VALENTINE’S Day brought an outpouring of affection and gifts to my door.
I got the usual twenty-or-so cards, some slushy, a few witty and at
least three positively obscene.
Hey, I am used to being an object of lust because of my uncanny
resemblance to Johnny Depp.
But this year I also received some lovely romantic gifts … bunches of
red roses, a bottle of Champagne, and a huge box of chocolate-covered
figs (such as were once the fave nibble of the Emperor Tiberius in his palace on the Isle of Capri).
I was also sent a ruby-red sequinned posing pouch, which I won’t be
wearing since it’s made of Acrylic and would give me sweaty gusset
problems (I’m already a martyr to them).
All right. Time for a reality check. Actually, I’m 45, fat and warty.
This year I got NO Valentine cards through the post nor any left on my desk at work.
The only thing the postman brought on the big day was a begging letter from a charity for the depressed and bewildered.
Do I care about my lack of desirability to the opposite sex? Or indeed (one must ask, in these enlightened times) my apparent lack of
attractiveness to my own sex? Frankly, I do a bit.
But I’ve virtually given up on women. They always "done treat me cruel" as cheesy C&W balladeers might put it – even those noble or desperate enough to have a relationship with me.
Perhaps I should switch my attention to men. After all, they keep
themselves a lot cleaner and tidier than they used to, they don’t have such awful mood-swings as women, nor the photographic memories my girlfriends seem to have for the nasty things I say when I’m drunk.
Hmmm. It’s worth thinking about. But are the "horny-handed sons of toil" in New Brighton ready for someone like me?
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