I’ll come straight out with it; I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. There is one seemingly obvious, but actually fairly unimportant reason for this, Valentine’s Day is my birthday. It always has been – weird that. Such a clash with dates got in the way a bit growing up, especially during those late teen, early twenties years when I’d be keen to sink a few bottles of Hooch with the lads but most of them were tucked up for the night with a rom-com video tape cassette, a microwavable meal for two and a lukewarm bottle of Black Tower. Valentine’s got in the way a bit.
But that's not why I resent Valentine's. No, my main reason for my said resentment towards this heart-shaped phenomenon has nothing to do with the birthday clash. No, it’s simply because Valentine’s Day is such a cringey, cheese-fest of an occasion, filled with fleeting affection, temporary tenderness, unnecessary financial burden and a desperation that destroys any possibility of genuine romance. A day when couples brush their troubles under the carpet and make awkward small talk at the same local Chinese restaurant they visited exactly a year ago for their last apparent romantic meal.
Valentine’s Day pressures people into romantic gestures that might not occur for another 365 days - how many of these Romeos have bought their partner flowers since the last Valentine’s Day, or surprised them with a spontaneous card left under their pillow declaring their immeasurable love? Not many I’m guessing. Remember, card shops are open all year round. So too are restaurants, hotels, parks for romantic strolls, florists and even Ann Summers if that’s your idea of romance. Love and romance are truly wonderful things. Don't limit them to one day a year.
So anyway, happy ruddy Valentine's Day! Oh, and happy birthday to me... bottle of Hooch anyone?