February 14th, a day that lives in infamy on my calendar.
Yes, it is the one-day amongst those 365 other days that reaffirms to me and should definitely reaffirm to you (in the event that you have no relevant significant other) that you are fat, ugly, most likely very awkward and above all probably, ok, possibly, wear too much pheromone-trapping perfume to attract the other sex.
And so now, sitting in my kitchen looking out into the garden at some ducks folly about in the grass, tantalisingly teasing one another with their winged sexiness while the brown one chases the green plumed one around the grass in a kind of Swim-Fan sort of way, I can’t help but be re-remind of my hatred for Valentine’s Day, the day whose job it is to undermine and prompt us all as to the reality that we are a failed heterosexual, homosexual, in fact, any type of failing, sexually-non-elitist-group and that we should all invest in a lot of high brow, good calibre makeup / surgery because the days are numbered it seems before we become one of those Susan Boyle Spinster types that are only invited to the dinner parties of our old-time, now-married friends for the LOL factor associated with the unfortunate moment when we get drunk, take off our wig, kick our legs about inappropriately and possibly deep-throat a bottle of wine. Yay.
Not that Valentine’s Day 2010 was just any kind of general fail, oh no. Unlike Rage against the Machine’s exciting lurch to Christmas number one, I decided to follow the Facebook Valentine’s Day group whose goal was to get The Smiths song ‘How Soon is Now’ to the Mid- February top count down.
And overlooking my being a huge Smiths fan, this song essentially embodies what Valentine’s Day is all about. I mean, if the mid 1980’s Morrissey is ‘the son and their heir of nothing in particular’ (bar of course a huge musical legacy and undoubtedly a lot of cash) then what hopes do I have? None. That’s what. As the man coo’s through my headphones: ‘There’s a club if you got to go, you could meet somebody who really loves you, so you go and you stand on your own and you leave on your own and you go home and you cry and you want to die’… I can’t help asking what is around the corner?
And like I said, if Morrissey can’t at least find some kind of fame chasing eighteen year old to spend the most depressing holiday with, well… I shudder to think about the rest of us.
However I similarly realise there are a probably a standard percentage out there who don’t look like Susan Boyle (as previously mentioned as a hindrance in the post-adolescent dating scene) and who subsequently do have significant others yet manage to maintain an air of dislike towards Saint Valentine. I mean, you people that are forced to buy presents, tell me, how much is too much to spend on a present? How little is too little? Is it really more special if you made the thing from scratch, out of a shoebox, I mean, especially since you’re finished project is a little too post-modernist for the normal boy/girl to ever really get and in reality looks like it was painted by an arthritic toddler. It’s seems impossible to give a proper answer to this question.
Fear not though all people out there that are only starting to realise that Valentine’s Day is just another 340 days away from resurging the associated thoughts of failure and inadequacy, a plan has been concocted on my behalf and I invite all of you to join me.
It seems that since our good martyred friend Saint Valentine whose ridiculous story I do not know but most likely embodies some sort of ideal message about love or something is: a Christian! Oh yes.
How is this relevant? It is illegal in Saudi Arabia to discuss and/or practice a worship of Christian saints meaning. To celebrate Valentine’s Day is a jail-able offence and all who do so risk having the Fatwa (death sentence) imposed upon them. This sounds like my kind of holiday!
So come one, come all on a flight to Saudi via the UAE airlines February 2011. We shall party up our disdain to the sounds of the Smiths and burn some Marvin Gaye records. Sexual healing? Not for us unfortunate fatties. Smiths healing, yes please.
