The Horror of Valentine’s Day

Even though Valentine’s Day is no longer the emotional knife twist it was when I was single, it’s not something I revel in. I resent the fact that for one day of the year, we’re supposed to prove how much we love our respective partners. If you really love someone, every day should be Valentine’s Day.

I dredged through my old diary and pulled out the highlights for you. Often, it’s not even to do with love. Just bad shit happening on February 14th. Cheers, Cupid.


Feb 14th 2005

Shit soundman. During the fourth song, I threw down my guitar and stomped out of the venue. I suppose I shouldn’t have given the ‘V’ sign to the other two in the band, but hey, I’m a front man – I’m supposed to tread the line between amiable poet and obnoxious twat.

Anyway, as I stormed out of the venue, I slammed the bar door open and it hit the bouncer in the nose. Despite the blood on his jacket, he was fine about it. However, the other bouncer – let’s call him “Dave” – was not so polite. I was allowed back in to pick up my stuff, then promptly strong-armed out of the venue.

As I walked out, a girl ran after me and made me sign her sweaty t-shirt, which really pissed Dave off.


Feb 14th 2006

Time out has just described us as a ‘new-rave’ band. I think I’m going to be sick.



Feb 14th 2007

Last night culminated in me passing out on my own in my clothes, waking up late this morning with greasy hair, stubble and no clean shirts. Tried to have a shave; gashed my lip open. It was streaming with blood for a good twenty minutes. Now I look like I’ve been punched in the face.


Feb 14th 2008

Vanessa asked me out tonight. To be honest, I’d rather just go home and have a wank.


Feb 14th 2009

It’s really nice spending Valentine’s Day with someone you love. I think this could be it.


Feb 14th 2010

I am now going to drink bottle of Champagne and smoke a load of cigarettes on my own. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, cunts.


Feb 14th 2011

‘What’s up?’ I asked Laura.  Perfectly reasonable question, considering she had barely looked at all evening.

She ran into her room, crying.  Her flat mate and I raised our eyebrows at each other. I then went into Laura’s bedroom to sort it out.

We had a row about nothing, which ended when I took the Agent Provocateur box out of my bag, threw it on the floor, put my coat on and said ‘Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.  I’m going.’

Of course, I didn’t go. We got drunk and had sex.

The next morning, I had a lovely conversation with a girl on the 243.  Should’ve got her phone number.


Feb 14th 2012

We’re pretty drunk by then, which is why Dean and I think going to Alibi is a good idea.

Down the dirty steps, into the dirty club where the young, beautiful idiots flail around. The first person I see is Barbara.

She gives me a hug.

‘Hi Jack,’ she says. ‘Thanks for coming to my night.’

Your night? Jesus, if I’d known it was going in your pocket, I would’ve thought twice about paying the £3 entry fee. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve deleted me from Facebook.

‘Hey, Barb. Lovely to see you.’

And what the hell are you wearing?  Looks like a fucking table cloth. #Dalston

We nestle into the bar queue and eventually down a few JD and cokes and a few shots of Sambuca.  Holly’s there, looking like a Cure groupie with black lipstick and a maid’s outfit on.  She still can’t talk to me properly.

‘I’m going to New York,’ she stutters.

We have a brief conversation about The Big Apple, during which I regret splitting up with her and wish I’d hung around.

I keep thinking I’m seeing Laura everywhere. She pops up in mirrors and flicks in and out of my peripheral vision like that ghost from The Grudge. I am getting increasingly annoyed that she hasn’t sent me a text.  It’s now 53 days since I last heard from her.

In the end, it’s just a regular night out in Dalston. Somebody tries to start a fight with me and nobody gets laid.

I wake up at 5am, dry mouthed, TV still on. Consume a hearty breakfast of Lucozade and paracetamol and jump on the 149 to work.

What a catch.




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