My Valentine’s Chainsaw Massacre
Valentine’s Day. A whole 24 hours filled with love, roses, hearts, wine and a scene reminiscent of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
To any of the more sensible amongst you, who have not sunk so desperately low as to turn to some sort of exchange for sex (give First Class in Selly a try!) the above might seem a slightly odd mix.
In the lovingly bow-tied little package, surrounded by cuddly bears and rosé champagne in what I have come to term the ‘desperation aisle’ (check your supermarket of choice between Christmas and February), it seems like a lovingly romantic idea to spread rose petals over your crisp white linen sheets.
On Valentine’s Day last year with my ex-girlfriend, it wasn’t the usual nonchalance that comes from a two year relationship. Having been used to settling for positions that Stephen Hawking could easily manage, it was a great surprise to be allowed to escape from the geriatric roleplay the past year had been.
However, as disgusting as my sex life is, I have never had a desire to recreate the gruesome murders of Ed Gein. I can’t stress enough… Do not spread rose petals on your bed. The confusion and horror that is caused by switching on the lights to see a limp, exhausted body covered in red stains in your bed is only mildly arousing at best.
Every since that day, I have come to hate Valentine’s Day. Please don’t call me a chronic masturbator or whatever the Valentine’s equivalent of Scrooge is, because I do enjoy love and I’m certainly not lonely.
I’ve said to my current love interest that I’m literally going to walk into Tesco, pick up the first Valentine’s card I see, point at me, then her, then the card. Then I’m going to put it back, walk out of the shop and expect a damn good seeing to when I get home (I’ll let you know how that goes).
The irony is, love is such a two way thing, and yet Valentine’s is so one sided. Piss off do I want a teddy. I was already called a bender at school, I don’t need people at uni cottoning on. We all know that Valentine’s is about the woman. The furious competition over who is going to surprise his wife at work with a dozen red roses. What a bastard.
It’s not about love, it’s about harking back to the days of ridiculous crippling generosity to compete for a mate. Men: if you agreed with your significant other not to do anything for Valentine’s Day, rest assured she will do bugger all. But you had better wake her up with some sort of impressive floral display and a piece of card with some desperate message a greasy bloke in an office has desperately hashed together minutes before the card went to print, or trust me, bad shit will go down.