Tag Archives: love

I wuv you

Oh look, a cliche: a single woman writing about how much she hates Valentine’s Day. And about how she hates it because it’s all so commercialised blah blah blah. But I really do, and you won’t stifle my freedom of speech, damn you.

There is nothing less romantic than Valentine’s Day. Or rather, how you’re supposed to do Valentine’s Day. I don’t like pink. I don’t like red roses. I don’t like heart motifs. Cuddly toys can get to fuck. I like chocolate, but Valentine’s Day chocolate is over-processed and tastes like shit. And comes in pink, heart-shaped boxes. Please see above.

A romantic gesture is, surely, one that shows how well someone knows you. Not one that says ‘here, have a teddy bear holding a pink placard that says ‘I wuv you’, because despite having spent a reasonable amount of time with you I apparently believe you will want something that belongs in the bedroom of an eight year old girl’.

A boyfriend once turned up on my doorstep holding a single, browning, dogeared red rose that he’d evidently picked up at a garage. And what’s awful is that this wasn’t an entirely half-arsed gesture. He’d felt the need to ‘do’ Valentine’s Day, but left it so late this sad little flower was the best he could find. I knew he’d tried, and accepted the gift with smiles and grace, but couldn’t help feeling that if he’d had three seconds of original thought he’d have sacked off the Hallmark pressure and got me a Tunnocks teacake instead. The 18 month relationship was doomed from that point on.

(“A Tunnocks teacake?” you say. “That’s not very romantic.” To which I would reply: you’ve clearly been eating them wrong.)

Valentine’s Day isn’t romantic. It’s a simulacrum of romance. What’s less romantic than being ushered into a set of specific, one-size-fits-all motions? Card, flowers, dinner, a blow job later on; and that’s it for the rest of the year apart from birthdays and anniversaries. That’s not romance, that’s a stand-up routine from a 1970s working men’s club.

Does this sound ungrateful? I don’t care. I would genuinely rather receive nothing on 14 February than something that will break my heart slightly at how little my current bunk-up knows me. If you can’t override the urge to purchase sugary pink goo, there are apparently thousands of women out there who are have been suckered into wanting it. I can’t point you towards any because thankfully none of them are my friends.

And if you absolutely have to give me a dozen long-stemmed red roses, do it in the middle of June. That way I’ll know you mean it, rather than having felt badgered into it by societal bunkum.

A newfound respect for my boobs

After a recent break up with my boyfriend of 6 years, aside from looks of pity from my friends and questions about grandchildren from my mother I got a new sense of freedom and a surge of creativity. I therefore decided to pack my shit and move to a place that could offer both inspiration for my writing and fun for my young spirit – London.

Now, it hasn’t really done much for my writing – and I’m starting to believe that spending my days stuffing my face with Doritos and watching old episodes of The Walking Dead might have something to do with that – but it managed to not be a disappointment in terms of fun. I spent the first couple of months pub crawling and talking to pretty much anybody who would reply to my semi-drunk ramble (met some nice people, we still keep in touch). Cute guys, free drinks and a newfound respect for my boobs. What’s not to like? I even managed to land my first one-night stand (do I still call it that if it was morning?)

It eventually became exhausting and quite tedious. Simple as it may sound to those of you who aren’t connoisseurs of the nightlife or simply aren’t female, it is a far from simple process.

The most excruciating part of it is shaving. Who the fuck came up with the idea that women – and ONLY women – should go through beauty rituals alarmingly similar to torture methods in order to be redeemed acceptable for mating? Far from being a flower-power Charles Manson loving and shower hating hippie, I strongly disagree with the idea that the female half of our species should have to pour hot wax on their body for the sake of having a (usually) very hairy male counterpart cum too early while not even bothering to notice the lack of pilosity on the lassie’s limbs and nether regions before passing out with a look of unmitigated bliss on their unshaven face. As if exuding hormones is not enough anymore.

Thus, here I was, in a seemingly hopeless situation until, out of nowhere (seriously, I have no fucking clue as to how I stumbled upon it) here comes my solution – Tinder. Oh yes, the mystery world of online dating was opening its gate to me through this little app on my phone, with a shortcut icon shaped as a flame. Because nothing burns stronger than desire (they should use that in the commercials).

Having Tinder is much like ordering a takeaway. No need to put on fancy clothes and drag your fat ass to an overpriced restaurant with a name you can’t (or won’t) say out loud; a few clicks and swipes and you have whatever you want delivered to your front door, so to speak (seriously, don’t invite complete strangers to your house). I’ve saved time, that I can spend instead with Norman Reedus, and money, to buy anything that’s not hot wax with.

The first thing to remember about Tinder – it’s a hook-up app. Dreaming about finding a boyfriend on Tinder is like putting on a von Trier movie and expecting unicorns who fart rainbows and Sean Bean characters who get to live for the entirety of the film. It’s not going to happen. – the sooner we accept it, the better.

The app is perfect for someone who enjoys single life and just wants to make it easier. Hey, it’s free sex without the pre-mating ritual of drinking shots until he looks like the lost twin of Ryan Gosling. Doesn’t get easier than that. Not to mention the luxurious option of un-matching him right after (thus shutting his mouth for eternity), rather than explaining you can’t stay for breakfast because your grandmother’s neighbour’s cat died and you must absolutely be there for them. Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it?

That’s because it is. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with society? Apparently, men have to fit two criteria if they ever hope to be matched with someone: write down their height (absolutely must be taller than 6ft) and have a photo of them next to a tiger or other exotic animal. Alternatively, they can replace the animal with a cool sport or a photo of a headless six pack floating freely in the virtual universe of hormones translated as megapixels.

One of the two will get them a girl with a cute face. That’s it, really, because the fat ones only take selfies from shoulders up; if they won’t even show their shoulders, it’s bad – they probably have a double chin (no offence, but I’m not all about that bass). Also, out of all the men I talked to on Tinder (most of them in their late 20s/early 30s) not one got my references to music or film, which has me believing that men nowadays are stuck listening to Skrillex and watching The Hangover 3.

This whole Tinder issue says a lot about us as a society. The internet made it all easier. We have everything delivered to our door: groceries, appliances, books, clothes, boxes of shit (those cards really ARE against humanity, aren’t they?) And now sex. Simple and uncomplicated. Or is it?

In the end, on balance, pub crawling’s not so bad compared to blind first dates. (Remember that 6ft six-pack issue I was telling you about? Yeah, people lie about that.) Also, I’d rather run into my future “some guy I met” in a place I know and like, which will mean we at least have something in common. Not to mention I know where to start looking for him a few weeks later to tell him he gave me herpes or a baby.