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Happy birthday to me.

Yesterday we launched #SB300, our celebration of Sullivan Black in 2020! You'll be seeing much more of this logo soon, marking out all the exciting events!

Delighted to learn that my fellow rake and 'hellfire', Sir Francis Dashwood, has today been resoundingly elected to become the new Prime Minister of Great Britain. What a time to be alive. 'Fais ce que tu voudras'.

SULLIVAN BLACK LIVES MATTER

Very much looking forward to a couple of pints of my very own Sullivan Black Velvet

Delighted to read Tristram Hunt's article in yesterday's Financial Times on my particular friend, young Josiah Wedgwood. I recall him frequently roaring in his cups, stumbling on his peg leg as he pursued naughty, giggling trulls who would all too willingly succumb after a brief chase.

I have received a most handsome gift from Gilbert's brewery servants. I am unsure how my fine Irish lawn cravats will sit in a soft collar but, certes, this old cynic is much touched by the generosity. Imagine Gilbert's discomfiture at not meriting such a tribute from his own men

Taking my deserved place among the world's classics.

18 July 1775. My 55th birthday. Cassandra Austen, a cleric's wife whom I tupped with gusto in Feb’y while he was away at prayer, writes (qt) that she expects my child late this year. If a boy, Charles; if a girl, Jane. Whichever will be my legacy, mayhap (D.v) to become a writer

10 things you may not know about Selborne greatbritishlife.co.uk/homes-and-gard… I am outraged that you should have the impertinence and audacity to suggest that I might not exist. I'faith, Gilbert's brewery has even paid overdue homage by naming a rather fine beer in my honour.

Happy birthday to me. A mere 303 today, just like that dried-up little prig Gilbert White, who liveth across the road. I will send my man through the tunnel to steal a few bottles of his favoured Bordeaux and Madeira. Two lusty drabs commanded for tonight.

A very happy and rumbustiously roistering 304th birthday to me, and a grudging salute to my perfectly synchronous contemporary, the diminutive cleric Gilbert White's House & Gardens.

Selborne wins the Nobel Prize for Physics. Congratulations to the remarkable and delightful John Hopfield.

The weekly journal, from the market town of Alton, generateth attention disturbing my uncharacteristically tranquil domicile. It flattereth after a slumber of more than 200 years. I shall instruct my archivist to provide the scrivener with some evidence of my ancient roisterings.

My illicit daughter, Jane Austen, will celebrate her 250th birthday in December. How I recall the afternoon when sweet Cassandra vainly resisted my assault on her virtue, as holy George was at prayer in Steventon church. I think it was Ash Wednesday; I neither fasted nor repented

Had it not been for the scoundrel G. White (expunging me from history), the limerick verse-form would have been immortalised as the selborne

One of my drabs had this vessel made for me as a Christmas token. The colour put me in happy mind of dear Josiah Wedgwood's heroically dissolute "stag weekend" around the boozers of Burslem in January 1764. Ah, great days!