Andy Richardson: Her Majesty's a real jewel in the crown

And then there are all the gifts you don't want: that special piece of millennium rock from some far flung corner of the globe; the historic artefact that bores you senseless and has no meaning in your life and the specially-made garment that looks like something from a charity shop.

And then there are all those well-meaning conversations from people who think you'll be able to improve their lives and all those dreary night-time functions to attend. And if that wasn't enough to contend with, there are the occasional intrusions from nutters who think it's fine to scale the walls of your historic palace before entering your bedroom and waking you up for a 3am chat.

Really. I'll bet there are times when the Queen wishes she could pop on a pair of comfy slippers rather than a glass number, eat a bowl of cheesy chips rather than a spoonful of Beluga caviar and watch the latest episode of EastEnders without having to worry about matters of constitutional importance, like Brexit, Scottish Independence and whether or not David Cameron will say something really stupid about her while he's being secretly recorded by a national newspaper. Man, that guy ought to have learnt the art of discretion.

And then there are the clothes. There must be days when the Queen wants nothing more than to slouch around the house – sorry, palace – in a pair of comfy pjs, or a crocodile onesie. What, no crocodile onesie? Fine. It's a step too far, even for someone who's used to wearing the most expensive threads in the world.

There must be summers when Elizabeth II hankers for a walk in the park rather than yet-another 24-hour flight to some far flung country for a royal visit. And that crown must be hell to wear too: the weight of all those jewels shouldn't be placed on a neck that's in its 90th year. It must be like wearing a small dumbbell.

The name thing must be a nightmare too. Fancy having it bookended with 'II' – that can't be any fun. II denotes 'second'; it says 'not the original', it's a weight that drags you down rather than the wind beneath Liz's wings.

There are, however, decided perks to being a royal. And the main one is birthdays. The Queen gets two. Whoop whoop. And she can even change the date of the second one to make sure it falls on a weekend. With that in her locker, she can probably tolerate all of the 3am intruder nonsense on the basis that she gets to party in the palace on a Saturday night.

The tradition of having two birthdays dates back to 1748 when Edward VII decided that November was the wrong month to celebrate. He fancied a summer celebration and so, having commandeered a man with a scroll and quill, issued a royal edict saying he'd have an extra birthday.

There was method to his madness. Edward's royal horses didn't much fancy cold November nights and Trooping the Colour would have been a drag in the frost. So he created a summer birthday so that the horses could look tip top on a bright, warm day.

The Queen upholds that tradition, celebrating her actual birthday in private with a stroll around Windsor on April 21 before having a public birthday that lasts from June 10-12.

My friend, Simon, is thinking of writing to the Queen to see if he can have two birthdays too. He was born in January, the cruellest of months for a birthday. Each year he endures a barren celebration. His mates habitually phone him up and tell him they can't celebrate with him because they're overdrawn, on a post-Christmas diet or still coming down from a season of alcohol-induced excess. The most he can look forward to is a Next jumper that was bought in the sale, an end-of-line M&S ready meal and a cut-price DVD boxset bought from HMV. His January birthday is as miserable as an evening at a three-star Michelin restaurant with a gluten-intolerant, lactose-avoiding, nut-allergic vegan with a dislike of spicy food and a hatred of fruit and veg.

Simon reckons an August holiday would be fun. He could hang out with his mates, enjoy the start of the football season, go to a gig and drink himself silly without having to worry about whether or not his horses will look good in the bright summer sunshine.

He'll be able to barbecue a steak – the gluten-intolerant, meat-avoiding vegan won't be invited to his do – kick back and enjoy the vibes as he finds out what it's like to be king for a day.