That old devil called love

Smoochy-smooch!

It’s Valentine’s Day. Did you remember to get a cutesy teddy holding a heart with the word ‘Love’ on it for that special person?

I expect there are a fair proportion of readers who are having a damn fine grumpy old time today, complaining about how the Americans spoiled a perfectly good Pagan ritual by brainwashing us all into thinking that true love can only be accurately communicated by us purchasing a very big card, writing in it, and then giving it to the bemused object of our affections.

I was amongst your kind, until a frightfully unusual sensation came over me. After I realised that half a packet of Chocolate Chip HobNobs had probably given me a sugar spike so large I was in immediate danger of Diabetes, I did a little research into Valentine’s Day and discovered, to my horror, that for once we can’t blame our chums across the pond.

Valentine of Rome had the extreme misfortune of getting himself martyred somewhere around AD 496, which is particularly bad luck for someone with such a nice name. So unpleasant was it that it took until the 14th Century before anyone thought of linking Valentine in any way with what Barry White would later refer to as ‘Luuuurve’.

Once Chaucer had planted that notion firmly into our collective consciousness (assumingly utilising a cherub with a bow and arrow) we bumbled happily on for another five centuries or so until the ability to print stuff had got it’s inky fingers well and truly around our hearts, and finally started sending each other sugary-sweet cards to proclaim our undying love.

Shockingly, it was actually us Brits that came up with that particular idea, and also the whole chocolates/flowers/cutesy tat thing that has proliferated ever since, filling the card and gift emporiums of our land with red hearts, whilst simultaneously emptying our pockets as soon as the Christmas stuff has hit the bargain bin. Hang your heads in shame. It was your ancestors that did this.

So now the only true winners in all this aren’t those genuinely in love – they already know that, without the insecure need to spend a bundle of cash on something tacky to prove it.

No, the ones with a warm glow are the card and gift companies, who do their market-researched best to make us feel bad if we don’t put our hands in our pockets to prove our love is real.

Fancy a romantic meal for two? Great – you can go to a very busy restaurant, and spend even more than usual on a menu that’s basically the same as any other but has pink hearts on it, whilst a tired looking rose withers next to the romantic candle.

Or go for a really nice meal on another day when it’s quieter, and let that genuinely special person know that you love them, by opening your mouth and actually saying it.

Like you should be the rest of the year anyway.

This post first appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column in the North West Evening Mail, on the 14th of February 2014. You can view the version published by the paper here, where the title had "It's" bunged on the front, and "again" at the end.

The only bit that went missing en route to the NWEMs printing presses was the line in brackets about a cherub. Poor cherub.

Without really realising it, my gentle rant about the crassness of Valentine's Day turned into something different; a grumble about people who seem to think one particular day should be special. I happen to think they should all be special if you genuinely love someone.

And yes, I did get my wife a card - even I'm not THAT stupid...

(A forgotten splendid compilation CD from March 04 on the go tonight, featuring a series of rather brilliant mash-ups from the likes of GoHome Productions and Soundhog.)

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