Andy Richardson: I'm a wild card when it comes to remembering birthdays

'Useless' suggests there's still a chance I might remember; it hints at redeeming qualities; it leaves the door open to the possibility that I might just get your birthday card there in time for the big day. Don't fool yourself, I won't. I never do.

Your birthday card will remain in the rack at WHSmith, your present will remain on the shelf of Selfridges, your birthday call/text/email will remain in my phone, unsent.

If it's your birthday, the chances of me remembering it are the same as a butcher becoming a vegetarian, Beyoncé releasing a nu-metal concept album or me winning a date with Halle Berry. It simply won't happen, although if Halle's ever passing . . .

My amnesiac attitude isn't confined simply to birthdays. I can guarantee I'll also forget special occasions such as Mother's Day, Father's Day, Easter, anniversaries and anything else that requires a card and an offer of best wishes.

My memory is limited to two special occasion days throughout the year. I know the date of my birthday – but only because I've been asked my birth date more than a thousand times during the course of my 40-something years. And I remember when it's Christmas – largely because there's a month of fuss and nonsense and also because the road on which we live has more festive lights than Oxford Street. Npower must be raking it in.

You might think I'm exaggerating my deficiency or that I'm gilding the lily. I'm not. When my son was born, for instance, I had his name and birth date tattooed in 24 point, calibri font along the line of my inner arm. The procedure lasted 90 minutes and caused mild hallucinations. It did, however, provide me with a permanent reminder never to forget.

Now, when I fill in forms that request his birth date, I sneakily peak at my inner arm et voilà: Dad of the Year.

Like all useless people, I resist any sense of responsibility for my rubbish long-term memory. It's not my fault, boss. Honest.

My hippocampus is to blame. Or maybe it's my amygdala. Those are the regions of the brain that process memories and pass them onto the cerebral cortex, where they're stored. They're the reception that sits at the front of the library, if you will.

Unfortunately, my hippocampus and amygdala are on a long-term break. They posted a 'gone fishing' notice at the front of the store back in the 1970s – and never returned.

Not remembering birthdays does have distinct advantages. I've created my very own Sovereign Wealth Fund, in which I donate £20 for every forgotten birthday there's ever been. The fund currently stands at £7.6 million – that's a helluva lot of birthdays.

Friends and family have learned not to question things. They've long since decided not to ask what 'our kid got for your birthday' . . . a question invariably followed by an embarrassing silence and shrug of the shoulders.

Occasionally, I surprise myself and am prompted to remember things that I've forgotten. I saw an advert this morning, for instance, urging sons and daughters to buy cards for their mother's in time for March 15.

By next week, I'll have forgotten all about that. I'll be back on my cloud, away with the fairies and oblivious to what day it is. I'll have forgotten whether there's anything I ought to remember and I'll be donating another £20 to the Sovereign Wealth Fund. So while it's fresh in my memory, I have this simple message to mothers everywhere: Mums rock. Happy Mother's Day.