The last Valentines Day card I sent was in jest to my media
studies tutor at University (He had offered a first to anyone who handed him a
card with their assignment). Game for a giggle and a being bit of a cheeky chancer
I thought sod it, in for a penny, reached for some card and quickly penned some
hilarious doodles and a creative poem which read as follows:
“Roses are red,
Romance is dead,
So get your kit off,
And get in my bed”
As I recall I did pretty well on that assignment, but never
the less I can’t say I’m really a fan of valentines because they usually go a
little like this...
Picture it.
It’s a glorious Thursday afternoon. You’ve been for been for
that typical morning run (you may not run marathons just yet but you usually run
twice most weekends...albeit a bath on a Friday night and your mouth off in the
taxi rank come the early hours of Sunday morning). You’ve annihilated the
dishes with a little help from your best friend Finish, and even managed to
amend the wonky shelf a la Stevie Wonder in the bathroom. It may have been supporting
a hundred cans of hairspray and enough body lotions to put Boots outta
business, but you managed to fix it with a mere hair grip and some eyelash glue.
Who needs a bloke, for you are DIY genius!
Feeling accomplished you head to the supermarket in search
of super foods and dietary delights, for you also harbour deep suspicions you
are a secret Rosemary Connelly-Esq. goddess, queen of the kitchen and all round
aerobic expert. You’re cruising round the isles smug as Saturday morning
leisurely tossing a salad into your trolley when you suddenly remember the
subsequent side effects of certain food faux pas and make a swift left on loo
roll...
Shut The Front Door! BOOM! Clear up on aisle five as your
heart shoots through your arse at the sickening sight of six thousand flowers,
the sudden invasion of tacky trinkets, novel knickknacks and all things red,
pink and notably nauseating! Roses are red, violets are vile get me the hell
out this god damn aisle!
As the sweat starts to pour you pick up the pace and head for
safety round the corner to catch your breath. As you look around it also dawns
on you it’s also almost lent...halleluiah! The god squad have handed you a
lifeline as you hurriedly stash in some pancake mix and-
...behold!! The holy grail of the Easter egg isle!!
It’s inevitable you’re not only miserable and alone you now
have type 2 diabetes. Marvellous. On the plus side the exercise regime has
stepped up a gear and now includes a demanding dash for the Mr Whippy.
Once upon a time I actually used to love Valentines Day. At
primary school we would make cards with silly rhymes signed ‘guess who’ and
sneakily bob them into your drawer of our would be sweethearts. As the bell
rang after school we could barely contain our excitement to see if we had any
special deliveries and giggle bemused as we pondered who they may be from.
Perhaps this is the reason this day of vile-times infuriates
me the most. Its original exciting sentiment of suspense and mystery, tentative
possibilities of secret admiration and revelations of undeclared affection have
long since disappeared. Those bloody smug marrieds and long-time lovers have
swooped on in stealing the limelight with their soppy serenades and
cringe-worthy cooing, which quite frankly makes me wanna hurl.
Personally, I shall more than likely be donning a fleece
snuiggie and be in the company of the greatest men in my life, Ben, Jerry, and
Take That. Alternatively, if you’re being whisked off to be wined and refined
dined here are my favourite looks that may float ya fancy.
