And so the festival of Saint Valentine is upon us once again: a beautiful celebration of love between two (or more) people, or a hideously over-commercialised rampage through the flower beds of the world. If you've ever seen the roaring trade in icons in and around the Vatican, you'd think the Catholic Church would be happy to endorse the latter.
I'm still uncertain as to the level of my ambivalence towards this day. On the one hand I think it's good to indulge in a little over-indulgence with your partner, all cynicism aside. On the other, if you're having to cram that in to just one day a year, then I suggest you take a long hard look at the state of your life and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. But if there's money to be made and a song and dance to be had, then we're there.
So now the media can't give you enough ways to please your lover this February 14, to avoid that hideous predicament of the crushing blow of mis-managed expectations. Because get it wrong and the only people laying pipe round your way for some time to come will be the water board. No pressure folks, we're only hinting that your future happiness lies in how you fulfill your duties on this most auspicious of days, we don't really mean it. No wonder so many seem to think that switching off is the only safety net you have, and rightly so. Unfortunately, the anti-Valentines market seems to be an equally pointless kick in the other direction, and as someone wise once said: surely you should fight fire with water.
Now if you are single, well how's that for a comment on your sad, stinking, lonely, and very possibly grotesquely ugly existence? But that's ok, because there's a columnist out there waiting to jump to your defence with another 2000 words on how you're really comfortable with who you are, which is why you'll be renting SS Experiment Camp and eating cold pizza from your arse with some friend you really fucking hate, explaining to everyone you know how you're really comfortable with who you are, because you can't tell them that you'd rather be sitting at home sharpening knives, one for each member of the opposite sex that has done you wrong.
As usual, there's nothing more likely to make you feel different, than having it made VERY CLEAR to you that you're really not different at all.
Bitter? Not me. Love's about the only thing that really is better than sex. I'm waaaaaaay behind that one. But right now it feels like everyone's on the defensive, singles and couples. We're fighting a losing battle to meet the unholy expectations (and profit margins) of Messrs Hallmark, Thortons and InterFlora, not to mention their buddies in the luxury hotel market. Some days these fuckers tell more lies and cause more misery than Philip Morris.
Of course, there are loads and loads and loads and loads of folks who will just get on with their lives, unflustered by the blog posts, clippings and social instructions. I'm more than happy to get home tomorrow, stick a movie on, cook some food, ignore my email and go to bed. Although, I may cook first, then watch the movie, unless of course there's something good on the telly. I may or may not feel a twinge of sadness that there won't be (or at least is very highly unlikely to be) a naked body climbing in to bed next to me that I haven't procured Burke and Hare style. But perhaps no more than any other random day. To all those brandishing their trophy bouquets of undying and unrequited love, I wish you well, I truly do.
It is of course, far too much to ask that next year, we just let everyone get on with it, possibly only massive global nuclear devastation will sort that one. I'd like to think that we have the capacity to realise that if we stopped chasing someone else's idea of how we should be happy, we might just get on and be happy. But then again, I also own a copy of Poison's Greatest Hits.
Watching Elbow at Porchester Hall
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