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Now boys, I may not be Valetines any or sophisticated as some of the other snaps on oriental rose, but I am very how and I am the most girl you could possibly.
The A-road to romance Tim Jonze with his paramour. I like to think it's a unique and extraordinary kind of lover who can take their Valentine to watch them play five-aside football in the rain and for that still not to be the worst Valentine's date they have ever been on. That honour belongs toin which my paramour and I took the day off but then realised we had a nothing planned and b quite needed a new desk.
And so we did what any hot-headed Valentines disasters in the throes of passion do: This being Valentine's Dayof course, I thought we should add a degree of romance to proceedings by taking the "scenic route", one that involved traversing various non-pedestrianised stretches of an A-road in the Tottenham area and — during one map-reading error — a children's adventure playground.
I won't elaborate on the date itself other than to say that shortly after arriving we realised that, having come without a car, our shopping would have to be limited to anything that could also be carried back across various non-pedestrianised stretches of an A-road in the Tottenham area and a children's adventure playground. We called off the whole sorry endeavour and I realised that it was time to splash some serious cash in the Ikea canteen. Tim Jonze Would I get to snog Tracey?
When I was 17 years old, I took out a girl called Tracey for an excruciating Valentine's Day dinner in Watford; it was at a branch of a now defunct chain called Berni's in the high Valentines disasters. I was emboldened to do this because I had — and there is no other way to put this Score magazine naked "snogged" Tracey during the slow-dance phase of a party at a village hall the fortnight before, while the DJ played the Commodores' Three Times a Lady.
Tracey had at the time just broken up with her boyfriend and this was very much a rebound situation. Anyway, the meal was all right in its steak-and-liebfraumilch way, and the conversation was stilted, but not too bad. Afterwards I walked Tracey back to the bus stop near Clarendon Road, and to be quite frank I considered that another snog before we parted was not out of the question. But just as we neared the old Carlton cinema I saw her ex-boyfriend on the other side of the street with his mates and, without thinking, I said: I have asked myself that question many times over the years.
Tracey looked over and, with considerably more emotion than she'd showed all evening, said: It was a passionate, painful reunion for them and I was suddenly the gooseberry of all gooseberries. They went off and I realised I had missed my bus and had to walk home. And so ended Valentine's Day Peter Bradshaw The card was from Dad The food of love? There is nothing about Valentine's Day I don't loathe.
I loathe the sickly iconography; the restaurants full of the awkward or the in-heat, all about to be scalped in the name of love and a withering red rose; the fact that it just reminds me of all the ones I've loathed before. It has never delivered me anything other than disappointment: St Valentine and all who sail in him can do one on a raft of cheap chocolate and forecourt flowers. Marina O'Loughlin Those boots weren't made for walking I went to the cinema with someone so physically perfect that I once involuntarily shielded my eyes.
He didn't fancy me, though. Then we watched other people shagging for an hour and a half. Some other guy was there. He didn't fancy me either. I didn't fancy him, but that didn't help. Then we all went to this horrible bar full of Sloanes, and then walked home through this blasting arctic misery. I was dragging my feet because my boots were too tight, and they both said: It's possible that we were all stoned. I felt sick with despair and self-hate, but also really hungry and couldn't stop thinking about yoghurt.
It was the creepiest Valentine's present in the history of mankind; a horrific, pre-mobile "now I will always know where you are" show of possessiveness. One that barely even got used after I realised that all my intimate messages of love had to be relayed via a bored-sounding Wolverhampton-based call centre worker who audibly hated his job, his life and me.
In a hopelessly misjudged act of unwarranted maturity for a teenager, I'd also booked a table for us; me and my first serious girlfriend in one of those sterile fill-the-place-with-tables-for-two-and-charge-everyone-double places that spring up in small towns each February. Midway through the starter, one of my contact lenses began to violently reject my body. My left eye started to burn and swell. It hurt to even open it, so I ended up eating all three courses locked into a permanent teary wink.
Incidentally, if you're reading this, I don't recommend the cry-wink as a method of seduction. It sends all sorts of mixed signals. I've got better at Valentine's Day now; I don't really acknowledge it. It seems safer that way.