Day of love, my ass!

Valentine’s Day is bollocks.

It is.

I could end this post here and I’d have made my point, surely no one can contest this most obvious fact.

What’s that?  You don’t agree?  You must be the delusional one shopping for a suitably fluffy gift of (not too) great value.  And then there’s the wine, the dinner, the trip out of town, and all so your lovely lady can feel, umm, loved.  On this one particular day.  You poor, special creature, come let mama give you a hug…   You’re addicted, man, and a little foolish.

Just like sugar,
Girl you’re so sweet,
Lip smacking, finger licking good, I wanna taste you,
Like a fine wine,
Smooth and intoxicating,
Sip it slow, never fast, try to make it last as long as I can…

Now I have a theory about the soundtrack, when writing about love and fluffy things always start with Johnny Gill.  This man is one of the few male R&B artists my brother and I ever agreed on, growing up, he thought my Freddie was too woowoowoo and I thought his obsession with Tracy Chapman was just plain peculiar ( I love the woman, but come on, my brother, turn the bloody cassette over…).  Johnny we agreed on, and thus, when looking to find a song both male and female readers will appreciate, I start with Mr Gill.  Clever, no?  Probably not.  ‘A Cute, Sweet Love Addiction‘ is off the genius ‘Provocative‘ album, an album that should be a must have for anyone who claims to have love for new jack swing.  This song is so bloody happy, you can’t help but smile and sway, which comes in handy when you consider it’s an ode to addiction.

I gotta have it, fall in love,
What do they call it when you can’t get enough…

I hate to break it to you, gentlemen, but you’re being duped, and doped.  Buggers are getting you hooked on the drug that is (monetary) romance, and you, you lovely delusional creatures, have no choice but to go along, the addicts you are.  It’s a huge, stinking pile of shit, this valentine’s thing (note the small ‘v’), but that’s just the way it goes.  Spend that money, or spend the rest of the year explaining why you didn’t, as it’s thrown in your face every time you profess love, or lust.

On the up side, and there is always an up side here on the dark side of the interwebs, the women have it worse than you, much worse, we got high on our own supply.  Ladies, am I lying?  No need to answer.

First, she has to look the part.  A woman has to wear a red dress, or a red blouse, and definitely red underwear, and odds are all these items will have to be new, because no one wants to be the chick in last year’s red knickers.  Then the poor lass gets to spend a small fortune in a salon, getting pruned (not a typo) and plucked to within an inch of her life, just so she can look suitably romanceable.  See, we know that our chances of jewellery are directly linked to how bright we shine.  No one ever put a ring on the girl who looks like she shines Beyonce’s shoes, no?  Nooooo…  We wanna look like Mrs Jay Z, in the hopes that you will make like Jay Z and buy us those carats, and gold sippy cups (so the arrogance of the man?  Nkt!).  I’m just saying.  Gentlemen, a trip to the salon will set her back anywhere between one thousand and twenty thousand bob, depending on how much hair she’s adding on, or taking off.  And then you have the gall to whine about the 200 bob bar of Dairy Milk?  Nkt!  I digress.  If the woman is smart, she’ll make you pay in advance for all the crap she has to endure on your behalf, but if not, best be knowing you will pay for it for the next eleven months.  Now you know.

After all that drama, she then has to act the part.  A woman on valentine’s must display great joy, all the damn time.  If she’s unlucky, her man will feel the need to send flowers to her office, thus she has to trudge around the city lugging a (and I use this term most loosely) bouquet around, answering all manner of irritating questions from nosy buggers looking for a spot of gossip (did she send them to herself or didn’t she? Hmmm…).  If she’s really unlucky, he’ll send a teddy bear too, because what grown ass woman doesn’t like a white, super-flammable, ‘made in a Bangladesh sweat-shop’ teddy bear, about yea tall?

And then there’s what is almost always a disappointing night out, or in if the man is being a cheeky (read, cheap) bugger.   Seeing as how this year the bloody day falls on a Friday, you get to go to the same bar you go to each Friday and pay double for the same glass of wine you normally drink, but on the up side, because there’s always an up side, the first 50 couples get a complimentary rose, no?  No.  It doesn’t matter if you show up at 5:05 pm, when the doors have just opened, the free flowers zitakuwa zimeisha (that’s a true story, by the way, so be warned, don’t go thinking you’ll get her free flowers at the door, that’s a marketing gimmick to get you to the door, their door).  Going out on this one particular day consists of a night in a crowded bar or restaurant, with crap service, likely crap food, and definitely crap wine, and to cap it all off, a crap shag when she gets home, nothing but quick removal of fancy lingerie and 10 minutes later he’s snoring, exhausted by all the romancing.

This shit is sexist, no?  I think we should have a men’s equivalent, a day when the men get pretty (or die trying) and act happy, while the women swagger around (fake) moaning about the money we have to spend, and bragging about the great sex we’ll get in return.   See, that’s all its about, this fake holiday.  Valentine’s day (I spit upon you) is about two things.  Money and sex.  No, no love.  No really, there’s no love whatsoever.  Women want the money, or the things the money can buy them, how else will they know their men really care?  Did you read the article in the Saturday paper (To gift or not to gift?) about what gifts women really want?  There was a lady, sorry, woman, asking for land, as in ardhi, as in a ka-plot. Say it with me…EH?   There’s no way you can read that and think that women aren’t in it for the money.  Don’t go smirking, gentlemen, all you care about is the sex, why else do you think the condom companies are hustling the way they are, selling latex like its going out of fashion, all under the guise of love (because if you love her, you’ll Durex her, no? Probably not…)?  Does that sound crass?  Good.

This merchandising holiday was created for the sole purpose of exchanging goods and services, for a fee.  The flower guys make some cash; the Chinese guys making plastic flowers make a bit too; the evil Nestle-type multinationals ripping off cocoa farmers in Ghana make even more; the coffee shops and bars peddling overpriced coffee and wine earn their monthly profits in one night; the hotels dangling overnight packages at double the regular rate, for the couple that just has to get away for some romance (read, sex), they’re on the gravy train too; and let’s not forget the peddlers of love (well, sex), the working women, and men, they who take advantage of the lonely souls who’ve bought into the idea of a day for love (at any cost), the peddlers need some love too, no?  It’s a commercial exercise this valentine’s thing, and I for one refuse to part with my hard earned shillings to pay double for half (take that as you will).  Of course, it could also be that I have no one on whose behalf I would suffer the indignity, yaani I haven’t drugged anyone (yet), but that’s beside the point.  Ahem.  Money and sex.  Either you’re selling or you’re buying, so which is it?  And on a possibly related note, I have some lovely roses I’m selling, she says, glancing at her landlord’s solitary rose bush, conveniently in bloom…

A functional condition (and they call it),
A cute sweet love addition (coming back for more),
Unconscious repetition (I can’t get enough),
A cute sweet love addition…

Romantic, no?  No, dammit, it’s just bloody addiction.