LUV & HAT

LUV - Hello, I’m Robyn Wilder and I’m secretly a romantic. I know this may seem unlikely as I stand here in utility trousers, listening to music made by aggressive robots and telling you to man the fuck up if you even look like you might pay me a compliment, but there we are. I’m a romantic. Deal with it, fucktard.

And, as a secret romantic, a part of me looks forward to Valentine’s Day each year.

It’s the anonymity, you see.

I’m not so interested in the couply stuff that keeps Thornton’s, Clinton’s and, for some unlucky fuckers, The Harvester in trade. Nor am I particularly moved by condom displays in petrol stations bearing the legend “IDEAL FOR VALENTINE’S DAY”.

No, for me it’s all about the thrill of the anonymous Valentine. Where’s the postmark from? Do I know anyone who lives in Sydenham? Whose handwriting is that? Wait, what? Does that actually say “WE MY VALENTIME”? How harshly should I judge them for giving me one of those Purple Ronnie atrocities? These are all exciting questions to ponder.

I mean, obviously I’ve never received an anonymous Valentine, apart from the ones from my dad (NOT LIKE THAT, I was eight. And NOT LIKE THAT, either. Oh shut up).

In fact, Valentine’s Day and I don’t share a happy history. When I was sixteen a girl gave me a Valentine to give to my then-boyfriend. From her. And then there was the Valentine’s Day I spent entirely alone and throwing up after taking the Morning After Pill (although there was a rerun of that episode of ER where Dr Ross saves that boy in a sewer on TV, and I managed to hold in each vom session until the ad breaks, of which I remain absurdly proud).

And yet. And yet.

One Valentine’s Day I shall step out of the house and find a hand-delivered scented card that might be from Ryan Reynolds. I mean, it’ll probably be from that creepy guy down the road with the smelly jacket and the giant mole, but it might be from Ryan Reynolds. Does Ryan Reynolds know where Sydenham is?

Hope. That’s what Valentine’s Day is all about. Well, hope and delusion. Well, hope and delusion and hate and lust and jealousy and inadequacy and loneliness and the flat-out horror of dying alone forever and chocolates and tweeness and, you know, SAINT VALENTINE, and condom sales and the unlimited salad bar at The Harvester. But mainly it’s about hope.

So, We My Valentimes. Here, have a Spotify playlist I made especially for you.
- Robyn Wilder

HAT - The traditional anti-Valentine’s spiel tends to be a two-pronged attack based on the sentiments that a) it’s too commercialised and b) surely if you love someone then every day should be like Valentine’s Day. Both of these arguments are clearly rooted in bullshit.

First, of course it’s commercialised. Of course it is. Material objects are how sensible people express love. Look, would you rather receive a PlayStation or a handwritten note telling you how wonderful you are? Obviously it’s the PlayStation. Everyone knows that. Only the worst kind of lank-haired, sandal-wearing, hug-enjoying human atrocity would disagree with this, and they don’t deserve love anyway.

Second, who’d honestly want to treat every day like Valentine’s Day? You’d end up like those weirdos who pretend that every day is Christmas. They intermittently pop up on the news, gritting their teeth through yet another turkey dinner and wearing the same novelty jumper even though it’s actually the middle of July. These people are all just waiting for an excuse to commit suicide. It’d be the same if you pretended that every day was Valentine’s Day, too. 

However, this is the HAT section, so here’s my own two-pronged attack on Valentine’s Day. Number one: if you’re in a relationship, you’ve already got Christmas and Easter and birthdays and anniversaries to deal with. Throw Valentine’s Day into the mix as well and that means you’re buying your loved one a new present once every ten weeks. Now, I’m a busy man. I need my brain to concentrate on work and remembering where I put my shoes and wondering which way round my T-shirt’s supposed to go. I can’t waste any of my precious time thinking up more new crap to buy people. And I’m fucked if I’m going to give anyone a heartfelt handwritten list. I’m not a cunt.

Number two: if you’re single then Valentine’s Day may as well be called Kill Yourself Now You Ghastly Unloved Wad Of Lonely Medical Waste Day, which isn’t very nice. Oh, sure, it might be the day that you receive an anonymous declaration of love. But in reality it won’t be. It’s never happened to me, for instance, and I’m a catch. Nobody loves you, you’re going to die alone, and no-one will attend your funeral. That’s basically the message of Valentine’s Day.

But, hey, happy Valentine’s Day.
- Stuart Heritage