I believe it was me that said "ValentineÂ’s Day sucks a big dogÂ’s cock." I believe I said it this time last year in Warming Up. And already my wise thought is being quoted. Admittedly by me, but it is a start. Hopefully it will eventually end up in some collection of humorous quotations. It is my only ambition to be represented in such a tome and I think my thoughts on Valentine's Day have as good a chance as anything else I've said of making my dreams come true.
Last year I hated Valentine's Day because I was in a relationship and I resented being forced to celebrate love at a given time and for an exorbitant price. This year I see the other side of the coin, being as I am a single man who wishes he had someone in his life who he could be forced to endure a day of regret and arguments (and possibly some kissing and making up).
Of course there was the slim hope that someone would take the opportunity to declare their secret love for me by sending me a card or some flowers (in this respect alone does Valentine's Day stop sucking on a big dog's cock for a few seconds to do something useful. Surely this was the whole point of it before capitalism saw it as an opportunity to sell more chocolate during that dip between Christmas and Easter). I couldn't think of who might do such a thing as I have largely been spending my time in the company of gigantic men with gold medallions and Emma Kennedy who I could never think of that way. Damn, I just thought of her that way whilst writing that and have come over all strange and nauseous. (We both put up this pretence continually, but we know we are destined to be together. We are a perfect match. Perfect! Though our love is platonic and also best served by us living separately and only communicating through our weblogs.)
However, when I went downstairs this morning and looked in my little post-box I had just one piece of mail. It looked very much like a card in a hand-written envelope. Perhaps Sir Steve Redgrave had formed an attachment to me and was preparing to leave his wife to come and live with me in Shepherd's Bush and eat pizza. I hoped not as such a scandal might break him and tarnish his spotless reputation of universatlly acclaimed heroism.... but there was a part of me that hoped it might be so. At least that would mean I wouldn't have to spend Valentine's night alone, watching Jonathan Creek on the telly, which as you might realise would have an extra, slightly depressing resonance to it. Perhaps all single people should be forced on Valentine's Day to watch videos of their exes cavorting around with their new partners to make them think about what they had given away. If the ex and their partner could be persuaded to solve some kind of mystery during that video, then that would be even better for everyone. It would make you think, but entertain you too. Nice!
As I held the mystery card in my hands I continued to fantasise about who might secretly fancy me. Alex from Fame Academy perhaps. Maybe Sophie Ellis Bextor. Possibly Sophie Ellis Bextor's as yet unborn daughter had spent her time in the womb learning to write and had crafted a Valentine's card out of her mother's bodily fluid, so that she could let me know how she felt and fix up a date for some time in 2022. Presuming my diary is empty.
Perchance one of the taxi drivers from Paris had used their knowledge to find out my address. Hopefully the female one, but as you can see, at this stage I am not too fussy. I would have been happy to discover it was from a kinky octopus.
Or maybe the box lady had been hankering secret desires. She certainly knows my address. Could she have wanted me for more than my boxes?
I opened the envelope to discover I had been invited to an art exhibition by someone I had never heard of. How they had got my address or why they wanted to invite me I had no idea. I didn't even recognise their name and there was no note to explain why I had been invited.
I screwed the invitation up in a loveless fury and threw it into a big burning bin (which I always keep by my front door on Valentine's Day, aware of possible disappointment). I suspect that the artist or PR person for this event had many similar reactions from various Z list media personages around the capital. I suggest it was a mistake to do the mail-out on the 13th February. Because had I received such an invite any other day I would probably thought, "Oh, how nice to be invited. I must go to that."
Now it was too late. The invite was burning in my burning bin. And the resultant flare that it caused had set fire to my curtains.
It was only as the fire brigade doused the final embers in my gutted home that I wondered if perhaps the invite had been a subtle Valentine's message after all.
Of course! Some person or sea creature that secretly fancied me, had been trying to engineer a social situation where we could meet, have a drink, look at some pictures and get to know each other. And then, when we'd discussed all the pictures, we could be married.
So it turns out that I did get a Valentine's card after all, which more than made up for the destruction of my house and all my property. The fact that I will never get to meet my mystery admirer just makes things all the more romantic. I shall spend the rest of my days sitting in the shell of what was once my home, wearing exactly the dressing gown I was wearing when I got the letter and dreaming of what I would be doing with my wife if only I had met up with her.
The nice thing about this dream, as opposed to reality, is that it can allow the inclusion of some open-minded octopuses.
