A week earlier than usual, this is my annual bitter, misanthropic rant about Valentine's Day, or as I prefer, an excuse for me to really become a totally agitated grumpy bastard for 24 hours in February and whinge and moan about the fact that I am still romantically unattached and have rodgered less than a recently-laid-off airline co-pilot. The reserve-team goalkeeper at Kidderminster Harriers gets more action than I do for fuck's sake !!
Seriously, during the damn stinking whole day I am about as welcome as George Osbourne at a food bank, about as communicative as Kimi Raikkonen in a monastery and about as angry as a very angry young man during an Angry Anderson concert. I am not to be approached, unless you are the sort of person who likes sneaking up to a pack of wolves and tries to poke the alpha male up the rectum with a cattle prod wearing a suit made out of raw bacon.
I fucking hate Valentine's Day, fucking, fuckity-fuck fucking fuckamoley fucking HATE it !! It’s time to face facts, people. Valentine is a hateful shitstorm. Even if you’re happily settled down, it’s a point-by-point, retail-enabled deconstruction of everything you’re doing wrong. It doesn’t matter how successful your relationship is, or how happy you are together – it’s appearances that count.
Christmas might be Santa’s busiest day of the year, but come Valentine’s Day, Cupid might as well be on a booze cruise to Calais, because there’s fuck all for him to do here. Woe betide anyone who wakes up on Valentine’s Day and doesn’t have a hastily scribbled card, envelope still damp with morning-breath saliva, to hand to their significant other. That’s after spending twenty minutes in the card shop, trying desperately to find something that doesn’t make bile catch in the back of your throat.
Try to ignore the fact that most card manufacturers show a crushing lack of awareness about how people in relationships actually talk to each other. So swallow your pride, hand over your three quid, and try to imagine that the term ‘love machine’ might actually apply to you, rather than the battery-hungry accessory that lives in the bedside cabinet.
So yeah, I'll rant about it because that's what I WANT to fucking do. This year in particular is going especially painful, so it's my life and WILL piss and moan about all those cruel seasonal reminders that I'm yet to find that 'special someone' (or at least manage to hold on to her long enough to stop someone from swooping in and stealing her in order to secure themselves a change of personal circumstances), and if I want to pass the blame onto the happy couples who choose the window seat, presumably so that passers-by can see them demolishing a chocolate fondant with a single dessert fork, then I fucking damn well will.
So let’s take another look at that happy couple in the restaurant. See how close they’re sitting. Well, that’s because the restaurant decided to cram a few extra tables in to take advantage of the increased cover charge. What looks like intimate body language is more likely to result in a slipped disc than any under-the-covers action.
And when they’re not shifting uncomfortably in their seat like he's got piles and someone's swapped her sanitary towels for sandpaper strips, you might notice that most of their time is spent stifling yawns, refolding napkins and trying to talk about anything other than their day at work. They’re feeling the pressure as it is – they’ve been put on show in the window seat, so they’re struggling to act as if they’re enjoying themselves. Deep down, they’re worried that everyone else looks happier than they do. One of them is wondering when babysitters got so expensive, and the other one is probably working out how much money they could have saved by having the same meal at home.
Those couples who don’t fancy braving the hordes and paying over the odds for a glorified set menu, can easily replicate the same magical ambiance at home. Marks & Spencer and Waitrose are both running their popular twenty quid ‘Romantic Dinner For Two’ promotions. Remember, nothing says “I would lay down my life for you” like microwaving a couple of mozzarella stuffed chicken breasts and choking back a bottle of Cava that could put the shine back on your serving spoons. Of course, if you’re going to stay in, convention dictates that you’ll need to set the 'right mood'. Time to clear all those unopened bills off the dining table and light some candles. Not the scented ones either – they’re far too sickly if you’re eating. Now, look at what you’re wearing. I’m afraid onesies, sweat pants and t-shirts are all out.
It may just be another wet Tuesday (or at least I HOPE it'll be pissing down with rain and foggier than the average woman's brain when confronted with a choice between legitimate effort or a whirlwind pantomime show), but you need to dress up as if you’re modelling for the fucking Kays catalogue. Oh, and you’ll need to think about the soundtrack for your evening, in order to line up the first shag you’ve had since the clocks went back. Thankfully, the record labels are on hand, helpfully repackaging the same shitty ballads in a new 40-track compilation, as if anyone in their right mind needs another copy of Emilie fucking Sandie's latest demographically-engineered splurge.
Conclusion: Because of all the pressure on couples it becomes exceedingly, bleedingly obvious who has a significant other and who does not. Thus, the real purpose of Valentinesween is revealed: Shaming those who don’t have significant others. It’s pretty obvious who is who.
Moi.
Now, normally, I don’t encourage people to burn down flower shops (but if you do, make sure your firebombs are wrapped in pink packaging), hunt down and eviscerate candy-company executives (just like their cheap-oils-and-lard-based products, despite their hard exterior they’re totally gooey on the inside), or use VD cards to give Hallmark employees a million little papercuts (be sure to bind their wrists with salted caramel so they can’t move), but because February 14th is apparently so different, I’m going to make an exception.
I’m working on some candy-themed weaponry for next year, including a railgun that shoots Smarties and a rose-thorn chainsaw that is more fantastically bloody and painful than effective at sawing through limbs. The R&D budget is quite high because of all the money I’ve saved from not having a girlfriend. This means the Napalm-based chocolate hearts are right on schedule (Terry's Chocolate Agent Orange version coming soon ... !!), I’m still working on the engagement rings made out of depleted uranium, but the VX-based wine gums are deliciously deadly (I suggest getting the sampler pack).
You can’t say I don’t get into the spirit of the holiday. Besides, as Nazareth taught us, Love Hurts. Of course, in this case it also causes 3rd degree burns, internal haemorrhaging, vaporised limbs, blindness, cancer, liquefied flesh, post-traumatic stress disorder and some zombie-ism.
But hey, at least it comes with free gift wrapping !!