Is there a worse thing in the universe than Valentine’s Day?
Every year Hallmark, the greetings card fascists, force men into pretending they give a big rubbery toss about flowers and pink champagne.
We tart ourselves up and spend money we don’t have on meals we don’t want, all to conform to an utterly invented excuse for selling more cards. Which, let’s face it, is just junk mail that you deliver by hand. Straight in the fucking recycling on 15th February.
Men hate Valentine’s Day. All of us. It’s not that we lack romance, or dislike spending time with our wives and girlfriends. We just hate doing it to order.
When I want to show somebody I love them, I do it. I take you somewhere special on a Wednesday in August, because it feels right. I spend an hour going down on you, because I want you to have a wonderful time. I make your favourite meal, and wash the pots, and give you a foot massage. I listen to you! (Believe me girls, a little bit of listening is a big commitment from most men. It’s not that we disrespect you, we’re just too busy fighting stormtroopers in our heads.)
So I’ll do all of that. But what I won’t do is wait until some state-sanctioned bullshit celebration, so I can buy a rancid £25 rose, as though a dead flower means anything to either of us. Because that’s no more an act of love than Christmas cake is an act of religious devotion.
And it’s not as though women enjoy it any more than men do. Oh sure, there are some women, (who for the sake of simplicity I’m going to refer to as “vacuous bints”) who buy into all of this cod-romantic bollocks. They probably also like Reece Witherspoon movies, and think the best type of dog is one which fits into your tiny, pointless handbag.
If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge you might want to buy.
But actual women, with actual brains? They hate Valentine’s Day too. They hate being made to feel the cause of so much male angst. They hate the flimsy lies and candle-lit mooning at each other in a violin-sodden restaurant. They hate the awkward, stunted conversation that just has to be about lurve, and not about what’s on TV or gossip at work.
Both men and women hate it. It’s a passionate, vitriolic and cowardly hatred: just enough hate for everybody to dread the whole event, but not enough for anybody to dare speak up.
This year, hold each other’s hands, look deeply into each others eyes, and make a solemn vow never to go through this bullshit again. You’d be doing yourself a favour.
And you’d be helping single people too. They hate Valentine’s Day too, because they’re sure they’re missing out on something. Many of them stay home and weep, but they ought to be leaping for joy. I will be!
I recently became single for the first time in 10 years, so for me the hell of 14 February with a partner is still fresh. I’m relishing sitting at home, drinking tea, and watching a war movie on my own. And I don’t even like war movies! But knowing I don’t have to put up with insipid romcom shite just because it’s Valentine’s Day fills me with glee.
My resolution is to bring down Valentine’s Day, for the sake of humanity. Delivering a fatal blow to greetings card pushers is just a happy side effect.
Fuck you, Hallmark!