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.