From the forums of the Guardian website (article on terrible Valentine's Day experiences):
Oh hands down the worst, though darkly amusing, Valentines Day I ever experienced was about 1998 when I was in my second year at University.
I had quite the unrequited crush on this rather fine young lady, and Valentines day rolls around and I think, well, fuck it, I'll have some flowers sent round, seeing as I was struggling to work up the nerve to declare my intentions and thought at least I could somehow claim the day with a gesture; which with the benefit of hindsight was without doubt the pinnacle of the triumph of hope over experience of my life to date.
So I pick out some flowers, a bunch of lilies (just outre enough to deliver a riposte to the bourgeois rose purchasing classes infesting the campus, but not so avante garde as to seem like I was trying too hard. I got the balance just right and my God, I was the fucking man). It was as this point I should have realised that myself and hubris make a fractious alliance, and that the £20 I was handing over would be far better spent on pints of Bank's Mild.
So I scribble the first thing that comes into my head, a few lines from Blakes "The sick rose". This should have set alarm bells ringing, but it never clicked until later that in my attempt to give my beloved from afar a hint of brooding and dark yearning, what I had actually done was dedicate a verse to her about maggots lurking in the velvety folds of a ripe bud. I may as well have sent a VHS copy of a German shizer porno and have done with it.
But anyway it worked extremely well surprisingly. I got back to my flat, poured myself a bracer, lit a cigarette up and reflected on the various possibilities that could occur, when I could hear my flatmates bed springs hammering as though the fellow was drilling for oil. There were screams, moans, enough to raise an eyebrow and consider putting on Neighbours to drown it out.
And then I saw that fucking bunch of lilies in the kitchen whilst I was hunting for an ashtray.
Oh, she'd loved those lilies. So much so in fact, she'd gone to the flower shop to ask who ordered them, and the owner being caught up in it all had happily given a description of my bastard flatmate who'd been there with me when I bought them. The rest of it is self explanatory, but it gets better. Oh yes, the day wasn't quite through with me yet.
The doorbell goes, and in walks my now getting banged senseless paramours housemate who has just been dumped by her boyfriend (and I use the term loosely), looking for her so she can have a good old cry. Well, clearly her afternoon is fully booked up, so of course she sits down and starts rattling on.
Not only is her boyfriend dumping her, but apparently he is doing it to spare her a life of pain as he has just discovered he has a rare condition that means he is slowly going blind. Quite the advantage I would have thought, because with the best will in the world, and without wishing to be unduly harsh, this girl would have not been out of place guarding the entrance to Mordor.
And so it came to pass on Valentines Day that I sat drinking raw scotch out of the bottle, listening to fucking Gollum going on about how he was the first man she'd met coming off the docks from shore leave who'd stuck around the morning after. Great. The life story of a weeping dock haunting Orc telling me all about how shitty all this trade she's picked up over the months had all developed strange medical conditions, and all set to the soundtrack of the girl I had dreamt of from afar getting smashed in the next room.
Oh hands down the worst, though darkly amusing, Valentines Day I ever experienced was about 1998 when I was in my second year at University.
I had quite the unrequited crush on this rather fine young lady, and Valentines day rolls around and I think, well, fuck it, I'll have some flowers sent round, seeing as I was struggling to work up the nerve to declare my intentions and thought at least I could somehow claim the day with a gesture; which with the benefit of hindsight was without doubt the pinnacle of the triumph of hope over experience of my life to date.
So I pick out some flowers, a bunch of lilies (just outre enough to deliver a riposte to the bourgeois rose purchasing classes infesting the campus, but not so avante garde as to seem like I was trying too hard. I got the balance just right and my God, I was the fucking man). It was as this point I should have realised that myself and hubris make a fractious alliance, and that the £20 I was handing over would be far better spent on pints of Bank's Mild.
So I scribble the first thing that comes into my head, a few lines from Blakes "The sick rose". This should have set alarm bells ringing, but it never clicked until later that in my attempt to give my beloved from afar a hint of brooding and dark yearning, what I had actually done was dedicate a verse to her about maggots lurking in the velvety folds of a ripe bud. I may as well have sent a VHS copy of a German shizer porno and have done with it.
But anyway it worked extremely well surprisingly. I got back to my flat, poured myself a bracer, lit a cigarette up and reflected on the various possibilities that could occur, when I could hear my flatmates bed springs hammering as though the fellow was drilling for oil. There were screams, moans, enough to raise an eyebrow and consider putting on Neighbours to drown it out.
And then I saw that fucking bunch of lilies in the kitchen whilst I was hunting for an ashtray.
Oh, she'd loved those lilies. So much so in fact, she'd gone to the flower shop to ask who ordered them, and the owner being caught up in it all had happily given a description of my bastard flatmate who'd been there with me when I bought them. The rest of it is self explanatory, but it gets better. Oh yes, the day wasn't quite through with me yet.
The doorbell goes, and in walks my now getting banged senseless paramours housemate who has just been dumped by her boyfriend (and I use the term loosely), looking for her so she can have a good old cry. Well, clearly her afternoon is fully booked up, so of course she sits down and starts rattling on.
Not only is her boyfriend dumping her, but apparently he is doing it to spare her a life of pain as he has just discovered he has a rare condition that means he is slowly going blind. Quite the advantage I would have thought, because with the best will in the world, and without wishing to be unduly harsh, this girl would have not been out of place guarding the entrance to Mordor.
And so it came to pass on Valentines Day that I sat drinking raw scotch out of the bottle, listening to fucking Gollum going on about how he was the first man she'd met coming off the docks from shore leave who'd stuck around the morning after. Great. The life story of a weeping dock haunting Orc telling me all about how shitty all this trade she's picked up over the months had all developed strange medical conditions, and all set to the soundtrack of the girl I had dreamt of from afar getting smashed in the next room.
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