I hate Valentines Day

I bloody do, I'm not lying. And I've never made secret of the fact. You may think this makes me an emotionless grumpy curmudgeon, and in many ways you'd be absolutely right, but please bear with me for a few moments for me to explain the source of my vitriol.

But first, bear with me further (two bears with me; It's like Jellystone Park in here) as I explain the history of Valentines Day. Allow me to adopt full teacher mode by placing these leather patches on my tweed jacket elbows here (and here), and let's begin..

We have the Christian Martyrs and Pope Gelasius I (whose name just brings sexual lubrication gels to mind for some reason) to blame for the whole sordid event (and it's suspected that Pope QualityStreet, Pope Interflora and Pope Hallmark had their grubby hands in it too). It clearly dawned on somebody back in 500ad that people in love were way too smug and so something needed to be introduced to bring them down a peg or two. A day whereby perfectly loving relationships can be utterly ruined for all time by one of them forgetting to purchase a small trinket for their loved one, and those poor, sad single souls not in a relationship could be made to feel utterly dreadful about themselves.

The first recorded association of Valentine's day together with romantic notions is in Parlement of Foules by Geoffrey Chaucer. Chaucer wrote:

For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.

And, lets be honest, which bird doesn't love the cheese manufacturing process? Pelicans, I know for a fact, are fascinated by the intricacies that go into making a nice bit of Brie. 

What historians of literature don't want to know is the secret next passage, long since removed from the text by an arcane consortium of card manufacturers, chocolatiers and florists. Don't ask me how I came by this fact - let's just say that a lot of Bothans died bringing me this information. Silly Bothans.

For a man its sayd is not in love
Unless it ith proclaymed by a three quidd card
(Perhapps Purpple Ronnee)
a plastic roese, and a box of qualitie streete
from the twentee-fore oure garidge

I'm lucky enough to be in a loving relationship with an awesome woman who I'm proud to say is my wife, and I make a habit of telling her that I love her at regular intervals.  In fact, I even have an alarm in Microsoft Outlook reminding me to do exactly that.  That last sentence is a lie, obviously.  It's set up in Microsoft Scheduler - Outlook isn't reliable enough.  What I object to is a day set aside when society tells me I have to tell her I love her, and have to buy her nice things. 

And of course I know I don't have to buy fancy cards and gifts.  I could be special and make something handmade for my loved one. Fuck you, Valentines Day!  STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO.

And us people in a relationship get off easy.  Pity the poor singletons (heh,heh,heh, the lonely idiots) surrounded by their friends receiving cards of affection whilst they're left feeling thoroughly miserable.  And receiving a card can be even worse, because who can it be from?  It must be from that pretty paper girl who delivers the papers because the card came at about the same time - you had no idea she even liked you! - but then you open the card and it turns out that the handwriting is just your mums handwriting, albeit poorly disguised, because she thought she'd cheer you up, and to be honest you haven't had many girls around lately and you might be gay, and thats not a problem if you are, but it would be nice if you would talk to me and your father about it and -

Ahem.

So, in a nutshell, Valentines Day.  Shit.  Lesson over.