wonder, “You know it doesn’t make much sense; There ought to be a law against; Anyone who takes offense; At a day in your celebration”. Four minutes and forty-five seconds later (the length of the 1981 hit) not only were my hands certainly clean, they were also bleeding profusely with all the rubbing. I really shouldn’t believe everything I hear on the radio. I’ve never been the same since I heard Lord Haw Haw play “Flowers in the rain” on Radio One’s first day.