Stupid Cupid.

I would like to take this opportunity to convey my warmest wishes to all those of you who tonight will be enjoying a special dinner, the scent of roses, the sound of soft music, candlelight AND A GOOD SHAG..........you lucky bastards!
Valentine's Day has come and gone here at Pither Towers with not so much as a wink from our gay postman or a nuisance obscene phonecall. I did get one red letter - from Powergen (thanks guys) - and YET ANOTHER MENU FROM A FUCKING PIZZA PARLOUR but they were the only things which penetrated a tight opening round here.
Ok, ok, so I don't agree with Valentine's Day anyway. It is, after all, a supposed celebration of the agonising execution of some bloke, who was otherwise a jolly decent chap, just because he wore a crucifix to work (See British Airways staff manual). As I've said before, if you can only tell your special someone that you love them on one day in the year, and make money for some Nazi card manufacturer in the process, then your relationship is in deep shit. The high moral ground, however, is not high enough to stop you seeing hordes of doe-eyed lovers at every turn and consequently feeling slight tugs on your heartstrings.
As many people will by now be aware, both the Avenue D'Amore and the Boulevard of Marital Bliss have been dug up as far as Pither is concerned, although as I didn't instigate the roadworks it is fair to say that a contra-flow system is in operation. Still, as Pontius Pilate was overheard saying "There ain't a fat lot I can fucking do about it".
I suppose this evening's offerings on the Devil's Lantern will be peppered with slushy films interspersed by adverts aimed at us singletons with messages like "Go on, do it - open a vein" as we sit there chomping through our Vesta Chow Meins-For-One from the firm's Saddo Loser range.

Ho hum. Never mind, tomorrow is another day and everyone will be back to rowing at home, having affairs, trashing their marriages and staring at each other in stoney silence over the microwaved mush they are forced to share at dinnertime on the 364 other days in the year. Hurrah! Welcome back to the real world.
It's got to go. Valentine's Day is about as welcome as a Harold Shipman home visit and so can waltz its way off to Grantham.
NOTE: After I finished writing this, a jerk two doors down started letting off fireworks in his garden!! What's that all about? Picture the scene - "Hello honey, I'm home and I've got a Valentine's Day surprise for you. You know you wanted us to go out to dinner and then come home and make love in a warm, soapy bath? Well, I thought that instead we would stand about in the pitch black night, freezing our tits off, and let off incendiary devices. Whaddya say?" I fear we at the About-To-Be-Divorced Club will be getting a new recruit tomorrow.