Friday, 10 February 2012

Single on Valentines? Man up and get a grip.

It’s Saint Valentine’s Day soon – I doubt I will get any (cards). I will probably do what I do every year and display the one I got sent in 2002.
It’s a little tatty and tear stained but it will do. It’s a permanent reminder that I was once loved and that I am loveable. 
God knows who it was from?
Who ever wrote it was either drunk or has the penmanship of a serial killer.
I think it may have been my mother?

I don’t get excited about St Valentine – he’s not Santa and he’s not going to be bringing most of us anything more permanent than a cold sore and a trip to an STD clinic. 
I have actually looked him up on Wikipedia. There are a shed load of St Valentines and the one we all bow down to on February 14th has a rather sketchy history. No one knows anything about him except his name, where he is buried and his birthday which is April 16th....
 Now, if he was born on April 16th then why are we sending roses on February the 14th
Why is there a two month window for when we should be getting down on our knees? Although I am sure if you spent two months on your knees it would feel like Valentine’s Day every single goddamn day of the year, especially for whomever you are kneeling down in front of.

I can’t say it makes me sad that I shall be home alone with a meal for one this Valentine’s Day. I don’t need to go and sit in a restaurant full of loved up couples making eyes at each over a Beef Wellington. Especially when the only reason the guy is there in the first place is because he wants to get the girl home and make eye contact with her beef curtains. 
Don’t they realise most restaurants have a set menu on Valentine’s Day and you have to stick to it, there’s no room for getting exotic and ordering off menu. At least if they’d stayed home she could get drunk and he could have had finger food.

I often wonder who decides what kind of food evokes romance and puts these menus together anyway. Who ever thought a prawn cocktail was the epitome of loves flowering bud? What makes a Chicken Kiev or a Salmon en Croute the mainstay of loves young dream? Why is a chocolate torte the climax of a passionate fling? And why are cheese and biscuits the post coital cigarette? It would be much simpler if upon arrival at the restaurant the waiter just handed you some sambuca shots and a pack of condoms.

I can’t stomach the fake ambiance and decoration in suburban restaurants on St Valentine’s Day either. Some candles, fake plastic (and normally flammable) roses and a pretend Latin Lothario sat in a corner crooning and fiddling with his organ. You can bet the closest that sucker has ever got to Italy is the inside of a Domino’s pizza box.
It’s exactly this kind of evening that could result in damaged pride and third degree burns.
All it takes is a candle, plastic flowers, too much cheap champagne and a head full of hairspray and your hot date has suddenly gotten a whole lot hotter. It’s not funny when you have to douse the flames of passion with a pitcher of tap water when you could be fanning them with a chapatti (it’s a fact that Indian restaurants are a Mecca for middle aged couples trying to inject some spice back into their relationships).

Valentines is different for gays too. We give it away so easily that we have no need to be wined and dined. Normally a romantic evening for a gay man means he’s been given the cab fare home, for a straight man it means he’s brushed his teeth and changed his underwear. A gay mans idea of romance is to remember your name the next morning. If you’re lucky you may get a second date or a dose of Chlamydia – it all depends on where he takes you (literally).

I’m not cynical about love; I know full well it exists every time I look in a mirror. I have an enormous amount of self love and I’ve had the most amazing sex this year, I’m just upset that I was the only person there to enjoy it.
I don’t want you to think I’m haunting the rooms of my flat like some modern day Miss Havisham. It may be true that I only have three rooms and a kitchen so I can get my haunting done in less than a minute (and white lace brings me out in hives) but unlike Miss Havisham I am friends with everyone of my ex’s, whether they like it or not. Not even a court injunction or a high tech alarm system can keep us apart and I wish every single one of them well. Except for one, and the only thing I wish for him is a shiny silver bullet.
I still believe there is someone for everyone and I still believe every old sock finds an old shoe (unless you’re Heather Mills McCartney) and I do believe in romance, as long as it doesn’t leave bruises.
I believe that someday my prince will come and I definitely believe in Endless Love (but then I’d believe anything Diana Ross told me – she looks like she could be very persuasive if she had to be).

Happy Valentines everybody – I hope you have a romantic (fireproof) evening of wine, song and roses and I hope you all get to sip from loves (furry) cup . . . .

And oh, If you’re feeling romantic and want to call me here’s my number, do you have a pen?
01-21- DO- 1.


Sunday, 5 February 2012

Two faced on Facebook.

I haven't written a thing for a while, I've been busy.
Busy with life, busy with just being busy and busy with Facebook.
In simpler terms, I've just been very very busy OK?!
I've also wasted a ridiculous amount of time poking around on Facebook.
Except nobody really pokes anymore (and I quickly grew bored of that habit within a month of signing up for it). Virtual poking equates to virtually no sex life in my opinion.

The launch of the new "Timeline" made me realise it's been five long years since Facebook came into my life and it's got me to thinking that now is the time to reevaluate the relationship.
Seeing that before Timeline all Facebook has to say about my life is that I was born makes me think it's been taking me for granted. I have nurtured and attended to it almost every day. I've uploaded and downloaded. I've forgiven it's constant fiddling with and the changing of it's appearance and I've let it know almost every single thing there is to know about me.
 It was my very first (social media) love and yet all it can say about me is that I was born . . .and then got on Facebook.
This is not conducive to a balanced relationship.
I have stayed faithful and loyal to it and I haven't had my head turned by another, except for a very brief fling with Twitter and that only lasted for a 140 characters. Twitter seemed too immediate and too flippant with it's attention span, like a friend who doesn't mind you talking but only if you make it quick or the type of person whom you'd go on a date with but who would be forever looking over your shoulder in case something better came along (not like that has EVER happened to me. Seriously, never, ever, ever but I can imagine what that would be like for someone else).

Facebook has become something of an obsession. Much like a drug habit, too much time on Facebook leaves you unwashed, uncaring and with repetitive strain injury (actually, I think that's what you get if you're addicted to masturbating) it can make your work life suffer and it can totally ruin your social life.
415 friends on Facebook probably equate to four in real life.
4000 pokes on Facebook most likely equate to zero in real life (or to you being an utter whore) and it doesn't matter how many "likes" you've had, it only takes one "Dislike" to send your fragile ego spiralling back down to the ground.

This is the problem with Facebook - it turns us all into fame hungry wannabes, constantly seeking approval and validation with a "Like" button or a friend request.
I am usually very economical with my "Likes".
I don't give them away very easy and "Like" is also such a pansy word.
I "Like" it, I "Like" you - it seriously needs to man up and grow some balls.
Whatever happened to "I f**king LOVE IT" or "I want to rip it's clothes off and smash it's back doors in" or "I hate this so much I want to set fire to it"?
If Facebook had a button to convey these emotions I'd sign up for another 20 years.
Imagine what icons they would have to install to relay "I hate this so very much that  I've just vomited on the cat" or "This makes me want to take all of my clothes off and have random sex with the first person I see".

Friend requests are mostly a minefield of sex pests, stalkers, ex partners, people you'd like to forget and also the sad guy in accounts who nobody wants to talk to.
I have never added anyone or responded to any requests from someone who sends the message "Hey, I think yew R rilly sixy" for the following reasons:
I hate bad penmanship
I'm about as sixy as a six pence
Whomever sent this request is probably not the person in the profile picture but is currently trying to hack into my bank details from an Internet cafe on the Ivory Coast.
I don't like or need to trawl through Facebook looking for pictures of hot guys with their tops off either - that's what Internet porn was invented for.

The whole adding and deleting of friends aspect is also starting to feel morally wrong.
 I now look at my Facebook "Friends" as pieces in a game or in my most ego maniacal moments like I am Elizabeth the First and they are my courtiers.
There are a very few who I love and adore, there are some I have for pure comedy value (mine, not theirs), there are a couple whom I genuinely like and admire and want to get to know better, a few whom I cannot stand but I'd feel bad for letting them go ( I am a hoarder in real life so this makes sense), some who I just keep for the glamour, others whom I have a morbid fascination with and a couple who I think probably want to sleep with me (but I bet they would be looking over my shoulder the whole of our first date).
I have deleted many - the pretentious ones with no humour, the ones who rant about politics or Madonna (gays who love divas but want to save the world, who knew?) the ones who use an update to say "I'm waiting for my train" "I had hummus for lunch" "It's raining" and others who just constantly moan and bitch about their life - it's  Facebook not therapy.
The self promoters (admittedly I use Facebook to promote my blog) and gloaters, the ones full of smut but hardly any humour and the ones who are "really, really happy" all of the friggin time - well I'm so happy for you I could shit!
I love the people who use it to entertain and write in an engaging way - everybody else I just unsubscribe from (it means you still keep your friend numbers sky high but you don't have to read about them).

Five years is a long time in a relationship and maybe Facebook and I have just hit a rocky patch? Maybe our love will endure, who knows?
The one thing I do know is that it knows so much about my life these past five years is that if I can't leave it, I'm going to have to kill it. . . . .