Eight things that piss us right off about bloody Valentine’s Day

On Feb 1st, approx 9,953 Valentine’s Day press releases landed in my inbox. They were all cheesier than a French man’s jock-strap and tried to shoe-horn totally unrelated product into a lovey-dovey package. That was pretty much the tipping point for the rant which follows…

I’m actually quite the old romantic (no, really) but I hate being forced to do anything in a certain way, at a certain time. It’s the rebellious streak in me. Started when I was about nine, during swimming lessons at school. Our PE Teacher told us to line up along the side of the pool but NOT to jump in. I immediately cannon-balled into the deep-end, I couldn’t help it. It’s like some kind of innate reflex.

Being forced to celebrate sucks

Anyway, back to Valentine’s Day and being made to celebrate it. I’m starting to feel the same about the hoopla of Christmas if I’m honest. Although at least during the festive season I get to sit about on my arse for five days, wearing a snazzy chunky knit and feasting on ‘Eat Me’ dates (which I never eat at any other time of year – they look like sun-dried knacker-sacks) and cheese boards (mmm, now that’s the type of cheese I’m talkin’ about. Not this pet name gushy shite).

Overcrowded restaurants

I mean, go into any restaurant on Vally D and you’ll be confronted with couple after miserable couple, forced to put on their finest threads and sit opposite each other in stony silence. Whereas they’d usually be sat at home on the sofa in their trackies eating ready meals. In stony silence. Only with the latter, they haven’t had to pay £250 for the honour.

A Hallmark moment?

It’s oh-so commercial; you’re forced to profess your undying love on one day only. What about the other days of the year?! What about romantic gestures all year round, as and when the urge takes you? Whatever happened to good ol’ SPONTANEITY and random acts of kindness? What would Romeo and Juliet have done, if Hallmark had their way? Possibly they both wouldn’t have tragically died, but that’s besides the point.

***cough* Rip-off! *cough***

You can buy a disgusting vom-inducing mass-produced card Pre Feb 14th and barely get change from a fiver… or come the day after, you can’t move in Clintons for reduced romantical items like key-rings, mugs, magnets and the like. I have to say, I’d pity the fool that dared buy me a fucking fridge magnet as a declaration of love. My (romantic) reciprocation would be a version of the Chelsea Smile. Magnet Mouth, perhaps?

Increase in PDAs

I sat sandwiched between two couples locked at the lips on the tube once. It was like a bizarre game of Twister. I wanted to pop on a sou’wester to avoid being slobbered all over, like a St Bernard dog shaking it’s chops after an energetic walk. There’s really nowhere to run in those situations – quite literally. It was like being at one of those weird peep shows you get in Amsterdam. Not that I’ve *ahem* ever been to one of those, your honour.

Pressure of impressing your loved one

You know your partner pretty well. Better than most, probably. So why is it, come Valentine’s Day you take leave of your senses and all round decent taste. Why do you even think that Him or Her Indoors would want novelty underpants? Ditto homemade ‘gifts’. I mean, the sentiment is nice, but they always look like you’ve wrapped up a piece of the Berlin Wall or something. I don’t want your hastily Pritt-sticked tat, I want a Mulberry bag.

Influx of plush stuff

As in shitty out-sized teddy bears and cuddly-wuddly wabbits. Where do they all suddenly come from at this time of year? And plush, squidgy hearts slapped all over cards. They can fuck off, too. In fact, we’re pretty sure that ‘plush’ stuff is 100% nylon which equals 100% flammable (like shell suits! Remember those fire safety ads in the late ’80s warning you not to stand next to a naked flame whilst wearing one. And we were ALL wearing them. Don’t pretend you didn’t.) We’re suggesting a soft toy amnesty. We’ll pile ’em high and burn them in a towering inferno. Of love. Natch.